Clockwork Angel (The Infernal Devices #1)

For a moment their mouths pressed hotly together, Will’s free hand tangling in her hair. Tessa gasped when his arms went around her, her skirts snagging on the floor as he pulled her hard against him. She put her hands lightly around his neck; his skin was burning hot to the touch. Through the thin wet material of his shirt, she could feel the muscles of his shoulders, hard and smooth. His fingers found her jeweled hair clasp and pulled at it, and her hair spilled down around her shoulders, the comb rattling to the floor, and Tessa gave a little cry of surprise against his mouth. And then, without warning, he ripped his hands from her and pushed hard against her shoulders, shoving her away from him with such force that she nearly fell backward, and only stopped herself awkwardly, her hands braced on the floor behind her.

She sat with her hair hanging down around her like a tangled curtain, staring at him in amazement. Will was on his knees, his chest hitching up and down as if he had been running incredibly fast and far. He was pale, except for two fever splotches of red across his cheeks. “God in Heaven,” he whispered. “What was that?”

Tessa felt her cheeks turn scarlet. Wasn’t Will the one who was supposed to know exactly what that was, and wasn’t she the one who was supposed to have pushed him away?

“I can’t.” His hands were fists at his sides; she could see them trembling. “Tessa, I think you had better go.”

“Go?” Her mind whirled; she felt as if she had been in a warm, safe place and without warning had been cast out into a freezing, empty darkness. “I . . . I should not have been so forward. I’m sorry—”

A look of intense pain flashed across his face. “God. Tessa.” The words seemed dragged out of him. “Please. Just leave. I can’t have you here. It’s—not possible.”

“Will, please—”

“No.” He jerked his gaze away from hers, averting his face, his eyes fixed on the floor. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know tomorrow. Anything. Just leave me alone now.” His voice broke unevenly. “Tessa. I’m begging you. Do you understand? I’m begging you. Please, please leave.”

“Very well,” Tessa said, and saw with a mixture of amazement and pain that the lines of tension went out of his shoulders. Was it that much of a horror having her there, and that much of a relief that she was leaving? She rose to her feet, her dress damp and cold and heavy, her feet nearly slipping on the wet floor. Will didn’t move or look up, but stayed where he was on his knees, staring at the ground as Tessa made her way across the room and down the stairs, without looking back.



Some time later, her room half-lit with the wan glow of the London sunrise, Tessa lay on the bed, too exhausted to change out of Camille’s clothes—too exhausted, even, to sleep. It had been a day of firsts. The first time she had used her power at her own wish and discretion, and had felt good about it. The first time she had fired a pistol. And—the only first she had ever dreamed of, for years—her first kiss.

Tessa rolled over, burying her face in the pillow. For so many years she had wondered what her first kiss would be like—if he would be handsome, if he would love her, if he would be kind. She had never imagined that the kiss would be so brief and desperate and wild. Or that it would taste of holy water. Holy water and blood.





13

SOMETHING DARK


Sometimes we are less unhappy in being deceived

by those we love, than in being undeceived by them.

—Fran?ois La Rochefoucauld, Maxims

Tessa woke the next day to Sophie lighting the lamp by her bedside. With a moan Tessa made a move to cover her aching eyes.

“Now, then, miss.” Sophie addressed Tessa with her usual briskness. “You’ve gone and slept the day away. It’s past eight o’clock in the evening, and Charlotte said to wake you.”

“Past eight? At night?” Tessa threw back her blankets, only to realize, to her surprise, that she was still wearing Camille’s gown, now crushed and crumpled, not to mention stained. She must have collapsed into bed still entirely dressed. Memories of the night before began to flood into her mind—the white faces of vampires, the fire eating its way up the curtains, Magnus Bane laughing, de Quincey, Nathaniel, and Will. Oh, God, she thought. Will.

She pushed the thought of him from her mind and sat up, looking anxiously at Sophie. “My brother,” she said. “Is he . . .”

Sophie’s smile wavered. “No worse, really, but no better, either.” Seeing Tessa’s stricken expression, she said, “A hot bath and food, miss, that’s what you need. It won’t make your brother any better for you to starve and let yourself get filthy.”

Tessa looked down at herself. Camille’s dress was ruined, that was evident—torn and stained with blood and ash in a dozen places. Her silk stockings were ripped, her feet filthy, her hands and arms streaked with grime. She hesitated to think about the state of her hair. “I suppose you’re right.”

The bathtub was an oval claw-footed affair hidden behind a Japanese screen in a corner of the room. Sophie had filled it with hot water that was already beginning to cool. Tessa slid behind the screen, undressed, and lowered herself into the bath. The hot water came up to her shoulders, warming her. For a moment she sat motionless, letting the heat soak into her chilled bones. Slowly she began to relax, and closed her eyes—

Memories of Will flooded in on her. Will, the attic, the way he had touched her hand. The way he had kissed her, then ordered her away.

She ducked under the surface of the water as if she could hide from the humiliating memory. It didn’t work. Drowning yourself won’t help, she told herself sternly. Now, drowning Will, on the other hand . . . She sat up, reached for the cake of lavender soap on the edge of the bath, and scrubbed her skin and hair with it until the water turned black with ash and dirt. Perhaps it wasn’t actually possible to scrub away your thoughts of someone, but she could try.

Sophie was waiting for Tessa when she emerged from behind the screen. There was a tray of sandwiches and tea at the ready. In front of the mirror, she helped Tessa dress in her yellow gown trimmed with dark braid; it was fussier than Tessa would have preferred, but Jessamine had liked the design very much in the shop and had insisted that Tessa have it made for her. I can’t wear yellow, but it’s ever so suitable for girls with dull brown hair like yours, she’d said.

The feeling of the brush going through her hair was very pleasant; it reminded Tessa of when she had been a small girl and Aunt Harriet had brushed her hair for her. It was soothing enough that when Sophie spoke next, it jolted her slightly.

“Did you manage to get Mr. Herondale to take his medicine last night, miss?”

“Oh, I—” Tessa scrambled to collect herself, but it was too late; scarlet color had flooded up her neck into her face. “He didn’t want to,” she finished lamely. “But I convinced him in the end.”

“I see.” Sophie’s expression didn’t change, but the rhythmic strokes of the brush through Tessa’s hair began to come faster. “I know it’s not my place, but—”

“Sophie, you can say anything you want to me, truly.”

“It’s just—Master Will.” Sophie’s words came out in a rush. “He isn’t someone you should care for, Miss Tessa. Not like that. He isn’t to be trusted, or relied on. He—he isn’t what you think he is.”

Tessa clasped her hands in her lap. She felt a vague sense of unreality. Had things really gone so far that she needed to be warned off Will? And yet it was good to have someone to talk to about him. She felt a bit like a starving person being offered food. “I don’t know what I think he is, Sophie. He’s like one thing sometimes, and then he can change completely, like the wind changing, and I don’t know why, or what’s happened—”

“Nothing. Nothing’s happened. He just doesn’t care about anyone but himself.”

“He cares about Jem,” Tessa said quietly.

The brush went still; Sophie had paused, frozen. There was something she wanted to say, Tessa thought, something she was holding herself back from saying. But what was it?

The brush began to move again. “That’s not enough, though.”

“You mean that I shouldn’t wring my heart out over some boy who will never care for me—”

“No!” Sophie said. “There are worse things than that. It’s all right to love someone who doesn’t love you back, as long as they’re worth you loving them. As long as they deserve it.”

The passion in Sophie’s voice surprised Tessa. She twisted around to look at the other girl. “Sophie, is there someone you care for? Is it Thomas?”