Clockwork Angel (The Infernal Devices #1)

She had passed the time while they were gone reading in the window alcove—nothing to do with Nephilim or demons or Downworlders, but a copy of A Tale of Two Cities that she’d found on Charlotte’s shelf of Dickens books. She had resolutely tried to force herself not to think about Mortmain, about Thomas and Agatha, about the things Mortmain had said to her in the Sanctuary—and most especially, not about Nathaniel or where he might be now. Any thought of her brother made her stomach tighten and the backs of her eyes prickle.

Nor was that all that was on her mind. Two days before, she had been forced to appear before the Clave in the library of the Institute. A man the others called the Inquisitor had questioned her about her time with Mortmain, over and over, alert for any changes in her story, until she was exhausted. They had questioned her about the watch he had wanted to give her, and whether she knew who it had belonged to, or what the initials J. T. S. might stand for. She did not, and as he had taken it with him when he’d vanished, she pointed out, that was unlikely to change. They had questioned Will, too, about what Mortmain had said to him before he’d disappeared. Will had borne the inquest with surly impatience, to no one’s surprise, and had eventually been dismissed with sanctions, for rudeness and insubordination.

The Inquisitor had even demanded that Tessa strip off her clothes, that she might be searched for a warlock’s mark, but Charlotte had put a quick stop to that. When Tessa had at last been allowed to go, she had hurried out into the corridor after Will, but he had gone. It had been two days since then, and in that time she had hardly seen him, nor had they spoken beyond the occasional polite exchange of words in front of others. When she had looked at him, he had looked away. When she had left the room, hoping he would follow, he hadn’t. It had been maddening.

She couldn’t help but wonder if she was alone in thinking that something significant had passed between them there on the floor of the Sanctuary. She had woken out of a darkness more profound than any she had encountered during a Change before, to find Will holding her, the most plainly distraught look she could have envisioned on his face. And surely she couldn’t have imagined the way he’d said her name, or looked at her?

No. She could not have imagined that. Will cared for her, she was sure of it. Yes, he had been rude to her almost since he had met her, but then, that happened in novels all the time. Look how rude Darcy had been to Elizabeth Bennet before he’d proposed, and really, quite rude during as well. And Heathcliff was never anything but rude to Cathy. Though she had to admit that in A Tale of Two Cities, both Sydney Carton and Charles Darnay had been very kind to Lucie Manette. And yet I have had the weakness, and have still the weakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me, heap of ashes that I am, into fire. . . .

The troubling fact was that since that night in the Sanctuary, Will had neither looked at her nor said her name again. She thought she knew the reason for it—had guessed at it in the way Charlotte had looked at her, the way everyone was being so quiet around her. It was evident. The Shadowhunters were going to send her away.

And why shouldn’t they? The Institute was for Nephilim, not Downworlders. She had brought death and destruction down on the place in the short time she’d been here; God only knew what would happen if she remained. Of course, she had nowhere to go, and no one to go to, but why should that matter to them? Covenant Law was Covenant Law; it could not be changed or broken. Maybe she would wind up living with Jessamine after all, in some town house in Belgravia. There were worse fates.

The rattle of carriage wheels on the cobblestones outside, signaling the return of the others from the Silent City, brought her out of her glum reverie. Sophie hurried down the stairs to greet them while Tessa watched through the window as they left the carriage, one by one.

Henry had his arm around Charlotte, who was leaning against him. Then came Jessamine, with pale flowers wound through her fair hair. Tessa would have admired how she looked, had she not held the sneaking suspicion that Jessamine probably enjoyed funerals because she knew she appeared especially pretty in white. Then came Jem, and then Will, looking like two chess pieces from some odd game, both Jem’s silver hair and Will’s tangled black locks set off by the pallor of their clothes. White Knight and Black Knight, Tessa thought as they went up the steps and vanished into the Institute.

She had only just set her book down on the seat beside her when the library door opened and Charlotte came in, still pulling off her gloves. Her hat was gone, and her brown hair stood out around her face in humidity-frizzed curls.

“I rather thought I’d find you in here,” she said, crossing the room to sink into a chair opposite Tessa’s window seat. She dropped the white kid gloves on the nearby table and sighed.

“Was it . . . ?” Tessa began.

“Awful? Yes. I hate funerals, though the Angel knows I’ve been to dozens.” Charlotte paused and bit her lip. “I sound like Jessamine. Forget that I said that, Tessa. Sacrifice and death are part of the Shadowhunting life, and I have always accepted that.”

“I know.” It was very quiet. Tessa imagined she could feel her heart beating hollowly, like the tick of a grandfather clock in a great empty room.

“Tessa . . . ,” Charlotte began.

“I already know what you are going to say, Charlotte, and it is quite all right.”

Charlotte blinked. “You do? It . . . is?”

“You want me to go,” Tessa said. “I know that you met with the Clave before the funeral. Jem told me. I can’t imagine they would think you should allow me to remain. After all the trouble and the dreadfulness I’ve brought down on you. Nate. Thomas and Agatha—”

“The Clave does not care about Thomas and Agatha.”

“The Pyxis, then.”

“Yes,” Charlotte said slowly. “Tessa, I think you have entirely the wrong idea. I didn’t come to ask you to leave; I came to ask you to stay.”

“To stay?” The words seemed disconnected from any meaning. Surely Charlotte could not have meant what she’d said. “But the Clave . . . They must be angry. . . .”

“They are angry,” said Charlotte. “With Henry and me. We were utterly taken in by Mortmain. He used us as his instruments, and we allowed it. I was so proud of the clever and handy way I had taken charge of him that I never stopped to think that perhaps he was the one taking charge. I never stopped to think that not a single living creature other than Mortmain and your brother had ever confirmed that de Quincey was the Magister. All the other evidence was circumstantial, and yet I let myself be convinced.”

“It was very convincing.” Tessa hastened to reassure Charlotte. “The seal we found on Miranda’s body. The creatures on the bridge.”

Charlotte made a bitter sound. “All characters in a play that Mortmain put on for our benefit. Do you know that, search as we have, we have not been able to find a scrap of evidence as to what other Downworlders controlled the Pandemonium Club? None of the mundane members have a clue, and since we destroyed de Quincey’s clan, the Downworlders are more distrustful of us than ever.”

“But it’s only been a few days. It took Will six weeks to find the Dark Sisters. If you keep looking . . .”

“We don’t have that much time. If what Nathaniel said to Jem was true, and Mortmain plans to use the demon energies inside the Pyxis to animate his clockwork mannequins, we have only the time it will take him to learn to open the box.” She shrugged a little. “Of course, the Clave believes that is impossible. The Pyxis can be opened only with runes, and only a Shadowhunter can draw them. But then again, only a Shadowhunter ought to have been able to gain access to the Institute.”

“Mortmain is very clever.”

“Yes.” Charlotte’s hands were tightly knotted in her lap. “Did you know that Henry is the one who told Mortmain about the Pyxis? What it was called, and what it did?”

“No . . .” Tessa’s reassuring words had deserted her.