“I think,” she said, rubbing her hands together, “that it is time for a short break. We’ll resume in half an hour.”
During long lecture classes, the Academy was merciful enough to allow one bathroom break every few hours, along with some more of the murky tea, which was put out in one of the large halls in steaming, ancient urns. Simon was cold enough to take a cup. Again, some benevolent Shadowhunter had provided a tray of small cakes. Simon was able to get a fleeting look at them before they were snatched up by elites, who were excused first. Some sad little biscuits were left on the side. They looked like they were made of packed sand.
“Good stuff today,” George said, picking up a dry biscuit. “Well, not good, but more interesting than usual. I like the new teacher as well. You wouldn’t think she was—how old is she?”
“I think a hundred and fifty or something. Maybe older,” said Simon. His mind was elsewhere. Tessa Gray had mentioned two names: Jem Carstairs and Brother Zachariah. Apparently they were the same person. Which was interesting, because somewhere in Simon’s shifting memories, he knew those names. And he remembered Emma Carstairs, facing Jace—he couldn’t remember why, but he knew it had happened—and saying, The Carstairs owe the Herondales.
Simon glanced over at Jace, who was seated in an armchair, being waited on hand and foot by students.
“Miss Gray looks very good for a hundred and fifty,” said George, looking over at where Tessa was examining the tea suspiciously. As she moved away from the table, she cast a quick glance toward Jace. There was a wistful sadness in her expression.
At that moment Jace stood up from his chair, scattering hangers-on. The elites all moved to make way for him, and there was a quiet chorus of “Hi, Jace” and a few wheezing sighs as he made his way over to Simon and George.
“You did really well today,” he said to George, who was flushed and appeared speechless.
“I . . . oh. Right. Yeah. Thanks, Jace. Thanks.”
“Are you still sore?” Jace asked Simon.
“Mostly my pride.”
“That’s supposed to goeth before a fall anyway.”
Simon winced at the joke. “Really?”
“I’ve been waiting to say that for a while.”
“That’s not possible.” Jace’s expression showed that it was indeed possible. Simon sighed. “Look, Jace, if I could talk to you for a second—”
“Anything you want to tell me can be said around my good buddy George here.”
You’re going to regret that, Simon thought. “Fine,” he said. “Go talk to Tessa.”
Jace blinked. “Tessa Gray? The warlock?”
“She used to be a Shadowhunter,” said Simon carefully. “Look, she was telling us a story—more a piece of history, really—and do you remember what Emma said? About the Carstairs owing the Herondales?”
Jace put his hands in his pockets. “Sure, I remember. I’m surprised you remember.”
“I think you should talk to Tessa,” said Simon. “I think she could tell you about the Herondales. Things you don’t know already.”
“Hm,” Jace said. “I’ll think about it.”
He walked off. Simon looked after him, frustrated. He wished he could remember enough about how he and Jace interacted normally to know whether this meant Jace was going to ignore his advice or not.
“He treats you like a friend,” George said. “Or an equal. You really did know each other. I mean, I knew that, but . . .”
Unsurprisingly, Jonathan Cartwright sidled up to them.
“Just talking to Jace, huh?” he said.
“Are you a detective?” Simon replied. “Your powers of observation are amazing.”
Jonathan acted like Simon had never spoken.
“Yeah—Jace and I will catch up later.”
“Are you really going to keep up the pretense that you know Jace?” Simon asked. “Because you know that’s not going to work now, right? Eventually Jace will just come over and say he doesn’t know you.”
Jonathan looked glum. Before he could say anything, though, the signal was given for everyone to return to the hall, and Simon shuffled in with the others. They took their seats again, and settled in to listen to Tessa.
“We continued to do nightly patrols of the area,” Tessa began. “Our duty as Shadowhunters is to protect the mundane world from the influence of demons. We walked, we watched, and we warned all those we could. As much as it was possible, women working in the East End tried to take more care and not walk alone as much. But for women in that profession, safety was rarely a consideration. I had always assumed their lives were hard, but I had no idea. . . .”
London, November 9, 1888
Tessa Herondale certainly knew what poverty was, that it existed. In the time when her aunt had died and she was a young girl left friendless and defenseless in New York, she had felt the cold breath of poverty like a monster stalking at her back. But in the month she and Cecily spent walking the streets of East London under the guise of prostitutes, she knew what it would have been if poverty had caught her and torn at her with its claws.
They dressed the part—old, tattered clothes, heavy rouge on the cheeks. They had to use glamours for the rest, for the true mark of the prostitute was want. Missing teeth. Jaundiced skin. Bodies tight from malnourishment and bent from disease. Women who walked and walked all night long because there was nowhere to sleep, nowhere to sit. They sold themselves for pennies to buy gin because the gin kept them warm, took away the pain for an hour, numbed them to the terrible, brutal reality of their lives. If these women could get the money to have a place to sleep for the night, that didn’t mean a bed. It could mean a spot on a floor, or even just a bit of wall to sit against, with a rope run around the room to keep the sleepers from falling over. By the crack of dawn, they’d be tossed out on the street again.
Walking among them, Tessa felt dirty. She felt the remains of her supper in her belly. She knew that her bed in the Institute was warm and contained someone who loved her and would protect her. These women had bruises and cuts. They fought over corners and bits of cracked mirror and scraps of cloth.
And there were children as well. They sat in the fetid streets, no matter their age. Their skin was so dirty as to never be clean. She wondered how many of them had ever had a hot meal in their lives, served on a plate. Had they ever known a home?
Over it all, the smell. The smell was what really ground itself into Tessa’s soul. The tang of urine, the night soil, the vomit.
“I’m getting tired of this,” said Cecily.
“I think everyone here is tired,” Tessa replied.
Cecily sighed sadly.
“One carriage ride away and the streets are quiet and spotless. It’s a different world in the West End.”
A drunken man approached them and made an overture. Since they had to play the part, Cecily and Tessa smiled and led him to an alley, where they inserted him into an empty oyster barrel and left him.
“A month of this and no sign,” Tessa said as they walked away from the flailing, upturned legs of the man. “Either we’re keeping it away, or . . .”