Cassandra Clare - Clockwork Princess

“You mean well,” Tessa said. “But, forgive my impertinence, Mr. Carstairs—do you never mean to have any children of your own?”

His eyes widened. “I had not thought—”

Tessa looked at the shimmering blade, and then at the man holding it. She could see Jem in him a little, as if she were looking at the reflection of what she loved in rippling water. That love, remembered and present, made her voice gentle when she spoke. “If you are not sure,” she said, “then keep it. Keep it for your own heirs. Will would prefer that. For he does not need a sword to remember Jem by. However illustrious its lineage.”

It was cold on the Institute steps, cold where Will stood without a coat or hat, looking out into the frost-dusted night. The wind blew tiny drifts of snow against his cheeks, his bare hands, and he heard, as he always did, Jem’s voice in the back of his head, telling him not to be ridiculous, to get back inside before he gave himself the flu.

Winter had always seemed the purest season to Will—even the smoke and dirt of London caught by the chill, frozen hard and clean. That morning he had broken a layer of ice that had formed on his water jug, before splashing the icy fluid onto his face and shivering as he looked in the mirror, his wet hair painting his face in black stripes. First Christmas morning without Jem in six years. The purest cold, bringing the purest pain.

“ Will.” The voice was a whisper, of a very familiar kind. He turned his head, an image of Old Molly rising in his mind—but ghosts so rarely strayed from where they had died or were buried, and besides, what would she want with him now?

A gaze met his, level and dark. The rest of her was not so much transparent as edged by silver: the blond hair, the doll-pretty face, the white gown she had died in. Blood, red like a flower, on her chest.

“Jessamine,” he said.

“Merry Christmas, Will.”

His heart, which had stopped for a moment, began to beat again, the blood running fast in his veins. “Jessamine, why—what are you doing here?”

She pouted a little. “I am here because I died here,” she said, her voice growing in strength. It was not unusual for a ghost to achieve a greater solidity and auditory power when they were close to a human, especially one who could hear them. She indicated the courtyard at their feet, where Will had held her in her dying moments, her blood running onto the flagstones. “Are you not pleased to see me, Will?”

“Should I be?” he said. “Jessie, usually when I see ghosts, it is because there is some unfinished business or some sorrow that holds them to this world.”

She raised her head, looking up at the snow. Though it fell all around her, she was as untouched by it as if she stood under glass. “And if I had a sorrow, would you help me cure it? You never cared for me much in life.”

“I did,” Will said. “And I am truly sorry if I gave the impression that I cared nothing for you, or hated you, Jessamine. I think you reminded me more of myself than I wished to admit, and therefore I judged you with the same harshness I would have judged myself.”

At that, she did look at him. “Why, was that straightforward honesty, Will? How you have changed.” She took a step back, and he saw that her feet made no impression in the dusting of snow on the steps. “I am here because in life I did not wish to be a Shadowhunter, to guard the Nephilim. I am charged now with the guard of the Institute, for as long as it needs guarding.”

“And you do not mind?” he asked. “Being here, with us, when you could have passed over . . .”

She wrinkled her nose. “I did not care to pass over. So much was demanded of me in life, the Angel knows what it might be like afterward. No, I am happy here, watching you all, quiet and drifting and unseen.” Her silvery hair shone in the moonlight as she inclined her head toward him. “Though you are near to driving me mad.”

“I?”

“Indeed. I always said you would be a dreadful suitor, Will, and you are nigh on proving it.”

“Truly?” Will said. “You have come back from death like the ghost of Old Marley, but to nag me about my romantic prospects?”

“What prospects? You’ve taken Tessa on so many carriage rides, I’d wager she could draw a map of London from memory, but have you proposed to her? You have not. A lady cannot propose to herself, William, and she cannot tell you she loves you if you do not state your intentions!”

Will shook his head. “Jessamine, you are incorrigible.”

“I am also right,” she pointed out. “What is it you are afraid of?”

“That if I do state my intentions, she will say she does not love me back, not the way she loved Jem.”

“She will not love you as she loved Jem. She will love you as she loves you , Will, an entirely different person. Do you wish she had not loved Jem?”

“No, but neither do I wish to marry someone who does not love me.”

“You must ask her to find that out,” said Jessamine. “Life is full of risks. Death is much simpler.”

“Why have I not seen you before tonight, when you have been here all this time?” he asked.

“I cannot enter the Institute yet, and when you are out in the courtyard, you are always with someone else. I have tried to go through the doors, but a sort of force prevents me. It is better than it was. At first I could go only a few steps. Now I am as you see me.” She indicated her position on the stairs. “One day I shall be able to go inside.”

“And when you do, you shall find that your room is as it ever was, and your dolls as well,” said Will.

Jessamine smiled a smile that made Will wonder if she had always been so sad, or if death had changed her more than he had thought ghosts could be changed. Before he could speak again, though, a look of alarm crossed her face, and she vanished within a swirl of snow.

Will turned to see what had frightened her off. The doors of the Institute had opened, and Magnus had emerged. He wore an astrakhan wool greatcoat, and his tall silk hat was already being spotted by the falling snowflakes.

“I should have known I’d find you out here, doing your best to turn yourself into an icicle,” Magnus said, descending the steps until he stood beside Will, looking out at the courtyard.

Will did not feel like mentioning Jessamine. Somehow he thought she would not have wanted him to. “Were you leaving the party? Or just looking for me?”

“Both,” Magnus said, pulling on a pair of white gloves. “In fact, I am leaving London.”

“Leaving London?” Will said in dismay. “You can’t mean that.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Magnus flicked a finger at an errant snowflake. It sparked blue and vanished. “I am not a Londoner, Will. I have been stopping with Woolsey for some time, but his home is not my home, and Woolsey and I wear out each other’s company after not much duration.”

“Where will you go?”

“New York. The New World! A new life, a new continent.” Magnus threw his hands up. “I may even take your cat with me. Charlotte says he has been mourning since Jem left.”

“Well, he bites everyone. You’re welcome to him. Do you think he’ll like New York?”

“Who knows? We will find out together. The unexpected is what keeps me from stagnating.”

“Those of us who do not live forever do not like change perhaps as much as those of you who do. I am tired of losing people,” Will said.

“So am I,” Magnus said. “But it is as I said, isn’t it? You learn to bear it.”

“I have heard sometimes that men who lose an arm or a leg still feel the pain in those limbs, though they are gone,” said Will. “It is like that sometimes. I can feel Jem with me, though he is gone, and it is like I am missing a part of myself.”