Cassandra Clare - Clockwork Princess

“Of course we will protect her,” Charlotte said. “We need no reminders, Will. She is one of our own. And speaking of our own . . .” She glanced down at her plate. “Jessamine returns to us tomorrow.”

“What?” Will upset his teacup, soaking the tablecloth with the dregs. There was a buzz around the table, though Cecily only stared in puzzlement, and Tessa, after a sharp intake of breath, stayed silent. She was remembering the last time she had seen Jessamine, in the Silent City, pale and red-eyed, weeping and terrified. . . . “She tried to betray us, Charlotte. And you are simply allowing her back?”

“She has no other family, her wealth has been confiscated by the Clave, and she is besides in no fit state to live on her own. Two months of questioning in the Bone City has left her nearly mad. I do not think she will be a danger to any of us.”

“Neither did we think she would be a danger before,” said Jem, in a harder voice than Tessa would have expected of him, “and yet the course of action she took nearly placed Tessa in Mortmain’s hands, and the rest of us in disgrace.”

Charlotte shook her head. “There is a need here for mercy and pity. Jessamine is not what she once was—as any of you would know if you had visited her in the Silent City.”

“I have no wish to visit with traitors,” said Will coldly. “Was she still gibbering about Mortmain being in Idris?”

“Yes—that is why the Silent Brothers finally gave up; they could get no sense out of her. She has no secrets, nothing of worth that she knows. And she understands that. She feels worthless. If you could but put yourself in her shoes—”

“Oh, I don’t doubt she’s putting on a show for you, Charlotte, weeping and rending her garments—”

“Well, if she’s rending her garments ,” said Jem, with a flick of a smile toward his parabatai . “You know how much Jessamine likes her garments.”

Will’s smile back was grudging but real. Charlotte saw her opening and pressed the advantage. “You will not even know her when you see her, I promise you that,” she said. “Give it a week, a week only, and if none of you can bear to have her here, I will arrange for her transport to Idris.” She pushed her plate away. “And now to go through my copies of Benedict’s papers. Who will assist me?”

To: Consul Josiah Wayland

From: The Council

Dear Sir,

Until our receipt of your last letter, we had thought our difference in thought on the topic of Charlotte Branwell to be a matter of simple opinion. Though you may not have given express permission for the removal of Jessamine Lovelace to the Institute, the approval was granted by the Brotherhood, who are in charge of such things. It seemed to us the action of a generous heart to allow the girl back into the only home she has known, despite her wrongdoing. As for Woolsey Scott, he leads the Praetor Lupus, an organization we have long considered allies.

Your suggestion that Mrs. Branwell may have given her ear to those who do not have the Clave’s best interests at heart is deeply troubling. Without proof, however, we are reluctant to move forward with this as a basis of information.

In Raziel’s name,

The Members of the Nephilim Council

The Consul’s carriage was a shining red five-glass landau with the four C s of the Clave on the side, drawn by a pair of impeccable gray stallions. It was a wet day, drizzling faintly; his driver sat slumped in the seat up front, almost entirely hidden by an oilskin hat and cloak. With a frown the Consul, who had said not a word since they had left the breakfast room of the Institute, ushered Gideon and Gabriel into the carriage, climbed up after, and latched the door behind them.

As the carriage lurched away from the church, Gabriel turned to stare out the window. There was a faint burning pressure behind his eyes and in his stomach. It had come and gone since the previous day, sometimes rolling over him so strongly that he thought he might be sick.

A gigantic worm . . . the last stages of astriola . . . the demon pox.

When Charlotte and the rest of them had first made their accusations against his father, he hadn’t wanted to believe it. Gideon’s defection had seemed like madness, a betrayal so monstrous it could be explained only by insanity. His father had promised that Gideon would rethink his actions, that he would return to help with the running of the house and the business of being a Lightwood. But he had not come back, and as the days had grown shorter and darker, and Gabriel had seen less and less of his father, he had first begun to wonder and then to be afraid.

Benedict was hunted down and killed.

Hunted and killed. Gabriel rolled the words around in his mind, but they made no sense. He had killed a monster, as he had grown up being trained to do, but that monster had not been his father. His father was still alive somewhere, and any moment Gabriel would look out the window of the house and see him striding up the walk, his long gray coat flapping in the wind, the clean sharp lines of his profile outlined against the sky.

“Gabriel.” It was his brother’s voice, cutting through the fog of memory and daydream. “Gabriel, the Consul asked you a question.”

Gabriel looked up. The Consul was regarding him, his dark eyes expectant. The carriage was rolling through Fleet Street, journalists and barristers and costermongers all hurrying to and fro in the traffic.

“I asked you,” the Consul said, “how you were enjoying the hospitality of the Institute.”

Gabriel blinked at him. Little stood out for him among the fog of the past few days. Charlotte, putting her arms around him. Gideon, washing the blood off his hands. Cecily’s face, like a bright, angry flower. “It is all right, I suppose,” he said in a rusty voice. “It is not my home.”

“Well, Lightwood House is magnificent,” said the Consul. “Built on blood and spoils, of course.”

Gabriel stared at him, uncomprehending. Gideon was looking out the window, his expression faintly sick. “I thought you wished to speak to us about Tatiana,” he said.

“I know Tatiana,” said the Consul. “None of your father’s sense and none of your mother’s kindness. Rather a bad bargain for her, I’m afraid. Her request for reparations will be dismissed, of course.”

Gideon twisted about in his seat and looked at the Consul incredulously. “If you credit her account so little, why are we here?”

“So I could speak with you alone,” the Consul said. “You understand, when I first turned over the Institute to Charlotte, I had some thought that a woman’s touch would be good for the place. Granville Fairchild was one of the strictest men I’ve known, and though he ran the Institute according to the Law, it was a cold, unwelcoming place. Here, in London, the greatest city in the world, and a Shadowhunter could not feel at home.” He shrugged fluidly. “I thought giving over administration of the place to Charlotte might help.”

“Charlotte and Henry,” Gideon corrected.

“Henry was a cipher,” said the Consul. “We all know, as the saying goes, that the gray mare is the better horse in that marriage. Henry was never meant to interfere, and indeed he does not. But neither was Charlotte. She was meant to be docile and obey my wishes. In that she has disappointed me deeply.”

“You backed her against our father,” Gabriel blurted, and was immediately sorry he had. Gideon shot him a quelling glare, and Gabriel folded his gloved hands tightly in his lap, pressing his lips together.

The Consul’s eyebrows went up. “Because your father would have been docile?” he said. “There were two bad ends, and I chose the best of them. I still had hopes of controlling her. But now . . .”