Cassandra Clare - Clockwork Princess

She examined them now as she walked into the drawing room beside Will. First was Charlotte, seated behind her desk. Cecily had not known Charlotte long, and yet she knew that Charlotte was the sort of woman who kept her calm even under pressure. She was tiny but strong, a bit like Cecily’s own mother, although with less of a penchant for muttering in Welsh.

Then there was Henry. He might have been the first of them all to convince Cecily that though Shadowhunters were different, they were not dangerously alien. There was nothing frightening about Henry, all lanky legs and angles as he leaned against Charlotte’s desk.

Her eyes slid over Gideon Lightwood next, shorter and stockier than his brother—Gideon, whose green-gray eyes usually followed Sophie about the Institute like a hopeful puppy’s. She wondered if the others in the Institute had noticed his attachment to their maid, and what Sophie thought about it herself.

And then there was Gabriel. Cecily’s thoughts where he was concerned were jumbled and confused. His eyes were bright, his body tense as a coiled spring as he leaned against his brother’s armchair. On the dark velvet sofa just across from the Lightwoods sat Jem, with Tessa beside him. He had looked up as the door had opened and, as he always did, had seemed to glow a little brighter when he saw Will. It was a quality peculiar to both of them, and Cecily wondered if it was that way for all parabatai , or if they were a unique case. In either eventuality, it must be terrifying to be so intertwined with another person, especially when one of them was as fragile as Jem.

As she watched, Tessa laid her hand over Jem’s and said something quiet to him that made him smile. Tessa looked quickly to Will, but he only crossed the room as he always did to lean against the fireplace mantel. Cecily had never been able to decide if he did this because he was perpetually cold or because he thought he looked dashing standing before the leaping flames.

You must be ashamed of your brother—harboring illicit feelings for his parabatai ’s fiancée, Will had said to her. If he had been anyone else, she would have told him there was no point keeping secrets. The truth would out, eventually. But in Will’s case, she was not sure. He had the skill of years of hiding and pretending on his side. He was a master actor. If it were not that she was his sister, if it were not that she saw his face at the moments when Jem was not looking, she did not think she would have guessed it either.

And then there was the awful truth that he would not need to hide his secret forever. He needed to hide it only as long as Jem lived. If James Carstairs were not so unrelentingly kind and well intentioned, Cecily thought, she might have hated him on her brother’s behalf. Not only was he marrying the girl Will loved, but when he himself died, she feared, Will would never recover. But you could not blame someone for dying. For leaving on purpose, perhaps, as her brother had left her and her parents, but not for dying, the power over which was surely beyond the grasp of any mortal human.

“I’m glad you’re all here,” Charlotte said in a strained voice that snapped Cecily out of her brown study. Charlotte was looking gravely down at a polished salver on her desk, on which was an opened letter and a small packet wrapped in waxed paper. “I have received a disturbing piece of correspondence. From the Magister.”

“From Mortmain ?” Tessa leaned forward, and the clockwork angel she always wore around her neck swung free, glittering in the light from the fire. “He wrote to you?”

“Not to inquire about your health, one presumes,” said Will. “What does he want?”

Charlotte took a deep breath. “I will read you the letter.”

My Dear Mrs. Branwell,

Forgive me for troubling you at what must be a distressing time for your household. I was grieved, though I must confess not shocked, to hear of Mr. Carstairs’s grave indisposition.

I believe you are aware that I am the happy possessor of a large—I might say exclusively large—portion of the medicine that Mr. Carstairs requires for his continued well-being. Thus we find ourselves in a most interesting situation, which I am eager to resolve to the satisfaction of us both. I would be very glad to make an exchange: If you are willing to confide Miss Gray to my keeping, I will place a large portion of yin fen in yours.

I send a token of my goodwill. Pray let me know your decision by writing to me. If the correct sequence of numbers that are printed at the bottom of this letter, are spoken to my automaton, I am sure to receive it.

Yours sincerely,

Axel Mortmain

“That is all,” Charlotte said, folding the letter in half and placing it back on the salver. “There are instructions on how to summon the automaton to which he wishes us to give our answer, and there are the number he speaks of, but they give no clue as to his location.”

There was a shocked silence. Cecily, who had seated herself in a small flowered armchair, glanced at Will and saw him look away quickly as if to hide his expression. Jem paled, his face turning the color of old ash, and Tessa—Tessa sat very still, the light from the fire chasing shadows across her face.

“Mortmain wants me ,” she said finally, breaking the silence. “In exchange for Jem’s yin fen .”

“It is ridiculous,” Jem said. “Untenable. The letter should be given to the Clave to see if they can discern anything about his location from it, but that is all.”

“They will not be able to discern anything about his location from it,” said Will quietly. “The Magister has proved himself over and over too clever for that.”

“This is not clever,” said Jem. “This is the crudest form of blackmail—”

“I do not disagree,” said Will. “I say we take the packet as a blessing, a handful more of yin fen that will help you, and we ignore the rest.”

“Mortmain wrote the letter about me,” Tessa said, interrupting them both. “The decision should be mine.” She angled her body toward Charlotte. “I will go.”

There was another dead silence. Charlotte looked ashen; Cecily could feel her own hands slippery with sweat where they twisted in her lap. The Lightwood brothers seemed desperately uncomfortable. Gabriel looked as if he wished he were anywhere else but there. Cecily could hardly blame them. The tension between Will, Jem, and Tessa felt like a powder keg that needed only a match to blow it to kingdom come.

“No,” Jem said finally, rising to his feet. “Tessa, you cannot.”

She followed his motion, rising as well. “I can. You are my fiancé. I cannot allow you to die when I might help you, and Mortmain does not mean me physical harm—”

“We do not know what he means! He cannot be trusted!” Will said suddenly, and then he put his head down, his hand gripping the mantel so hard that his fingers were white. Cecily could tell he was forcing himself to be silent.

“If it were you Mortmain wanted, Will, you would go,” said Tessa, looking at Cecily’s brother with a meaning in her eyes that brooked no contradiction. Will flinched at her words.

“No,” said Jem. “I would forbid him as well.”

Tessa turned to Jem with the first expression of anger toward him Cecily had ever seen on her face. “You cannot forbid me—any more than you could Will—”

“I can,” Jem said. “For a very simple reason. The drug is not a cure , Tessa. It only extends my living. I will not allow you to throw away your own life for a remnant of mine. If you go to Mortmain, it will be for nothing. I still won’t take the drug.”