Cassandra Clare - Clockwork Princess

“That is not your fault. It was never your choice—”

“I was not seeing sense. Will was right; Mortmain cannot be trusted. Even if I went to him, there is no guarantee that he would honor his end of the bargain. And I would be placing a weapon in the hands of your enemy. I do not know what he wants to use me for, but it is not for the good of Shadowhunters; of that we can be sure. I could even in the end yet be what hurts you all.” Tears stung her eyes, but she held them back by force. “Forgive me, Jem. We cannot waste the time we have together in anger. I understand why you did what you did—I would have done it for you.”

His eyes went soft and silver as she spoke. “ Zhe shi jie shang, wo shi zui ai ne de,” he whispered.

She understood it. In all the world, you are what I love the most.

“Jem—”

“You know that; you must know that. I could never let you go away from me, not into danger, not while I have breath.” He held his hand up, before she could take a step toward him. “Wait.” He bent down, and when he rose, he was holding his square violin case and bow. “I—There was something I wished to give you. A bridal gift, when we were married. But I would like to give it to you now, if you will let me.”

“A gift?” she said, wonderingly. “After—But we quarreled!”

He smiled at that, the lovely smile that lit his face and made you forget how thin and drawn he looked. “An integral part of married life, I have been informed. It will have been good practice.”

“But—”

“Tessa, did you imagine that there exists any quarrel, large or small, that could make me stop loving you?” He sounded amazed, and she thought suddenly of Will, of the years that Will had tested Jem’s loyalty, driven him mad with lies and evasion and self-harm, and through all of it Jem’s love for his blood brother had never frayed, much less broken.

“I was afraid,” she said softly. “And I—I have no gift for you.”

“Yes, you do.” He said it quietly but firmly. “Sit down, Tessa, please. Do you remember how we met?”

Tessa sat down on a low chair with gilded arms, her skirts crinkling around her. “I barged into your room in the middle of the night like a madwoman.”

Jem grinned. “You glided gracefully into my bedroom and found me playing the violin.” He was tightening the screw on the bow; he finished, set it down, and lovingly took his violin out of its case. “Would you mind if I play for you now?”

“You know I love to hear you play.” It was true. She even loved to hear him talk about the violin, though she understood little of it. She could listen to him rattle on passionately for hours about rosin, pegs, scrolls, bowing, finger positions, and the tendency of A strings to break—without getting bored.

“Wo wei ni xie de,” he said as he raised the violin to his left shoulder and tucked it under his chin. He had told her that many violinists used a shoulder rest, but he did not. There was a slight mark on the side of his throat, like a permanent bruise, where the violin rested.

“You—made something for me?”

“I wrote something for you,” he corrected with a smile, and began to play.

She watched in amazement. He began simply, softly, his grip light on the bow, producing a soft, harmonic sound. The melody rolled over her, as cool and sweet as water, as hopeful and lovely as sunrise. She watched his fingers in fascination as they moved and an exquisite note rose from the violin. The sound deepened as the bow moved faster, Jem’s forearm sawing back and forth, his slim body seeming to blur into motion from the shoulder. His fingers slid up and down slightly, and the pitch of the music deepened, thunderclouds gathering on a bright horizon, a river that had become a torrent. The notes crashed at her feet, rose to surround her; Jem’s whole body seemed to be moving in tune with the sounds he wrung from the instrument, though she knew his feet were firmly planted on the floor.

Her heart raced to keep pace with the music; Jem’s eyes were shut, the corners of his mouth downturned as if in pain. Part of her wanted to rush to her feet, to put her arms about him; the other part of her wanted to do nothing to stop the music, the lovely sound of it. It was as if he had taken his bow and used it as a paintbrush, creating a canvas upon which his soul was clearly displayed. As the last soaring notes reached higher and higher, climbing toward Heaven, Tessa was aware that her face was wet, but only when the last of the music had faded away and he had lowered the violin did she realize she had been crying.

Slowly Jem put the violin back into its case and laid the bow beside it. He straightened and turned to her. His expression was shy, though his white shirt was soaked through with sweat and the pulse in his neck was pounding.

Tessa was speechless.

“Did you like it?” he said. “I could have given you . . . jewelry, but I wanted it to be something that was wholly yours . That no one else would hear or own. And I am not good with words, so I wrote how I felt about you in music.” He paused. “Did you like it?” he said again, and the soft dropping-off of his voice at the end of the question indicated that he expected to receive an answer in the negative.

Tessa raised her face so that he could see the tears on it. “Jem.”

He dropped to his knees before her, his face all contrition. “Ni jue de tong man, qin ai de?”

“No—no,” she said, half-crying, half-laughing. “I am not hurt. Not unhappy. Not at all.”

A smile broke across his face, lighting his eyes with delight. “Then you did like it.”

“It was like I saw your soul in the notes of the music. And it was beautiful.” She leaned forward and touched his face lightly, the smooth skin over his hard cheekbone, his hair like feathers against the back of her hand. “I saw rivers, boats like flowers, all the colors of the night sky.”

Jem exhaled, sinking down onto the floor by her chair as if the strength had gone out of him. “That is a rare magic,” he said. He leaned his head against her, his temple against her knee, and she kept up the stroking of his hair, carding her fingers through its softness. “Both my parents loved music,” he said abruptly. “My father played the violin, my mother the qin . I chose the violin, though I could have learned either. I regretted it sometimes, for there are melodies of China I cannot play on the violin, that my mother would have liked me to know. She used to tell me the story of Yu Boya, who was a great player of the qin . He had a best friend, a woodcutter named Zhong Ziqi, and he would play for him. They say that when Yu Boya played a song of water, his friend would know immediately that he was describing rushing rivers, and when he played of mountains, Ziqi would see their peaks. And Yu Boya would say, ‘It is because you understand my music.’ ” Jem looked down at his own hand, curled loosely on his knee. “People still use the expression ‘zhi yin’ to mean ‘close friends’ or ‘soul mates,’ but what it really means is ‘understanding music.’ ” He reached up and took her hand. “When I played, you saw what I saw. You understand my music.”

“I don’t know anything about music, Jem. I cannot tell a sonata from a partita—”

“No.” He turned, rising up onto his knees, bracing himself on the arms of her chair. They were close enough now that she could see where his hair was damp with sweat at his temples and nape, smell his scent of rosin and burned sugar. “That is not the kind of music I mean. I mean—” He made a sound of frustration, caught at her hand, brought it to his chest, and pressed it flat over his heart. The steady beat hammered against her palm. “Every heart has its own melody,” he said. “You know mine.”