Cassandra Clare: Clockwork Princess

Tessa was saved answering by the appearance of Bridget, carrying gear, and Gideon suddenly turning to the rest of them and saying, “Chiswick. We must go. Gabriel and I, if no one else.”

“Go alone?” Tessa said, startled enough to speak out of turn. “But why would you not call upon others to come with you—”

“The Clave,” said Will, his blue eyes keen. “He doesn’t want the Clave to know about his father.”

“Would you?” said Gabriel hotly. “If it were your family?” His lip curled. “Never mind. It’s not as if you know the meaning of loyalty—”

“Gabriel.” Gideon’s voice was a reprimand. “Do not speak to Will in that manner.”

Gabriel looked surprised, and Tessa could hardly blame him. Gideon knew of Will’s curse, of the belief that had caused his hostility and his abrupt manners, as all in the Institute did, but the story was private to them, and none outside had been told of it.

“We will come with you. Of course we will come with you,” said Jem, releasing Tessa’s hand and stepping forward. “Gideon did us a service. We have not forgotten, have we, Charlotte?”

“Of course not,” said Charlotte, turning. “Bridget, the gear—”

“I am conveniently already in gear,” said Will as Henry shucked off his coat and traded it for a gear jacket and a weapons belt; Jem did the same, and suddenly the entryway was full of motion—Charlotte speaking quietly to Henry, her hand hovering just above her stomach. Tessa looked away from the private moment and saw a dark head bent with a fair one. Jem was at Will’s side with his stele drawn, tracing a rune on the side of Will’s throat. Cecily looked at her brother and scowled.

“I, too, am conveniently already in gear,” she announced.

Will jerked his head up, causing Jem to make a sound of annoyed protest. “Cecily, absolutely not.”

“You have no right to tell me yes or no.” Her eyes flashed. “I am going.”

Will jerked his head toward Henry, who shrugged apologetically. “She does have the right. She has trained for nearly two months—”

“She’s a little girl!”

“You were doing the same at fifteen,” said Jem quietly, and Will spun back toward him. For a moment everyone seemed to hold their breath, even Gabriel. Jem’s gaze held Will’s, steadily, and not for the first time Tessa had the sense of unspoken words passing between them.

Will sighed and half-closed his eyes. “Tessa will be wanting to come next.”

“Of course I am coming,” Tessa said. “I may not be a Shadowhunter, but I too have trained. Jem is not going without me.”

“You are in your wedding dress ,” Will protested.

“Well, now that you’ve all seen it, I can’t possibly wear it to be married in,” said Tessa. “Bad luck, you know.”

Will groaned something in Welsh—unintelligible, but clearly the tone of a man defeated. Across the room Jem cast Tessa a slight, worried smile. The Institute door swung open then, letting a blaze of autumn sunlight into the entryway. Cyril stood on the threshold, breathless.

“The second carriage is now ready,” he said. “Who’ll be coming, then?”

To: Consul Josiah Wayland

From: The Council

Dear Sir,

As you are doubtless aware, your term of service as Consul, after ten years, is coming to an end. The time has come to appoint a successor.

As for ourselves, we are giving serious consideration to the appointment of Charlotte Branwell, née Fairchild. She has done good work as the head of the London Institute, and we believe her to have your stamp of approval, as she was appointed by you after the death of her father.

As your opinion and esteem are to us of the highest value, we would appreciate any thoughts that you might have on the matter.

Yours with the highest regards,

Victor Whitelaw, Inquisitor, on behalf of the Council

As the Institute’s carriage rolled through the gates of Lightwood House in Chiswick, Tessa was able to appreciate the place as she had not the first time she had been there, in the dead of night. A long gravel road flanked by trees led up to an immense white house with a circular drive in front of it. The house bore a strong resemblance to sketches she had seen of the classical temples of Greece and Rome with its strong, symmetrical lines and clean columns. There was a carriage drawn up before the steps, and gravel paths spread out through a network of gardens.

And lovely gardens they were. Even in October they were a riot of blooms—late-flowering red roses and chrysanthemums in bronze-orange, yellow, and dark gold bordered neat paths that wandered through the trees. As Henry drew their carriage to a stop, Tessa stepped out of the carriage, helped by Jem, and heard the sound of water: a stream, she suspected, diverted to run through the gardens. It was such a lovely place, she could hardly associate it in her mind with the same location where Benedict had held his devilish ball, though she could see the path that wound around the side of the house that she had taken that night. It led to a wing of the house that looked as if it had been recently added. . . .

The Lightwood carriage rolled up behind them, driven by Gideon. Gabriel, Will, and Cecily spilled out. The Herondale siblings were still arguing with each other as Gideon climbed down, Will illustrating his points with bold sweeps of his arms. Cecily was scowling at him, the furious expression on her face making her look so much like her brother that it would, under other circumstances, have been amusing.

Gideon, even paler than before, turned in a circle, his blade unsheathed in his hand.

“Tatiana’s carriage,” he said shortly as Jem and Tessa reached him. He pointed toward the vehicle drawn up by the steps. Its doors were both open. “She must have decided to pay a call.”

“Of all the times . . .” Gabriel sounded furious, but his green eyes were sick with fear. Tatiana was their sister, recently married. The coat of arms on the carriage, a wreath of thorns, must have been the symbol of her husband’s family, Tessa thought. The group stood frozen, watching, as Gabriel moved to the carriage, slipping a long sabre from his belt. He leaned in the door, and cursed aloud.

He pulled back, his eyes meeting Gideon’s. “There’s blood on the seats,” he said. “And . . . this stuff.” He prodded at a wheel with the tip of the sabre; when he drew it away, a long thread of stinking slime trailed from it.

Will whipped a seraph blade from his coat and called aloud, “Eremiel!” As it began to blaze, a pale white star in the autumn light, he pointed first north, then south. “The gardens run all round the house, down to the river,” he said. “I ought to know—I chased the demon Marbas all up through here one night. Wherever Benedict is, I doubt he’ll leave these grounds. Too much of a chance of being seen.”

“We’ll take the west side of the house. You take the east,” said Gabriel. “Shout if you see anything and we’ll converge.”

Gabriel cleaned his blade on the gravel of the drive, stood, and followed his brother around the side of the house. Will headed the other way, followed by Jem, with Cecily and Tessa just behind them. Will paused at the corner of the house, scanning the gardens with his gaze, alert for any unusual sight or sound. A moment later, he beckoned for the others to follow.

As they moved forward, the heel of Tessa’s shoe caught on one of the loose bits of gravel beneath the hedges. She stumbled, and immediately righted herself, but Will glanced back, and scowled. “Tessa,” he said. There had been a time when he had called her Tess, but no longer. “You shouldn’t be with us. You’re not prepared. At least wait in the carriage.”