Cassandra Clare - Clockwork Prince

“An Ascendant,” said Will in his most soothing, silken voice. “She has been a faithful friend to the Institute in London, and we hope to welcome her into our ranks soon.”

“A mundane,” the old man repeated, and broke into a fit of coughing. “Well, times have—Yes, I suppose then—” His eyes skipped across Tessa’s face again, and he turned to Gottshall, who was looking martyred among the luggage. “Get Cedric and Andrew to help you bring our guests’ belongings up to their rooms,” he said. “And do tell Ellen to instruct Cook to set three extra places for dinner tonight. I may have forgotten to remind her that we would have guests.”

The servant gaped at his master before nodding in a seeming daze; Tessa couldn’t blame him. It was clear that Starkweather had meant to send them packing and had changed his mind at the last moment. She glanced at Jem, who looked just as mystified as she felt; only Will, blue eyes wide and face as innocent as a choirboy’s, seemed as if he had expected nothing else.

“Well, come along, then,” said Starkweather gruffly without looking at Tessa. “You needn’t stand there. Follow me and I’ll show you to your rooms.”

“By the Angel,” Will said, scraping his fork through the brownish mess on his plate. “What is this stuff?”

Tessa had to admit, it was difficult to tell. Starkweather’s servants—mostly bent old men and women and a sour-faced female housekeeper—had done as he’d asked and had set three extra places for supper, which consisted of a dark, lumpy stew ladled out of a silver tureen by a woman in a black dress and white cap, so bent and old that Tessa had to physically prevent herself from leaping up to assist her with the serving. When the woman was done, she turned and shuffled off, leaving Jem, Tessa, and Will alone in the dining room to stare at one another across the table.

A place had been set for Starkweather as well, but he wasn’t at it. Tessa had to admit that if she were him, she wouldn’t be rushing to eat the stew either. Heavy with overcooked vegetables and tough meat, it was even more unappetizing-looking in the dim light of the dining room. Only a few tapers lit the cramped space; the wallpaper was dark brown, the mirror over the unlit hearth stained and discolored. Tessa felt dreadfully uncomfortable in her evening dress, a stiff blue taffeta borrowed from Jessamine and let out by Sophie, which had turned to the color of a bruise in the unhealthy light.

Still, it was awfully peculiar behavior for a host, to be so insistent that they join him for supper and then not to appear. A servant just as frail and ancient as the one who’d ladled out the stew had led Tessa to her room earlier, a great dim cavern full of heavy carved furniture. It too was dimly lit, as if Starkweather were trying to save money on oil or tapers, though as far as Tessa knew, witchlight cost nothing. Perhaps he simply liked the dark.

She had found her room chilly, dark, and more than slightly ominous. The low fire burning in the grate had done little to warm the room. On either side of the hearth was carved a jagged lightning bolt. The same symbol was on the white pitcher full of chilly water that Tessa had used to wash her hands and face. She had dried off quickly, wondering why she couldn’t remember the symbol from the Codex . It must mean something important. The whole of the London Institute was decorated with Clave symbols like the Angel rising from the lake, or the interlocked C s of Council, Covenant, Clave, and Consul.

Heavy old portraits were everywhere as well—in her bedroom, in the corridors, lining the staircase. After changing into evening dress and hearing the dinner bell ring, Tessa had made her way down the staircase, a great carved Jacobean monstrosity, only to pause on the landing to gaze at the portrait of a very young girl with long, fair hair, dressed in an old-fashioned child’s dress, a great ribbon surmounting her small head. Her face was thin and pale and sickly, but her eyes were bright—the only bright thing in this dark place, Tessa had thought.

“Adele Starkweather,” had come a voice at her elbow, reading off the placard on the portrait’s frame. “1842.”

She had turned to look at Will, who’d stood with his feet apart, his hands behind his back, gazing at the portrait and frowning.

“What is it? You look as if you don’t like her, but I rather do. She must be Starkweather’s daughter—no, granddaughter, I think.”

Will had shaken his head, looking from the portrait to Tessa. “No doubt. This place is decorated like a family home. It is clear there have been Starkweathers in the York Institute for generations. You’ve seen the lightning bolts everywhere?”

Tessa had nodded.

“That is the Starkweather family symbol. There is as much of the Starkweathers here as there is of the Clave. It is bad form to behave as if one owns a place like this. One cannot inherit an Institute. The guardian of an Institute is appointed by the Consul. The place itself belongs to the Clave.”

“Charlotte’s parents ran the London Institute before she did.”

“Part of the reason old Lightwood is so tinder-tempered about the whole business,” Will had replied. “Institutes aren’t necessarily meant to stay in families. But the Consul wouldn’t have given Charlotte the post if he hadn’t thought she was the right person for it. And it’s only one generation. This—” He swept his arm about as if to encompass the portraits, the landing, and odd, lonely Aloysius Starkweather, all in one gesture. “Well, no wonder the old man thinks he has the right to throw us out of the place.”

“Mad as hops, my aunt would have said. Shall we go down to dinner?”

In a rare show of gentility, Will had offered his arm. Tessa hadn’t looked at him as she’d taken it. Will dressed for dinner was handsome enough to take away her breath, and she’d had the feeling she’d need her wits about her.

Jem had already been waiting in the dining room when they’d arrived, and Tessa had settled herself beside him to await their host. His place had been set, his plate filled with stew, even his wineglass filled with dark red wine, but there had been no sign of him. It was Will who had shrugged first and begun to eat, though he’d soon looked as if he wished he hadn’t.

“What is this?” he went on now, spearing an unfortunate object on a fork and raising it to eye level. “This . . . this . . . thing ?”

“A parsnip?” Jem suggested.

“A parsnip planted in Satan’s own garden,” said Will. He glanced about. “I don’t suppose there’s a dog I could feed it to.”

“There don’t seem to be any pets about,” Jem—who loved all animals, even the inglorious and ill-tempered Church—observed.

“Probably all poisoned by parsnips,” said Will.

“Oh, dear,” Tessa said sadly, laying her fork down. “And I was so hungry too.”

“There’s always the dinner rolls,” said Will, pointing to a covered basket. “Though I warn you, they’re as hard as stones. You could use them to kill black beetles, if any beetles bother you in the middle of the night.”

Tessa made a face and took a swig of her wine. It was as sour as vinegar.

Will set his fork down and began cheerfully, in the manner of Edward Lear’s Book of Nonsense :

“There once was a lass from New York

Who found herself hungry in York.

But the bread was like rocks,

The parsnips shaped like—”

“You can’t rhyme ‘York’ with ‘York,’” interrupted Tessa. “It’s cheating.”

“She’s right, you know,” said Jem, his delicate fingers playing with the stem of his wineglass. “Especially with ‘fork’ being so obviously the correct choice—”