Clockwork Prince tid-2 Read online

  “Nor is it likely you will ever see him again,” said Jem. “If you do not help us, the Clave will never let you go. It will be you and the dead down here for eternity, if you are not punished with a curse.”

  “Nate said you would try to frighten me,” said Jessamine in a sliver of a voice.

  “Nate also said the Clave and Charlotte would do nothing to you because they were weak,” said Tessa. “That has not proven true. He said to you only what he had to say, to get you to do what he wanted you to. He is my brother, and I tell you, he is a cheat and a liar.”

  “We need you to write a letter to him,” said Jem. “Telling him you have knowledge of a secret Shadowhunter plot against Mortmain, and to meet you tonight—”

  Jessamine shook her head, plucking at the rough blanket. “I will not betray him.”

  “Jessie.” Jem’s voice was soft; Tessa did not know how Jessamine could hold out against him. “Please. We are only asking you to save yourself. Send this message; tell us your usual meeting place. That is all we ask.”

  Jessamine shook her head. “Mortmain,” she said. “Mortmain will yet win out over you. Then the Silent Brothers will be defeated and Nate will come to claim me.”

  “Very well,” said Tessa. “Imagine that does happen. You say Nate loves you. Then, he would forgive you anything, wouldn’t he? Because when a man loves a woman, he understands that she is weak. That she cannot hold out against, for instance, torture, in the manner in which he could.”

  Jessamine made a whimpering sound.

  “He understands that she is frail and delicate and easily led,” Tessa went on, and gently touched Jessamine’s arm. “Jessie, you see your choice. If you do not help us, the Clave will know it, and they will not be lenient with you. If you do help us, Nate will understand. If he loves you . . . he has no choice. For love means forgiveness.”

  “I . . .” Jessamine looked from one of them to the other, like a frightened rabbit. “Would you forgive Tessa, if it were her?”

  “I would forgive Tessa anything,” Jem said gravely.

  Tessa could not see his expression, she was facing Jessamine, but she felt her heart skip a beat. She could not look at Jem, too afraid her expression would betray her feelings.

  “Jessie, please,” she said instead.

  Jessamine was silent for a long time. When she spoke, finally, her voice was as thin as a thread. “You will be meeting him, I suppose, disguised as me.”

  Tessa nodded.

  “You must wear boys’ clothes,” she said. “When I meet him at night, I am always dressed as a boy. It is safer for me to traverse the streets alone like that. He will expect it.” She looked up, pushing her matted hair out of her face. “Have you a pen and paper?” she added. “I will write the note.”

  She took the proffered items from Jem and began to scribble. “I ought to get something in return for this,” she said. “If they will not let me out—”

  “They will not,” said Jem, “until it is determined that your information is good.”

  “Then they ought to at least give me better food. It’s dreadful here. Just gruel and hard bread.” Having finished scribbling the note, she handed it to Tessa. “The boys’ clothes I wear are behind the doll’s house in my room. Take care moving it,” she added, and for a moment again she was Jessamine, her brown eyes haughty. “And if you must borrow some of my clothes, do. You’ve been wearing the same four dresses I bought you in June over and over. That yellow one is practically ancient. And if you don’t want anyone to know you’ve been kissing in carriages, you should refrain from wearing a hat with easily crushed flowers on it. People aren’t blind, you know.”

  “So it seems,” said Jem with great gravity, and when Tessa looked over at him, he smiled, just at her.

  Chapter 15

  THOUSANDS MORE

  There is something horrible about a flower;

  This, broken in my hand, is one of those

  He threw it in just now; it will not live another hour;

  There are thousands more; you do not miss a rose.

  —Charlotte Mew, “In Nunhead Cemetery”

  The rest of the day at the Institute passed in a mood of great tension, as the Shadowhunters prepared for their confrontation with Nate that night. There were no formal meals again, only a great deal of rushing about, as weapons were readied and polished, gear was prepared, and maps consulted while Bridget, warbling mournful ballads, carried trays of sandwiches and tea up and down the halls.

  If it hadn’t been for Sophie’s invitation to “come and have a pickle” Tessa probably wouldn’t have eaten anything all day; as it was, her knotted throat would allow only a few bites of sandwich to slide down before she felt as if she were choking.

  I’m going to see Nate tonight, she thought, staring at herself in the pier glass as Sophie knelt at her feet, lacing up her boots—boys’ boots from Jessamine’s hidden trove of male clothing.

  And then I am going to betray him.

  She thought of the way Nate had lain in her lap in the carriage on the way from de Quincey’s, and the way he had shrieked her name and held on to her when Brother Enoch had appeared. She wondered how much of that had been show. Probably at least part of him had been truly terrified—abandoned by Mortmain, hated by de Quincey, in the hands of Shadowhunters he had no reason to trust.

  Except that she had told him they were trustworthy. And he had not cared. He had wanted what Mortmain was offering him. More than he had wanted her safety. More than he had cared about anything else. All the years between them, the time that had knitted them together so closely that she had thought them inseparable, had meant nothing to him.

  “You can’t brood on it, miss,” said Sophie, rising to her feet and dusting off her hands. “He aren’t—I mean, he isn’t worth it.”

  “Who isn’t worth it?”

  “Your brother. Wasn’t that what you were thinking on?”

  Tessa squinted suspiciously. “Can you tell what I’m thinking because you have the Sight?”

  Sophie laughed. “Lord, no, miss. I can read it on your face like a book. You always have the same look when you think of Master Nathaniel. But he’s a bad hat, miss, not worth your thoughts.”

  “He’s my brother.”

  “That doesn’t mean you’re like him,” said Sophie decisively. “Some are just born bad, and that’s all there is to it.”

  Some imp of the perverse made Tessa ask: “And what of Will? Do you still think he was born bad? Lovely and poisonous like a snake, you said.”

  Sophie raised her delicately arched eyebrows. “Master Will is a mystery, no doubt.”

  Before Tessa could reply the door swung open, and Jem stood in the doorway. “Charlotte sent me to give you—,” he began, and broke off, staring at Tessa.

  She looked down at herself. Trousers, shoes, shirt, waistcoat, all in order. It was certainly a peculiar feeling, wearing men’s clothes—they were tight in places she was not used to clothes being tight, and loose in others, and they itched—but that hardly explained the look on Jem’s face.

  “I . . .” Jem had flushed all over, red spreading up from his collar to his face. “Charlotte sent me to tell you we’re waiting in the drawing room,” he said. Then he turned around and left the room hurriedly.

  “Goodness,” Tessa said, perplexed. “What was that about?”

  Sophie chuckled softly. “Well, look at yourself.” Tessa looked. She was flushed, she thought, her hair tumbling loose over her shirt and waistcoat. The shirt had clearly been made with something of a feminine figure in mind, since it did not strain over the bosom as much as Tessa had feared it would; still, it was tight, thanks to Jessie’s smaller frame. The trousers were tight as well, as was the fashion, molding themselves to her legs. She cocked her head to the side. There was something indecent about it, wasn’t there? A man was not supposed to be able to see the shape of a lady’s upper legs, or so much of the curve of her hips. There was something about the men’s clothing tha
t made her look not masculine but . . . undressed.

  “My goodness,” she said.

  “Indeed,” said Sophie. “Don’t worry. They’ll fit better once you Change, and besides . . . he fancies you anyway.”

  “I—you know—I mean, you think he fancies me?”

  “Quite,” said Sophie, sounding unperturbed. “You should see the way he looks at you when he doesn’t think you see. Or looks up when a door opens, and is always disappointed when it isn’t you. Master Jem, he isn’t like Master Will. He can’t hide what he’s thinking.”

  “And you’re not . . .” Tessa searched for words. “Sophie, you’re not—put out with me?”

  “Why would I be put out with you?” A little of the amusement had gone out of Sophie’s voice, and now she sounded carefully neutral.

  You’re in for it now, Tessa, she thought. “I thought perhaps that there was a time when you looked at Jem with a certain admiration. That is all. I meant nothing improper, Sophie.”

  Sophie was silent for such a long time that Tessa was sure she was angry, or worse, terribly hurt. Instead she said, finally, “There was a time when I—when I admired him. He was so gentle and so kind, not like any man I’d known. And so lovely to look at, and the music he makes—” She shook her head, and her dark ringlets bounced. “But he never cared for me. Never by a word or a gesture did he lead me to believe he returned my admiration, though he was never unkind.”

  “Sophie,” Tessa said softly. “You have been more than a maidservant since I have come here. You have been a good friend. I would not do anything that might hurt you.”

  Sophie looked up at her. “Do you care for him?”

  “I think,” Tessa said with slow caution, “that I do.”

  “Good.” Sophie exhaled. “He deserves that. To be happy. Master Will has always been the brighter burning star, the one to catch attention—but Jem is a steady flame, unwavering and honest. He could make you happy.”

  “And you would not object?”

  “Object?” Sophie shook her head. “Oh, Miss Tessa, it is kind of you to care what I think, but no. I would not object. My fondness for him—and that is all it was, a girlish fondness—has quite cooled into friendship. I wish only his happiness and yours.”

  Tessa was amazed. All the worrying she had done about Sophie’s feelings, and Sophie didn’t mind at all. What had changed since Sophie had wept over Jem’s illness the night of the Blackfriars Bridge debacle? Unless . . . “Have you been walking out with someone? Cyril, or . . .”

  Sophie rolled her eyes. “Oh, Lord have mercy on us all. First Thomas, now Cyril. When will you stop trying to marry me off to the nearest available man?”

  “There must be someone—”

  “There’s no one,” Sophie said firmly, rising to her feet and turning Tessa toward the pier glass. “There you are. Twist up your hair under your hat and you’ll be the model of a gentleman.”

  Tessa did as she was told.

  When Tessa came into the library, the small band of Institute Shadowhunters—Jem, Will, Henry, and Charlotte, all in gear now—were grouped around a table on which a small oblong device made of brass was balanced. Henry was gesturing at it animatedly, his voice rising. “This,” he was saying, “is what I have been working on. For just this occasion. It is specifically calibrated to function as a weapon against clockwork assassins.”

  “As dull as Nate Gray is,” Will said, “his head is not actually filled with gears, Henry. He’s a human.”

  “He may bring one of those creatures with him. We don’t know he’ll be there unaccompanied. If nothing else, that clockwork coachman of Mortmain’s—”

  “I think Henry is right,” said Tessa, and they all whirled to face her. Jem flushed again, though more lightly this time, and offered her a crooked smile; Will’s eyes ran up and down her body once, not briskly.

  He said, “You don’t look like a boy at all. You look like a girl in boys’ clothes.”

  She couldn’t tell if he was approving, disapproving, or neutral on the subject. “I’m not trying to fool anyone but a casual observer,” she replied crossly. “Nate knows Jessamine’s a girl. And the clothes will fit me better once I’ve Changed into her.”

  “Maybe you should do it now,” said Will.

  Tessa glared at him, then shut her eyes. It was different, Changing into someone you had been before. She did not need to be holding something of theirs, or to be near them. It was like closing her eyes and reaching into a wardrobe, detecting a familiar garment by touch, and drawing it out. She reached for Jessamine inside herself, and let her free, wrapping the Jessamine disguise around herself, feeling the breath pushed from her lungs as her rib cage contracted, her hair slipping from its twist to fall in light corn silk waves against her face. She pushed it back up under the hat and opened her eyes.

  They were all staring at her. Jem was the only one to offer a smile as she blinked in the light.

  “Uncanny,” said Henry. His hand rested lightly on the object on the table. Tessa, uncomfortable with the eyes on her, moved toward it. “What is that?”

  “It’s a sort of . . . infernal device that Henry’s created,” Jem said. “Meant to disrupt the internal mechanisms that keep the clockwork creatures running.”

  “You twist it, like this”—Henry mimed twisting the bottom half of the thing in one direction and the top half in another—“and then throw it. Try to lodge it into the creature’s gears or somewhere that it will stick. It is meant to disrupt the mechanical currents that run through the creature’s body, causing them to wrench apart. It could do you some damage too, even if you aren’t clockwork, so don’t hang on to it once it’s activated. I’ve only two, so . . .”

  He handed one to Jem, and another to Charlotte, who took it and hung it from her weapons belt without a word.

  “The message has been sent?” Tessa asked.

  “Yes. We’re only waiting for a reply from your brother now,” said Charlotte. She unrolled a paper across the surface of the table, weighting down the corners with copper gears from a stack Henry must have left there. “Here,” she said, “is a map that shows where Jessamine claims she and Nate usually meet. It’s a warehouse on Mincing Lane, down by Lower Thames Street. It used to be a tea merchant’s packing factory until the business went bankrupt.”

  “Mincing Lane,” said Jem. “Center of the tea trade. Also the opium trade. Makes sense Mortmain might keep a warehouse there.” He ran a slender finger over the map, tracing the names of the nearby streets: Eastcheap, Gracechurch Street, Lower Thames Street, St. Swithin’s Lane. “Such an odd place for Jessamine, though,” he said. “She always dreamed of such glamour—of being introduced at Court and putting her hair up for dances. Not of clandestine meetings in some sooty warehouse near the wharves.”

  “She did do what she set out to do,” Tessa said. “She married someone who isn’t a Shadowhunter.”

  Will’s mouth quirked into a half smile. “If the marriage were valid, she’d be your sister-in-law.”

  Tessa shuddered. “I—it’s not that I hold a grudge against Jessamine. But she deserves better than my brother.”

  “Anyone deserves better than that.” Will reached under the table and drew out a rolled-up bunch of fabric. He spread it across the table, avoiding the map. Inside were several long, thin weapons, each with a gleaming rune carved into the blade. “I’d nearly forgotten I had Thomas order these for me a few weeks ago. They’ve only just arrived. Misericords—good for getting in between the jointure of those clockwork creatures.”

  “The question is,” Jem said, lifting one of the misericords and examining the blade, “once we get Tessa inside to meet Nate, how do the rest of us watch their meeting without being noticed? We must be ready to intervene at any moment, especially if it appears that his suspicions have been aroused.”

  “We must arrive first, and hide ourselves,” said Will. “It is the only way. We listen to see if Nate says anything useful.”

  “I disl
ike the idea of Tessa being forced to speak with him at all,” muttered Jem.

  “She can well hold her own; I have seen it. Besides, he is more likely to speak freely if he thinks himself safe. Once captured, even if the Silent Brothers do explore his mind, Mortmain may have thought to put blocks in it to protect his knowledge, which can take time to dismantle.”

  “I think Mortmain has put in blocks in Jessamine’s case,” said Tessa. “For whatever it is worth, I cannot touch her thoughts.”

  “Even more likely he will have done it in Nate’s, then,” said Will.

  “That boy is as weak as a kitten,” said Henry. “He will tell us whatever we want to know. And if not, I have a device—”

  “Henry!” Charlotte looked seriously alarmed. “Tell me you have not been working on a torture device.”

  “Not at all. I call it the Confuser. It emits a vibration that directly affects the human brain, rendering it incapable of telling between fiction and fact.” Henry, looking proud, reached for his box. “He will simply spill everything that is in his mind, with no attention to the consequences . . .”

  Charlotte held up a warning hand. “Not right now, Henry. If we must utilize the . . . Confuser on Nate Gray, we will do so when we have brought him back here. At the moment we must concentrate on reaching the warehouse before Tessa. It is not that far; I suggest Cyril takes us there, then returns for Tessa.”

  “Nate will recognize the Institute’s carriage,” Tessa objected. “When I saw Jessamine leaving for a meeting with Nate, she was most decidedly going on foot. I shall walk.”

  “You will get lost,” said Will.

  “I won’t,” said Tessa, indicating the map. “It’s a simple walk. I could turn left at Gracechurch Street, go along Eastcheap, and cut through to Mincing Lane.”