Authors: Cassandra Clare
Charlotte paused at the side of the bed and looked down at Jessamine with dispassion. “That has not been my experience of her, Jessamine. And what of Sophie? She has always been a most honest servant.”
“She struck me! With a mirror!” Jessamine’s face was red.
“Because she found this.” Charlotte drew the invitation, which Tessa had given over to Sophie, from her pocket. “Can you explain this, Jessamine?”
“There’s nothing against the Law about going to a party.” Jessamine sounded equal parts sulky and frightened. “Benedict Lightwood is a Shadowhunter—”
“This is Nathaniel Gray’s writing.” Charlotte’s voice never seemed to lose its even edge, Tessa thought. There was something about that fact that made it seem even more inexorable. “He is a spy, wanted by the Clave, and you have been meeting with him in secret. Why is that?”
Jessamine’s mouth opened slightly. Tessa waited for excuses—
It’s all lies, Sophie invented the invitation, I was only meeting Nate to gain his confidence
—but instead tears came. “I love him,” she said. “And he loves me.”
“So you betrayed us to him,” said Charlotte.
“I didn’t!” Jessamine’s voice rose. “Whatever Tessa says, it isn’t true! She’s lying. She’s always been jealous of me, and she’s lying!”
Charlotte gave Tessa a measured look. “Is she, now. And Sophie?”
“Sophie hates me,” Jessamine sobbed. This at least was true. “She ought to be put out on the street—without references—”
“Do cease turning on the taps, Jessamine. It accomplishes nothing.” Charlotte’s voice cut through Jessamine’s sobs like a blade. She turned to Enoch. “The true story will be easy enough to get. The Mortal Sword, please, Brother Enoch.”
The Silent Brother stepped forward, the Mortal Sword leveled at Jessamine. Tessa stared in horror. Was he going to
torture
Jessamine in her own bed, in front of them all?
Jessamine cried out. “No! No! Get him away from me!
Charlotte!
” Her voice rose to a terrible wailing scream that seemed to go on and on, splitting Tessa’s ears, her head.
“Put out your hands, Jessamine,” said Charlotte coldly.
Jessamine shook her head wildly, her fair hair flying.
“Charlotte, no,” Tessa said. “Don’t hurt her.”
“Don’t interfere in what you don’t understand, Tessa,” said Charlotte in a clipped voice. “Put your hands out, Jessamine, or it will go very badly for you.”
With tears running down her face, Jessamine thrust her hands forward, palms up. Tessa tensed all over. She felt suddenly sick and sorry she had had anything to do with this plan. If Jessamine had been fooled by Nate, then so had she. Jessie did not deserve this—
“It’s all right,” said a soft voice at her shoulder. It was Sophie. “He won’t hurt her with it. The Mortal Sword makes Nephilim tell the truth.”
Brother Enoch laid the blade of the Mortal Sword flat across Jessamine’s palms. He did it without either force or gentleness, as if he were hardly aware of her as a person at all. He let the blade go and stepped back; even Jessamine’s eyes rounded in surprise; the blade seemed to balance perfectly across her hands, utterly immobile.
“It is not a torture device, Jessamine,” said Charlotte, her hands folded in front of her. “We must employ it only because you cannot be trusted to tell the truth otherwise.” She held up the invitation. “This is yours, is it not?”
Jessamine did not answer. She was looking at Brother Enoch, her eyes wide and black with terror, her chest rising and falling fast. “I cannot think, not with that monster in the room—” Her voice trembled.
Charlotte’s mouth thinned, but she turned to Enoch and spoke a few words. He nodded, then glided silently from the room. As the door shut behind him, Charlotte said, “There. He is waiting in the corridor. Do not think he will not catch you should you try to run, Jessamine.”
Jessamine nodded. She seemed to droop, broken like a toy doll.
Charlotte fluttered the invitation in her hand. “This is yours, yes? And it was sent to you by Nathaniel Gray. This writing is his.”
“Y-yes.” The word seemed pulled from Jessamine against her will.
“How long have you been meeting him in secret?”
Jessamine set her mouth, but her lips were trembling. A moment later a torrent of words burst from her mouth. Her eyes darted round in shock as if she could not believe she was speaking. “He sent me a message only a few days after Mortmain invaded the Institute. He apologized for his behavior toward me. He said he was grateful for my nursing of him and that he had not been able to forget my graciousness or my beauty. I—I wanted to ignore him. But a second letter came, and a third. . . . I agreed to meet him. I left the Institute in the middle of the night and we met in Hyde Park. He kissed me—”
“Enough of that,” said Charlotte. “How long did it take him to convince you to spy on us?”
“He said that he was only working for Mortmain until he could put together enough of a fortune to live comfortably. I said we could live together on my fortune, but he wouldn’t have it. It had to be his money. He said he would not live off his wife. Is that not noble?”
“So by this point he had already proposed?”
“He proposed the second time we met.” Jessamine sounded breathy. “He said he knew there would never be another woman for him. And he promised that once he had enough money, I would have just the life I had always wanted, that we would never worry about money, and that there would be ch-children.” She sniffled.
“Oh, Jessamine.” Charlotte sounded almost sad.
Jessamine flushed. “It was true! He loved me! He has more than proved it. We are married! It was done most properly in a church with a minister—”
“Probably a deconsecrated church and some flunky dressed to look like a minister,” said Charlotte. “What do you know of mundane weddings, Jessie? How would you know what a proper wedding
was
? I give you my word that Nathaniel Gray does not consider you his wife.”
“He does, he does, he
does
!” Jessamine shrieked, and tried to pull away from the Sword. It stuck to her hands as if it had been nailed there. Her wails went up an octave. “I am Jessamine Gray!”
“You are a traitor to the Clave. What else did you tell Nathaniel?”
“Everything,” Jessamine gasped. “Where you were looking for Mortmain, which Downworlders you had contacted in your attempt to find him. That was why he was never anywhere you searched. I warned him about the trip to York. That is why he sent the automatons to Will’s family’s home. Mortmain wanted to terrify you into ceasing the search. He considers you all pestilential annoyances. But he is not afraid of you.” Her chest was heaving up and down. “He will win out over you all. He knows it. So do I.”
Charlotte leaned forward, her hands on her hips. “But he did not succeed in terrifying us into ceasing the search,” she said. “The automatons he sent tried to snatch Tessa but failed—”
“They weren’t sent to try to snatch Tessa. Oh, he still plans to take her, but not like that, not yet. His plan is close to realization, and that is when he will move to take the Institute, to take Tessa—”
“How close is he? Has he managed to open the Pyxis?” Charlotte snapped.
“I—I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“So you told Nate everything and he told you nothing. What of Benedict? Why has he agreed to work hand in glove with Mortmain? I always knew he was an unpleasant man, but it seems unlike him to betray the Clave.”
Jessamine shook her head. She was sweating, her fair hair stuck to her temples. “Mortmain is holding something over him, something he wants. I don’t know what it is. But he will do anything to get it.”
“Including handing me over to Mortmain,” said Tessa. Charlotte looked at her in surprise when she spoke, and seemed about to interrupt her, but Tessa hurtled on. “What is this about having me falsely accused of possessing articles of dark magic? How was that to be accomplished?”
“The Book of the White,” Jessamine gasped. “I—took it from the locked case in the library. Hid it in your room while you were out.”
“Where in my room?”
“Loose floorboard—near the fireplace.” Jessamine’s pupils were enormous. “Charlotte . . . please . . .”
But Charlotte was relentless. “Where is Mortmain? Has he spoken to Nate of his plans for the Pyxis, for his automatons?”
“I—” Jessamine took a shuddering gasp. Her face was dark red. “I can’t—”
“Nate wouldn’t have told her,” said Tessa. “He would have known she might have been caught, and he would have thought she’d crack under torture and spill everything.
He
would.”
Jessamine gave her a venomous look. “He hates you, you know,” she said. “He says that all his life you looked down on him, you and your aunt with your silly provincial morality, judging him for everything he did. Always telling him what to do, never wanting him to get ahead. Do you know what he calls you? He—”
“I don’t care,” Tessa lied; her voice shook slightly. Despite everything, hearing that her brother hated her hurt more than she had thought it could. “Did he say what I am? Why I have the power I do?”
“He said that your father was a demon.” Jessamine’s lips twitched. “And that your mother was a Shadowhunter.”
The door opened softly, so softly that had Magnus not already been drifting in and out of sleep, the noise would not have woken him.
He looked up. He was sitting in an armchair near the fire, as his favorite place on the sofa was taken up by Will. Will, in bloody shirtsleeves, was sleeping the heavy sleep of the drugged and healing. His forearm was bandaged to the elbow, his cheeks flushed, his head pillowed on his unhurt arm. The tooth Will had pulled from his arm sat on the side table beside him, gleaming like ivory.
The door to the drawing room stood open behind him. And there, framed in the archway, was Camille.
She wore a black velvet traveling cloak open over a brilliant green dress that matched her eyes. Her hair was dressed high on her head with emerald combs, and as he watched, she drew off her white kid gloves, deliberately slowly, one by one, and laid them on the table by the door.
“Magnus,” she said, and her voice, as always, sounded like silvery bells. “Did you miss me?”
Magnus sat up straight. The firelight played over Camille’s shining hair, her poreless white skin. She was extraordinarily beautiful. “I did not realize you would be favoring me with your presence tonight.”
She looked at Will, asleep on the sofa. Her lips curled upward. “Clearly.”
“You sent no message. In fact, you have sent me no messages at all since you left London.”
“Are you reproaching me, Magnus?” Camille sounded amused. Gliding behind the sofa, she leaned over the back, looking down into Will’s face. “Will Herondale,” she said. “He is lovely, isn’t he? Is he your newest amusement?”
Instead of answering, Magnus crossed his long legs in front of him. “Where have you been?”
Camille leaned forward farther; if she had had breath, it would have stirred the curling dark hair on Will’s forehead. “Can I kiss him?”
“No,” said Magnus. “Where have you been, Camille? Every night I lay here on your sofa and I waited to hear your step in the hall, and I wondered where you were. You might at least tell me.”
She straightened, rolling her eyes. “Oh, very well. I was in Paris, having some new dresses fitted. A much-needed holiday from the dramas of London.”
There was a long silence. Then, “You’re lying,” Magnus said.
Her eyes widened. “Why would you say such a thing?”
“Because it’s the truth.” He took a crumpled letter from his pocket and threw it onto the floor between them. “You cannot track a vampire, but you can track a vampire’s subjugate. You took Walker with you. It was easy enough for me to track him to Saint Petersburg. I have informants there. They let me know that you were living there with a human lover.”
Camille watched him, a little smile playing about her mouth. “And that made you jealous?”
“Did you want me to be?”
“Ça m’est égal,”
said Camille, dropping into the French she used when she truly wanted to annoy him. “It’s all the same to me. He had nothing to do with you. He was a diversion while I was in Russia, nothing more.”
“And now he is . . .”
“Dead. So he hardly represents competition for you. You must let me have my little diversions, Magnus.”
“Otherwise?”
“Otherwise I shall become extremely cross.”
“As you became cross with your human lover, and murdered him?” Magnus inquired. “What of pity? Compassion? Love? Or do you not feel that emotion?”
“I
love
,” Camille said indignantly. “You and I, Magnus, who endure forever, love in such a manner as cannot be conceived of by mortals—a dark constant flame to their brief, sputtering light. What do they matter to you? Fidelity is a human concept, based upon the idea that we are here but for a short time. You cannot demand my faithfulness for
eternity
.”
“How foolish of me. I thought I could. I thought I could at least expect you not to lie to me.”
“You are being ridiculous,” she said. “A child. You expect me to have the morals of some mundane when I am not human, and neither are you. Regardless, there is precious little you can do about it. I will not be dictated to, certainly not by some half-breed.” It was the Downworlders’ own insulting term for warlocks. “You are devoted to me; you have said so yourself. Your devotion will simply have to suffer my diversions, and then we shall rub along quite pleasantly. If not, I shall drop you. I cannot imagine you want
that
.”
There was a little sneer in her voice as she spoke, and it snapped something inside Magnus. He recalled the sick feeling in his throat when the letter had come from Saint Petersburg. And yet he had waited for her return, hoping she had an explanation. That she would apologize. Ask him to love her again. Now that he realized he was not worth that to her—that he never had been—a red mist passed before his eyes; he seemed to go mad momentarily, for it was the only explanation for what he did next.