Clockwork Prince

Chapter 12 MASQUERADE

Cyril had paused the carriage outside the gates of the property, under the shade of a leafy oak tree. The Lightwoods’ country house in Chiswick, just outside London proper, was massive, built in the Palladian style, with soaring pillars and multiple staircases. The radiance of the moon made everything pearlescent like the inside of an oyster shell. The stone of the house seemed to gleam silver, while the gate that ran around the property had the sheen of black oil. None of the lights in the house seemed to be illuminated—the place was as dark as pitch and grave-silent, the vast grounds stretching all around it, down to the edge of a meander in the Thames River, unlit and deserted. Tessa began to wonder if they had made a mistake in coming here.

As Will left the carriage, helping her down after him, his head turned, his fine mouth hardening. “Do you smell that? Demonic witchcraft. Its stink is on the air.”

Tessa made a face. She could smell nothing unusual—in fact, this far out of the city center, the air seemed cleaner than it had near the Institute. She could smell wet leaves and dirt. She looked over at Will, his face raised to the moonlight, and wondered what weapons lay concealed under his closely fitted frock coat. His hands were sheathed in white gloves, his starched shirtfront immaculate. With the mask, he could have been an illustration of a handsome highwayman in a penny dreadful.

Tessa bit her lip. “Are you certain? The house looks deadly quiet. As if no one were home. Could we be wrong?”

He shook his head. “There is powerful magic at work here. Something stronger than a glamour. A true ward. Someone very much does not want us to know what is happening here tonight.” He glanced down at the invitation in her hand, shrugged, and went up to the gate. There was a bell there, and he rang it, the noise jangling Tessa’s already stretched nerves. She glared at him. He grinned. “Caelum denique, angel,” he said, and melted away into the shadows, just as the gate before her opened.

A hooded figure stood before her. Her first thought was of the Silent Brothers, but their robes were the color of parchment, and the figure that stood before her was robed in the color of black smoke. The hood hid its face completely. Wordlessly she held out her invitation.

The hand that took it from her was gloved. For a moment the hidden face regarded the invitation. Tessa could not help but fidget. In any ordinary circumstance, a young lady attending a ball alone would be so improper as to be scandalous. But this was no ordinary circumstance. At last, a voice issued from beneath the hood:

“Welcome, Miss Lovelace.”

It was a gritty voice, a voice like skin being scraped over a rough, tearing surface. Tessa’s spine prickled, and she was glad she could not see beneath the hood. The figure returned the invitation to her and stepped back, gesturing her inside; she followed, forcing herself not to look around to see if Will was following.

She was led around the side of the house, down a narrow garden path. The gardens extended for a good distance out around the house, silvery-green in the moonlight. There was a circular black ornamental pond, with a white marble bench beside it, and low hedges, carefully clipped, running alongside neat paths. The path she was on ended at a tall and narrow entrance set into the house’s side. A strange symbol was carved into the door. It seemed to shift and change as Tessa looked at it, making her eyes hurt. She looked away as her hooded companion opened the door and gestured for her to go inside.

She entered the house, and the door slammed behind her. She turned just as it shut, catching a glimpse, she thought, of the face beneath the hood. She thought she had seen something very like a cluster of red eyes in the center of a dark oval, like the eyes of a spider. She caught her breath as the door clicked shut and she was plunged into darkness.

As she reached, blindly, for the handle of the door, light sprang up all around her. She was standing at the foot of a long, narrow staircase that led upward. Torches burning with a greenish flame—not witchlight—ran up the sides of the stairs.

At the top of the stairs was a door. Another symbol was painted on this one. Tessa felt her mouth go even dryer. It was the ouroboros, the double serpent. The symbol of the Pandemonium Club.

For a moment she felt frozen with fear. The symbol brought bleak memories rushing back: the Dark House; the Sisters torturing her, trying to force her to Change; Nate’s betrayal. She wondered what Will had said to her in Latin before he had vanished. “Courage,” no doubt, or some variant of that. She thought of Jane Eyre, bravely facing down the angry Mr. Rochester; Catherine Earnshaw, who when mauled by a savage dog “did not yell out—no! she would have scorned to do it.” And lastly she thought of Boadicea, who Will had told her was “braver than any man.”

It’s just a ball, Tessa, she told herself, and reached for the knob. Just a party.

She had never been to a ball before, of course. She knew only a little of what to expect, and all of that was from books. In Jane Austen’s books the characters were constantly waiting for there to be a ball, or arranging a ball, and often an entire village seemed to be involved in the planning and location of the ball. Whereas in other books, such as Vanity Fair, they were grand backdrops against which scheming and plotting occurred. She knew that there would be a dressing room for the ladies, where she could leave her shawl, and one for the men, where they could safely dispose of hats, overcoats, and walking sticks. There ought to be a dance card for her, where the names of the men who had asked her to dance could be marked down. It was rude to dance more than a few dances in a row with the same gentleman. There should be a grand, beautifully decorated ballroom, and a smaller refreshment room, where there would be iced drinks and sandwiches and biscuits and tipsy cake . . .

But it was not quite like that. As the door closed behind her, Tessa found no servants hurrying to greet her, to guide her to the ladies’ dressing room and offer to take her shawl or assist her with a missing button. Instead a wash of noise and music and light struck her like a wave. She stood at the entrance to a room so grand, it was hard to believe that it fit somehow into the Lightwoods’ house. A great crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling; it was only after looking at it for several moments that Tessa realized it was shaped like a spider, with eight dangling “legs,” each of which held a collection of massive tapers. The walls, what she could see of them, were a very dark blue, and running all along the side that faced the river were French windows, some propped open to catch the breeze, for the room, despite the cool weather outside, was stifling. Beyond the windows were curved stone balconies, looking out over a view of the city. The walls were largely obscured by great swathes of shimmering fabric, loops and whorls of it hanging over the windows and moving in the faint breeze. The fabric was figured with all manner of patterns, woven in gold; the same shimmering, shifting patterns that had hurt Tessa’s eyes downstairs.

The room was crowded with people. Well, not quite people, exactly. The majority looked human enough. She caught sight also of the dead white faces of vampires, and a few of the violet and red-hued ifrits, all dressed in the height of fashion. Most, though not all, of the attendees wore masks—elaborate contraptions of gold and black, beaked Plague Doctor masks with tiny spectacles, red devil masks complete with horns. Some were bare-faced, though, including a group of women whose hair was muted tints of lavender, green, and violet. Tessa did not think they were dyes, either, and they wore their hair loose, like nymphs in paintings. Their clothes were scandalously loose as well. They were clearly uncorseted, dressed in flowing fabrics of velvet, tulle, and satin.

In and among the human guests darted figures of all sizes and shapes. There was a man, far too tall and thin to be a man, dressed in topcoat and tails, looming over a young woman in a green cloak whose red hair shone like a copper penny. Creatures that looked like great dogs roamed among the guests, their yellow eyes wide and watchful. They had rows of spikes along their backs, like drawings of exotic animals she had seen in books. A dozen or so little goblin creatures screeched and chattered to one another in an incomprehensible language. They appeared to be fighting over some food-stuff—what looked like a torn-apart frog. Tessa swallowed down bile and turned—

And saw them, where she had not before. Her mind had perhaps dismissed them as decorations, suits of armor, but they were not. Automatons lined the walls, silent and motionless. They were human in shape, like the coachman who had belonged to the Dark Sisters, and wore the livery of the Lightwood household, each with a patterned ouroboros over its left breast. Their faces were blank and featureless, like children’s sketches that had not been filled in.

Someone caught her by the shoulders. Her heart gave a great leap of fear—She had been discovered! As every muscle in her body tightened, a light, familiar voice said:

“I thought you’d never get here, Jessie dear.”

She turned and looked up into the face of her brother.

The last time Tessa had seen Nate, he had been bruised and bloodied, snarling at her in a corridor of the Institute, a knife in his hand. He had been a terrible mixture of frightening and pathetic and horrifying all at once.

This Nate was quite different. He smiled down at her—Jessamine was so much shorter than she was; it was odd not to reach to her brother’s chin, but rather to his chest—with vivid blue eyes. His fair hair was brushed and clean, his skin unmarked by bruises. He wore an elegant dress coat and a black shirtfront that set off his fair good looks. His gloves were spotlessly white.

This was Nate as he had always dreamed of being—rich-looking, elegant, and sophisticated. A sense of contentment oozed from him—less contentment, Tessa had to admit, than self-satisfaction. He looked like Church did after he had killed a mouse.

Nate chuckled. “What is it, Jess? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

I have. The ghost of the brother I once cared about. Tessa reached for Jessamine, for the imprint of Jessamine in her mind. Again it felt as if she were passing her hands through poisonous water, unable to grasp anything solid. “I—a sudden fear came over me, that you would not be here,” she said.

This time his laugh was tender. “And miss a chance to see you? Don’t be a foolish girl.” He glanced around, smiling. “Lightwood should lay himself out to impress the Magister more often.” He held out a hand to her. “Would you do me the honor of favoring me with a dance, Jessie?”

Jessie. Not “Miss Lovelace.” Any doubt Tessa might have had that their attachment was serious indeed was gone. She forced her lips into a smile. “Of course.”

The orchestra—a collection of small purple-skinned men dressed in silvery netting—was playing a waltz. Nate took her hand and drew her out onto the floor.

Thank God, Tessa thought. Thank God she’d had years of her brother swinging her around the living room of their tiny flat in New York. She knew exactly how he danced, how to fit her movements to his, even in this smaller, unfamiliar body. Of course, he had never looked down at her like this—tenderly, with lips slightly parted. Dear God, what if he kissed her? She had not thought of the possibility. She would be sick all over his shoes if he did. Oh, God, she prayed. Let him not try.

She spoke rapidly, “I had dreadful trouble sneaking out of the Institute tonight,” she said. “That little wretch Sophie nearly found the invitation.”

Nate’s grip tightened on her. “But she didn’t, did she?”

There was a warning in his voice. Tessa sensed she was already close to a serious gaffe. She tried a quick glance around the room—Oh, where was Will? What had he said? Even if you don’t see me, I’ll be there? But she had never felt so much on her own.

With a deep breath she tossed her head in her best imitation of Jessamine. “Do you take me for a fool? Of course not. I rapped her skinny wrist with my mirror, and she dropped it immediately. Besides, she probably can’t even read.”

“Truly,” said Nate, relaxing visibly, “they could have found you a lady’s maid who more befits a lady. One who speaks French, can sew . . .”

“Sophie can sew,” Tessa said automatically, and could have slapped herself. “Passably,” she amended, and batted her eyelashes up at Nate. “And how have you been keeping since the last time we saw each other?” Not that I have the slightest idea when that might have been.

“Very well. The Magister continues to favor me.”

“He is wise,” Tessa breathed. “He recognizes an invaluable treasure when he sees one.”

Nate touched her face lightly with a gloved hand. Tessa willed herself not to stiffen. “All down to you, my darling. My veritable little mine of information.” He moved closer to her. “I see you wore the dress I asked you to,” he whispered. “Ever since you described how you wore it to your last Christmas ball, I have yearned to see you in it. And may I say that you dazzle the eyes?”

Tessa’s stomach felt as if it were trying to force its way up into her throat. Her eyes darted around the room again. With a lurch of recognition, she saw Gideon Lightwood, cutting a fine figure in his evening dress, though he stood stiffly against one of the walls as if plastered there. Only his eyes moved around the room. Gabriel was wandering to and fro, a glass of what looked like lemonade in his hand, his eyes glowing with curiosity. She saw him go up to one of the girls with long lavender hair and begin a conversation. So much for any hope that the boys did not know what their father was up to, she thought, glancing away from Gabriel in irritation. And then she saw Will.

He was leaning against the wall opposite her, between two empty chairs. Despite his mask she felt as if she could see directly into his eyes. As if he were standing close enough to touch. She would have half-expected him to look amused at her predicament, but he did not; he looked tense, and furious, and . . .

“God, I’m jealous of every other man who looks at you,” Nate said. “You should be looked at only by me.”

Good Lord, Tessa thought. Did this line of talk really work on most women? If her brother had come to her with the aim of asking her advice on these pearls, she would have told him straight off that he sounded like an idiot. Though perhaps she only thought he sounded like an idiot because he was her brother. And despicable. Information, she thought. I must get information and then get away from him, before I really am sick.

She looked for Will again, but he was gone, as if he had never been there. Still, she believed him now that he was somewhere, watching her, even if she couldn’t see him. She plucked up her nerve, and said, “Really, Nate? Sometimes I fear you value me only for the information I can give you.”

For a moment he stopped and was stock-still, almost jerking her out of the dance. “Jessie! How can you even think such a thing? You know how I adore you.” He looked at her reproachfully as they began to move to the music again. “It is true that your connection to the Nephilim of the Institute has been invaluable. Without you we would never have known they were going to York, for instance. But I thought you knew that you were helping me because we are working toward a future together. When I have become the Magister’s right hand, darling, think how I will be able to provide for you.”

Tessa laughed nervously. “You’re right, Nate. It’s only that I get frightened sometimes. What if Charlotte were to find out I was spying for you? What would they do to me?”

Nate swung her around easily. “Oh, nothing, darling; you’ve said it yourself, they’re cowards.” He looked past her and raised an eyebrow. “Benedict, up to his old tricks,” he said. “Rather disgusting.”

Tessa looked around and saw Benedict Lightwood leaning back on a scarlet velvet sofa near the orchestra. He was coatless, a glass of red wine in one hand, his eyes half-lidded. Sprawled across his chest, Tessa saw to her shock, was a woman—or at least it had the form of a woman. Long black hair worn loose, a low-cut black velvet gown—and the heads of little serpents poking out from her eyes, hissing. As Tessa watched, one of them extended a long, forked tongue and licked the side of Benedict Lightwood’s face.

“That’s a demon,” Tessa breathed, forgetting for a moment to be Jessamine. “Isn’t it?”

Fortunately Nate seemed to find nothing odd about the question. “Of course it is, silly bunny. That’s what Benedict fancies. Demon women.”

Will’s voice echoed in Tessa’s ears, I would be surprised if some of the elder Lightwood’s nocturnal visits to certain houses in Shadwell haven’t left him with a nasty case of demon pox. “Oh, ugh,” she said.

“Indeed,” said Nate. “Ironic, considering the high-and-mighty manner in which the Nephilim conduct themselves. I ask myself often why Mortmain favors him so and wishes to see him installed in the Institute so badly.” Nate sounded peevish.

Tessa had already guessed as much, but the knowledge that Mortmain was most assuredly behind Benedict’s fierce determination to take the Institute from Charlotte still felt like a blow. “I just don’t see,” she said, trying her best to adopt Jessie’s lightly peevish demeanor, “what use it will be to the Magister. It’s just a big stuffy old building. . . .”

Nate laughed indulgently. “It’s not the building, silly thing. It’s the position. The head of the London Institute is one of the most powerful Shadowhunters in England, and the Magister controls Benedict as if he were a puppet. Using him, he can destroy the Council from within, while the automaton army destroys them from without.” He spun her expertly as the dance required; only Tessa’s years of practice dancing with Nate kept her from falling over, so distracted was she by shock. “Besides, it’s not quite true that the Institute contains nothing of value. Access to the Great Library alone will be invaluable for the Magister. Not to mention the weapons room . . .”

“And Tessa.” She clamped down on her voice so it wouldn’t tremble.

“Tessa?”

“Your sister. The Magister still wants her, doesn’t he?”

For the first time Nate looked at her with a puzzled surprise. “We’ve been over this, Jessamine,” he said. “Tessa will be arrested for illegal possession of articles of dark magic, and sent to the Silent City. Benedict will bring her forth from there and deliver her to the Magister. It is all part of whatever bargain they struck, though what Benedict is getting from it is not clear to me yet. It must be something quite significant, or he would not be so willing to turn on his own.”

Arrested? Possession of articles of dark magic? Tessa’s head spun.

Nate’s hand slipped around the back of her neck. He was wearing gloves, but Tessa couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that something slimy was touching her skin. “My little Jessie,” he murmured. “You behave almost as if you’ve forgotten your own part in this. You did hide the Book of the White in my sister’s room as we asked you to, did you not?”

“Of—of course I did. I was only joking, Nate.”

“That’s my good girl.” He was leaning closer. He was definitely going to kiss her. It was most improper, but then nothing about this place could be considered proper. In a state of absolute horror, Tessa sputtered:

“Nate—I feel dizzy—as if I might faint. I think it’s the heat. If you could fetch me a lemonade?”

He looked down at her for a moment, his mouth tight with bottled annoyance, but Tessa knew he could not refuse. No gentleman would. He straightened up, brushed off his cuffs, and smiled. “Of course,” he said with a bow. “Let me help you to a seat first.”

She protested, but his hand was already on her elbow, guiding her toward one of the chairs lined up along the walls. He settled her into it and vanished into the crowd. She watched him go, trembling all over. Dark magic. She felt sick, and angry. She wanted to slap her brother, shake him till he told her the rest of the truth, but she knew she couldn’t.

“You must be Tessa Gray,” said a soft voice at her elbow. “You look just like your mother.”

Tessa nearly jumped out of her skin. At her side stood a tall slender woman with long, unbound hair the color of lavender petals. Her skin was a pale blue, her dress a long and floating confection of gossamer and tulle. Her feet were bare, and in between her toes were thin webs like a spider’s, a darker blue than her skin. Tessa’s hands went to her face in sudden horror—was she losing her disguise?—but the blue woman laughed.

“I didn’t mean to make you fearful of your illusion, little one. It is still in place. It is just that my kind can see through it. All this”—she gestured vaguely at Tessa’s blond hair, her white dress and pearls—“is like the vapor of a cloud, and you the sky beyond it. Did you know your mother had eyes just like yours, gray sometimes and blue at others?”

Tessa found her voice. “Who are you?”

“Oh, my kind doesn’t like to give our names, but you can call me whatever you like. You can invent a lovely name for me. Your mother used to call me Hyacinth.”

“The blue flower,” Tessa said faintly. “How did you know my mother? You don’t look any older than me—”

“After our youth, my kind does not age or die. Nor will you. Lucky girl! I hope you appreciate the service done you.”

Tessa shook her head in bewilderment. “Service? What service? Are you speaking of Mortmain? Do you know what I am?”

“Do you know what I am?”

Tessa thought of the Codex. “A faerie?” she guessed.

“And do you know what a changeling is?”

Tessa shook her head.

“Sometimes,” Hyacinth confided, dropping her voice to a whisper, “when our faerie blood has grown weak and thin, we will find our way into a human home, and take the best, the prettiest, and the plumpest child—and, quick as a wink, replace the babe with a sickly one of our own. While the human child grows tall and strong in our lands, the human family will find itself burdened with a dying creature fearful of cold iron. Our bloodline is strengthened—”

“Why bother?” Tessa demanded. “Why not just steal the human child and leave nothing in its place?”

Hyacinth’s dark blue eyes widened. “Why, because that would not be fair,” she said. “And it would breed suspicion among the mundanes. They are stupid, but there are many of them. It does not do to rouse their ire. That is when they come with iron and torches.” She shuddered.

“Just a moment,” Tessa said. “Are you telling me I’m a changeling?”

Hyacinth bubbled over with giggles. “Of course not! What a ridiculous thought!” She held her hands to her heart as she laughed, and Tessa saw that her fingers, too, were bound together with blue webbing. Suddenly she smiled, showing glittering teeth. “There’s a very good-looking boy staring over here,” she said. “As handsome as a faerie lord! I should leave you to your business.” She winked, and before Tessa could protest, Hyacinth melted back into the crowd.

Shaken, Tessa turned, expecting the “good-looking boy” to be Nate—but it was Will, leaning against the wall beside her. The moment her eyes found him, he turned and began studiously examining the dance floor. “What did that faerie woman want?”

“I don’t know,” Tessa said, exasperated. “To tell me I’m not a changeling, apparently.”

“Well, that’s good. Process of elimination.” Tessa had to admit, Will was doing a good job of somehow blending in with the dark curtains behind him, as if he were not there at all. It must have been a Shadowhunter talent. “And what news from your brother?”

She gripped her hands together, looking at the floor while she spoke. “Jessamine’s been spying for Nate all this time. I don’t know how long exactly. She’s been telling him everything. She thinks he’s in love with her.”

Will looked unsurprised. “Do you think he’s in love with her?”

“I think Nate cares only about himself,” said Tessa. “There’s worse, too. Benedict Lightwood is working for Mortmain. That is why he is scheming to get the Institute. So the Magister can have it. And have me. Nate knows all about it, of course. He doesn’t care.” Tessa looked at her hands again. Jessamine’s hands. Small and delicate in their fine white kid gloves. Oh, Nate, she thought. Aunt Harriet used to call him her blue-eyed boy.

“I expect that was before he killed her,” said Will. Only then did Tessa realize she had spoken aloud. “And there he is again,” he added, in a mutter, under his breath. Tessa glanced out at the crowd and saw Nate, his fair hair like a beacon, coming toward her. In his hand was a glass of sparkling golden liquid. She turned to tell Will to hurry away, but he had already vanished.

“Fizzy lemonade,” said Nate, coming up to her and thrusting the glass into her hand. The ice-cold sides felt good against the heat of her skin. She took a sip; despite everything, it was delicious.

Nate stroked her hair back from her forehead. “Now, you were saying,” he said. “You did hide the book in my sister’s room . . .”

“Yes, just as you told me to do,” Tessa fibbed. “She suspects nothing, of course.”

“I should hope not.”

“Nate . . .”

“Yes?”

“Do you know what the Magister intends to do with your sister?”

“I’ve told you, she isn’t my sister.” Nate’s voice was clipped. “And I’ve no idea what he plans to do with her, nor any interest. My plans are all for my—our future together. I should hope that you are as dedicated?” Tessa thought of Jessamine, sitting sullenly in the room with the other Shadowhunters while they shuffled through papers about Mortmain; Jessamine falling asleep at the table rather than leave when they were discussing plans with Ragnor Fell. And Tessa pitied her even as she hated Nate, hated him so much it felt like fire in her throat. I’ve told you, she isn’t my sister.

Tessa let her eyes widen, her lip tremble. “I’m doing the best I can, Nate,” she said. “Don’t you believe me?”

She felt a faint sense of triumph as she watched him visibly beat back his annoyance. “Of course, darling. Of course.” He examined her face. “Are you feeling better? Shall we dance again?”

She clutched the glass in her hand. “Oh, I don’t know . . .”

“Of course,” Nate chuckled, “they do say a gentleman should dance only the first set or two with his wife.”

Tessa froze. It was as if time had stopped: Everything in the room seemed to freeze along with her, even the smirk on Nate’s face.

Wife?

He and Jessamine were married?

“Angel?” said Nate, his voice sounding as if it were coming from far away. “Are you all right? You’ve gone white as a sheet.”

“Mr. Gray.” A dull, mechanical voice spoke from behind Nate’s shoulder. It was one of the blank-faced automatons, holding out a silver tray on which was a folded piece of paper. “A message for you.”

Nate turned in surprise and plucked the paper from the tray; Tessa watched as he unfolded it, read it, cursed, and stuffed it into his coat pocket. “My, my,” he said. “A note from himself.” He must mean the Magister, Tessa thought. “I’m needed apparently. A dreadful bore, but what can you do?” He took her hand and raised her to her feet, then leaned in for a chaste kiss on the cheek. “Speak to Benedict; he’ll make sure you’re escorted back out to the carriage, Mrs. Gray.” He spoke the last two words in a whisper.

Tessa nodded numbly.

“Good girl,” Nate said. Then he turned and vanished into the crowd, followed by the automaton. Tessa stared after them both dizzily. It must be the shock, she thought, but everything in the room had begun to look a little—peculiar. It was as if she could see each individual ray of light sparking off the crystals of the chandelier. The effect was beautiful, if strange and a little dizzying.

“Tessa.” It was Will, evolving effortlessly into the space beside her. She turned to look at him. He looked flushed, as if he had been running—another beautiful, strange effect, she thought, the black hair and mask, the blue eyes and fair skin, and the flush across his high cheekbones. It was like looking at a painting. “I see your brother got the note.”

“Ah.” Everything clicked into place. “You sent it.”

“I did.” Looking pleased with himself, Will plucked the glass of lemonade out of her hand, drained the remainder, and set it on a windowsill. “I had to get him out of here. And we should probably follow suit, before he realizes the note is a falsity and he returns. Though I did direct him to Vauxhall; it’ll take him ages to get there and back, so we’re likely safe—” He broke off, and she could hear sudden alarm in his voice. “Tess—Tessa? Are you all right?”

“Why do you ask?” Her voice echoed in her own ears.

“Look.” He reached out and caught a swinging tendril of her hair, pulling it forward so she could see it. She stared. Dark brown, not fair. Her own hair. Not Jessamine’s.

“Oh, God.” She put a hand to her face, recognizing the familiar tingles of the Change as they began to wash over her. “How long—”

“Not long. You were Jessamine when I sat down.” He caught hold of her hand. “Come along. Quickly.” He began to stride toward the exit, but it was a long way across the ballroom, and Tessa’s whole body was twitching and shivering with the Change. She gasped as it bit into her like teeth. She saw Will whip his head around, alarmed; felt him catch her as she stumbled, and half-carry her forward. The room swung around her. I can’t faint. Don’t let me faint.

A wash of cool air struck her face. She realized distantly that Will had swung them through a pair of French doors and they were out on a small stone balcony, one of many overlooking the gardens. She moved away from him, tearing the gold mask from her face, and nearly collapsed against the stone balustrade. After slamming the doors behind them, Will turned and hurried over to her, laying a hand lightly on her back. “Tessa?”

“I’m all right.” She was glad for the stone railing beneath her hands, its solidity and hardness inexpressibly reassuring. The chilly air was lessening her dizziness too. Glancing down at herself, she could see she had become fully Tessa again. The white dress was now a full few inches too short, and the lacing so tight that her décolletage spilled up and over the low neckline. She knew some women laced themselves tight just to get this effect, but it was rather shocking seeing so much of her own skin on display.

She looked sideways at Will, glad for the cold air keeping her cheeks from flaming. “I just—I don’t know what happened. That’s never happened to me before, losing the Change without noticing like that. It must have been the surprise of it all. They’re married, did you know that? Nate and Jessamine. Married. Nate was never the marrying sort. And he doesn’t love her. I can tell. He doesn’t love anyone but himself. He never has.”

“Tess,” Will said again, gently this time. He was leaning against the railing too, facing her. They were only a very little distance apart. Above them the moon swam through the clouds, a white boat on a still, black sea.

She closed her mouth, aware that she had been babbling. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, looking away.

Almost hesitantly he laid his hand against her cheek, turning her to face him. He had stripped off his glove, and his skin was bare against hers. “There’s nothing to be sorry about,” he said. “You were brilliant in there, Tessa. Not a step out of place.” She felt her face warm beneath his cool fingers, and was amazed. Was this Will speaking? Will, who had spoken to her on the roof of the Institute as if she were so much rubbish? “You did love your brother once, didn’t you? I could see your face as he was speaking to you, and I wanted to kill him for breaking your heart.”

You broke my heart, she wanted to say. Instead she said, “Some part of me misses him as—as you miss your sister. Even though I know what he is, I miss the brother I thought I had. He was my only family.”

“The Institute is your family now.” His voice was incredibly gentle. Tessa looked at him in amazement. Gentleness was not something she would ever have associated with Will. But it was there, in the touch of his hand on her cheek, in the softness of his voice, in his eyes when he looked at her. It was the way she had always dreamed a boy would look at her. But she had never dreamed up someone as beautiful as Will, not in all her imaginings. In the moonlight the curve of his mouth looked pure and perfect, his eyes behind the mask nearly black.

“We should go back inside,” she said, in a half whisper. She did not want to go back inside. She wanted to stay here, with Will achingly close, almost leaning into her. She could feel the heat that radiated from his body. His dark hair fell around the mask, into his eyes, tangling with his long eyelashes. “We have only a little time—”

She took a step forward—and stumbled into Will, who caught her. She froze—and then her arms crept around him, her fingers lacing themselves behind his neck. Her face was pressed against his throat, his soft hair under her fingers. She closed her eyes, shutting out the dizzying world, the light beyond the French windows, the glow of the sky. She wanted to be here with Will, cocooned in this moment, inhaling the clean sharp scent of him, feeling the beat of his heart against hers, as steady and strong as the pulse of the ocean.

She felt him inhale. “Tess,” he said. “Tess, look at me.”

She raised her eyes to his, slow and unwilling, braced for anger or coldness—but his gaze was fixed on hers, his dark blue eyes somber beneath their thick black lashes, and they were stripped of all their usual cool, aloof distance. They were as clear as glass and full of desire. And more than desire—a tenderness she had never seen in them before, had never even associated with Will Herondale. That, more than anything else, stopped her protest as he raised his hands and methodically began to take the pins from her hair, one by one.

This is madness, she thought, as the first pin rattled to the ground. They should be running, fleeing this place. Instead she stood, wordless, as Will cast Jessamine’s pearl clasps aside as if they were so much paste jewelry. Her own long, curling dark hair fell down around her shoulders, and Will slid his hands into it. She heard him exhale as he did so, as if he had been holding his breath for months and had only just let it out. She stood as if mesmerized as he gathered her hair in his hands, draping it over one of her shoulders, winding her curls between his fingers. “My Tessa,” he said, and this time she did not tell him that she was not his.

“Will,” she whispered as he reached up and unlocked her hands from around his neck. He drew her gloves off, and they joined her mask and Jessie’s pins on the stone floor of the balcony. He pulled off his own mask next and cast it aside, running his hands through his damp black hair, pushing it back from his forehead. The lower edge of the mask had left marks across his high cheekbones, like light scars, but when she reached to touch them, he gently caught at her hands and pressed them down.

“No,” he said. “Let me touch you first. I have wanted . . .”

She did not say no. Instead she stood, wide-eyed, gazing up at him as his fingertips traced her temples, then her cheekbones, then—softly despite their rough calluses—outlined the shape of her mouth as if he meant to commit it to memory. The gesture made her heart spin like a top inside her chest. His eyes remained fixed on her, as dark as the bottom of the ocean, wondering, dazed with discovery.

She stood still as his fingertips left her mouth and trailed a path down her throat, stopping at her pulse, slipping to the silk ribbon at her collar and pulling at one end of it; her eyelids fluttered half-closed as the bow came apart and his warm hand covered her bare collarbone. She remembered once, on the Main, how the ship had passed through a patch of strangely shining ocean, and how the Main had carved a path of fire through the water, trailing sparks in its wake. It was as if Will’s hands did the same to her skin. She burned where he touched her, and could feel where his fingers had been even when they had moved on. His hands moved lightly but lower, over the bodice of her dress, following the curves of her breasts. Tessa gasped, even as his hands slid to grip her waist and draw her toward him, pulling their bodies together until there was not a millimeter of space between them.

He bent to put his cheek against hers. His breath against her ear made her shudder with each deliberately spoken word. “I have wanted to do this,” he said, “every moment of every hour of every day that I have been with you since the day I met you. But you know that. You must know. Don’t you?”

She looked up at him, lips parted in bewilderment. “Know what?” she said, and Will, with a sigh of something like defeat, kissed her.

His lips were soft, so soft. He had kissed her before, wildly and desperately and tasting of blood, but this was different. This was deliberate and unhurried, as if he were speaking to her silently, saying with the brush of his lips on hers what he could not say in words. He traced slow, glancing butterfly kisses across her mouth, each as measured as the beat of a heart, each saying she was precious, irreplaceable, wanted. Tessa could no longer keep her hands at her sides. She reached to cup the back of his neck, to tangle her fingers in the dark silky waves of his hair, to feel his pulse hammering against her palms.

His grip on her was firm as he explored her mouth thoroughly with his. He tasted of the sparkling lemonade, sweet and tingling. The movement of his tongue as he flicked it lightly across her lips sent delicious shudders through her whole body; her bones melted and her nerves seared. She yearned to pull him against her—but he was being so gentle with her, so unbelievably gentle, though she could feel how much he wanted her in the trembling of his hands, the hammering of his heart against hers. Surely someone who did not care even a little could not behave with such gentleness. All the pieces inside her that had felt broken and jagged when she had looked at Will these past few weeks began to knit together and heal. She felt light, as if she could float.

“Will,” she whispered against his mouth. She wanted him closer to her so badly, it was like an ache, a painful hot ache that spread out from her stomach to speed her heart and knot her hands in his hair and set her skin to burning. “Will, you need not be so careful. I will not break.”

“Tessa,” he groaned against her mouth, but she could hear the hesitation in his voice. She nipped gently at his lips, teasing him, and his breath caught. His hands flattened against the small of her back, pressing her to him, as his self-control slipped and his gentleness began to blossom into a more demanding urgency. Their kisses grew deeper and deeper still, as if they could breathe each other, consume each other, devour each other whole. Tessa knew she was making whimpering sounds in the back of her throat; that Will was pushing her back, back against the railing in a way that should have hurt but oddly did not; that his hands were at the bodice of Jessamine’s dress, crushing the delicate fabric roses. Distantly Tessa heard the knob of the French doors rattle; they opened, and still she and Will clung together, as if nothing else mattered.

There was a murmur of voices, and someone said, “I told you, Edith. That’s what happens when you drink the pink drinks,” in a disapproving tone. The doors shut again, and Tessa heard footsteps going away. She broke away from Will.

“Oh, my heavens,” she said, breathless. “How humiliating—”

“I don’t care.” He pulled her back to him, nuzzled the side of her neck, his face hot against her cold skin. His mouth glanced across hers. “Tess—”

“You keep saying my name,” she murmured. She had one hand on his chest, holding him a little bit away, but had no idea how long she could keep it there. Her body ached for him. Time had snapped and lost its meaning. There was only this moment, only Will. She had never felt anything like it, and she wondered if this was what it was like for Nate when he was drunk.

“I love your name. I love the sound of it.” He sounded drunk too, his mouth on hers as he spoke so she could feel the delicious movement of his lips. She breathed his breath, inhaling him. Their bodies fit together perfectly, she couldn’t help noticing; in Jessie’s white satin heeled shoes, she was but a little shorter than he was, and had only to tilt her head back slightly to kiss him. “I have to ask you something. I have to know—”

“So there you two are,” came a voice from the doorway. “And quite a spectacular display you’re making, if I do say so.”

They sprang apart. There, standing in the doorway—though Tessa could not remember the sound of the doors having opened—a long cigar held between his thin brown fingers, was Magnus Bane.

“Let me guess,” Magnus said, exhaling smoke. It made a white cloud in the shape of a heart that distorted as it drifted away from his mouth, expanding and twisting until it was no longer recognizable. “You had the lemonade.”

Tessa and Will, now standing side by side, glanced at each other. It was Tessa who spoke first. “I—yes. Nate brought me some.”

“It has a bit of a warlock powder mixed into it,” said Magnus. He was wearing all black, with no other ornamentation save on his hands. Each finger bore a ring set with a huge stone of a different color—lemon yellow citrine, green jade, red ruby, blue topaz. “The kind that lowers your inhibitions and makes you do things you would”—he coughed delicately—“not otherwise do.”

“Oh,” said Will. And then: “Oh.” His voice was low. He turned away, leaning his hands on the balustrade. Tessa felt her face begin to burn.

“Gracious, that’s a lot of bosom you’re showing,” Magnus went on blithely, gesturing toward Tessa with the burning tip of his cigar. “Tout le monde sur le balcon, as they say in French,” he added, miming a vast terrace jutting out from his chest. “Especially apt, as we are now, in fact, on a balcony.”

“Let her alone,” said Will. Tessa couldn’t see his face; he had his head down. “She didn’t know what she was drinking.”

Tessa crossed her arms, realized this only intensified the severity of the bosom problem, and dropped them. “This is Jessamine’s dress, and she’s half my size,” she snapped. “I would never go out like this under ordinary circumstances.”

Magnus raised his eyebrows. “Changed back into yourself, did you? When the lemonade took effect?”

Tessa scowled. She felt obscurely humiliated—to have been caught kissing Will; to be standing in front of Magnus in something her aunt would have dropped dead to see her in—yet part of her wished Magnus would go away so she could kiss Will again. “What are you doing here, yourself, if I might ask?” she snapped ungraciously. “How did you know we were here?”

“I have sources,” said Magnus, trailing smoke airily. “I thought you two might be up against it. Benedict Lightwood’s parties have a reputation for danger. When I heard you were here—”

“We’re well equipped to handle danger,” Tessa said.

Magnus eyed her bosom openly. “I can see that,” he said. “Armed to the teeth, as it were.” Done with his cigar, he flicked it over the balcony railing. “One of Camille’s human subjugates was here and recognized Will. He got a message to me, but if one of you was recognized already, what’s the chance it could happen again? It’s time to make yourselves scarce.”

“What do you care if we get out or not?” It was Will, his head still down, his voice muffled.

“You owe me,” Magnus said, his voice steely. “I mean to collect.”

Will turned on him. Tessa was startled to see the expression on his face. He looked sick and ill. “I should have known that was it.”

“You may choose your friends, but not your unlikely saviors,” Magnus said cheerfully. “Shall we go, then? Or would you rather stay here and take your chances? You can start up with the kissing where you left off when you get back to the Institute.”

Will scowled. “Get us out of here.”

Magnus’s cat eyes gleamed. He snapped his fingers, and a shower of blue sparks fell around them in a sudden, startling rain. Tessa tensed, expecting them to burn her skin, but she felt only wind rushing past her face. Her hair lifted as a strange energy crackled through her nerves. She heard Will gasp—and then they were standing on one of the stone paths in the garden, near the ornamental pond, the great Lightwood manor rising, silent and dark, above them.

“There,” said Magnus in a bored tone. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

Will looked at him with no gratitude. “Magic,” he muttered.

Magnus threw his hands up. They still crackled with blue energy, like heat lightning. “And just what do you think your precious runes are? Not magic?”

“Shush,” Tessa said. She was bone-weary suddenly. She ached where the corset crushed her ribs, and her feet, in Jessamine’s too-small shoes, were in agony. “Stop spouting off, the both of you. I think someone’s coming.”

They all paused, just as a chattering group rounded the corner of the house. Tessa froze. Even in the cloudy moonlight, she could see they were not human. They were not Downworlders, either. It was a group of demons—one a shambling corpse-like figure with black holes for eyes; another half again the size of a man, blue-skinned and dressed in a waistcoat and trousers, but with a barbed tail, lizard’s features, and a flat snakelike snout; and another that seemed to be a spinning wheel covered in wet red mouths.

Several things happened at once.

Tessa jammed the back of her hand against her mouth before she could scream. There was no point in running. The demons had already seen them and had come to a dead stop on the path. The smell of rot wafted from them, blotting out the scent of the trees.

Magnus raised his hand, blue fire circling his fingers. He was muttering words under his breath. He looked as discomposed as Tessa had ever seen him.

And Will—Will, whom Tessa had expected to reach for his seraph blades—did something entirely unexpected. He raised a trembling finger, pointed at the blue-skinned demon, and breathed, “You.”

The blue-skinned demon blinked. All the demons stood stock-still, looking at one another. There must have been some agreement in place, Tessa thought, to keep them from attacking the humans at the party, but she did not like the way the wet red mouths were licking their lips. “Er,” the demon Will had addressed said, in a surprisingly ordinary voice. “I don’t recall—That is, I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of your acquaintance?”

“Liar!” Will staggered forward and charged; as Tessa watched in amazement, he barreled past the other demons and threw himself onto the blue demon. It let out a high-pitched shriek. Magnus was watching what was going on with his mouth open. Tessa cried, “Will! Will!” but he was rolling over and over on the grass with the blue-skinned creature, which was surprisingly nimble. He had it by the back of its waistcoat, but it tore free and dashed away, streaking across the gardens, Will in hot pursuit.

Tessa took a few steps after them, but her feet were a white-hot agony. Kicking off Jessamine’s shoes, she was about to race after Will when she realized the remaining demons were making an angry buzzing noise. They seemed to be addressing Magnus.

“Ah, well, you know,” he said, having regained his composure, and he gestured in the direction Will had disappeared in. “Disagreement. Over a woman. It happens.”

The buzzing noise increased. It was clear the demons did not believe him.

“Gambling debt?” Magnus suggested. He snapped his fingers, and flame burst up from his palm, bathing the garden in a stark glow. “I suggest you not concern yourselves over-much with it, gentlemen. Festivities and merriment await you inside.” He gestured toward the narrow door that led to the ballroom. “Much more pleasant than what will await you out here if you continue to linger.”

That seemed to convince them. The demons moved off, buzzing and muttering, taking their stench of garbage with them.

Tessa spun around. “Quickly, we have to go after them—”

Magnus reached down and scooped her shoes up off the path. Holding them by their satin ribbons, he said, “Not so quickly, Cinderella. Will’s a Shadowhunter. He runs fast. You’ll never catch him.”

“But you—there must be some magic—”

“Magic,” Magnus said, mimicking Will’s disgusted tone. “Will’s where he has to be, doing what he has to do. His purpose is killing demons, Tessa.”

“Do you—not like him?” Tessa asked; it was an odd question, perhaps, but there was something in the way Magnus looked at Will, spoke to Will, that she could not put her finger on.

To her surprise, Magnus took the question seriously. “I do like him,” he said, “though rather despite myself. I thought him a pretty bit of poison to start with, but I have come around. There is a soul under all that bravado. And he is really alive, one of the most alive people I have ever met. When he feels something, it is as bright and sharp as lightning.”

“We all feel,” Tessa said, thoroughly surprised. Will, feeling more strongly than everyone else? Madder than everyone else, perhaps.

“Not like that,” said Magnus. “Trust me, I have lived a long time, and I do know.” His look was not without sympathy. “And you will find that feelings fade too, the longer you live. The oldest warlock I ever met had been alive nearly a thousand years and told me he could no longer even remember what love felt like, or hatred, either. I asked him why he did not end his life, and he said he still felt one thing, and that was fear—fear of what lies after death. ‘The undiscover’d country from whose bourne no traveller returns.’”

“Hamlet,” said Tessa automatically. She was trying to push back thoughts of her own possible immortality. The concept of it was too grand and terrifying to truly encompass, and besides . . . it might not even be true.

“We who are immortal, we are chained to this life by a chain of gold, and we dare not sever it for fear of what lies beyond the drop,” said Magnus. “Now come along, and don’t begrudge Will his moral duties.” He started off down the path, Tessa limping quickly after him in an effort to keep up.

“But he behaved as if he knew that demon—”

“Probably tried to kill it before,” said Magnus. “Sometimes they get away.”

“But how will he get back to the Institute?” Tessa wailed.

“He’s a clever boy. He’ll find a way. I’m more concerned with getting you back to the Institute before someone notices you’re missing and there’s the devil of a row.” They’d reached the front gates, where the carriage awaited, Cyril resting peacefully in the driver’s seat, his hat pulled down over his eyes.

She glared mutinously at Magnus as he swung the carriage door open and reached out a hand to help her up into it. “How do you know Will and I didn’t have Charlotte’s permission to be here tonight?”

“Do give me more credit than that, darling,” he said, and grinned in such an infectious manner that Tessa, with a sigh, gave him her hand. “Now,” he said, “I’ll take you back to the Institute, and on the way you can tell me all about it.”