Clockwork Princess

24

T

HE

M

EASURE OF

L

OVE

The measure of love is to love without measure.

—attributed to Saint Augustine

The Council room was full of light. A great double circle had been painted upon the raised dais at the front of the room, and in the space between the circles were runes: runes of binding, runes of knowledge, runes of skill and craft, and the runes that symbolized Sophie’s name. Sophie knelt in the center of the circles. Her dark hair was unbound and fell to her waist, a ripple of dark curls against her darker gear. She looked very beautiful in the light that streamed from the skylighted dome above, the scar on her cheek red as a rose.

The Consul stood above her, her white hands upraised, the Mortal Cup held within them. Charlotte wore simple scarlet robes that billowed around her. Her small face was serious and severe. “Take the Cup, Sophia Collins,” she said, and the room was breathlessly silent. The Council chamber was not full, but the row Tessa sat at the end of was: Gideon and Gabriel, Cecily and Henry, and her and Will, all leaning forward eagerly, waiting for Sophie to Ascend. At each end of the dais stood a Silent Brother, their heads bent, their parchment robes looking as if they had been carved out of marble.

Charlotte lowered the Cup, and held it out to Sophie, who took it carefully.

“Do you swear, Sophia Collins, to forsake the mundane world and follow the path of the Shadowhunter? Will you take into yourself the blood of the Angel Raziel and honor that blood? Do you swear to serve the Clave, to follow the Law as set forth by the Covenant, and to obey the word of the Council? Will you defend that which is human and mortal, knowing that for your service there will be no recompense and no thanks but honor?”

“I swear,” said Sophie, her voice very steady.

“Can you be a shield for the weak, a light in the dark, a truth among falsehoods, a tower in the flood, an eye to see when all others are blind?”

“I can.”

“And when you are dead, will you give up your body to the Nephilim to be burned, that your ashes may be used to build the City of Bones?”

“I will.”

“Then drink,” said Charlotte. Tessa heard Gideon draw in his breath. This was the dangerous part of the ritual. This was the part that could kill the untrained or unworthy.

Sophie bent her dark head and set the Cup to her lips. Tessa sat forward, her chest tight with apprehension. She felt Will’s hand slide over hers, a warm, comforting weight. Sophie’s throat moved as she swallowed.

The circle that surrounded her and Charlotte flared up once with a cold, blue-white light, obscuring them both. When it faded, Tessa was left blinking stars from her eyes as the light dwindled. She blinked hastily, and saw Sophie hold up the Cup. There was a glow about the Cup she held as she handed it back to Charlotte, who smiled broadly.

“You are Nephilim now,” she said. “I name you Sophia Shadowhunter, of the blood of Jonathan Shadowhunter, child of the Nephilim. Arise, Sophia.”

And Sophie rose, amid the cheering of the crowd, Gideon’s cheers the loudest among many. Sophie was smiling, her whole face shining in the winter sunlight that gleamed down through the clear skylight. Shadows moved across the floor, darting and quick. Tessa looked up in wonder—whiteness streaked the windows, swirling gently beyond the glass.

“Snow,” Will said softly in her ear. “Merry Christmas, Tessa.”

That night was the night of the Enclave’s annual Christmas party. It was the first time Tessa had seen the great ballroom at the Institute thrown open and filled with people. The enormous windows glowed with reflected light, casting a golden sheen across the polished floor. Beyond the dark glass, one could see the snow falling, in great soft white flakes, but inside the Institute all was warm and golden and secure.

Christmas among Shadowhunters was not Christmas as Tessa had come to know it. There were no advent wreaths, no carols sung, no Christmas crackers. There was a tree, though it was not decorated in the traditional fashion. A massive fir, it rose to nearly touch the ceiling at the far end of the ballroom. (When Will asked Charlotte how on earth it had gotten in there, she had only waved her hands and said something about Magnus.) Candles balanced on each branch, though Tessa could not see how they were fastened or supported. They cast even more golden light over the room.

Tied to the branches of the tree—and dangling from sconces, from the candelabras on tables, the knobs of doors—were crystalline glittering runes, each one as clear as glass yet refracting light, throwing glimmering rainbows through the room. The walls were decorated with intertwined wreaths of holly and ivy, the red berries glowing against the green leaves. Here and there were white-berried sprigs of mistletoe. There was even one tied to the collar of Church, who was hovering under one of the Christmas tables and looking furious.

Tessa didn’t think she had ever seen so much food. The tables were laden with carved chicken and turkey, game birds and hare, Christmas hams and pies, wafer-thin sandwiches, ices and trifles and blancmanges and cream puddings, jewel-colored jellies, tipsy-cake and Christmas puddings flamed with brandy, iced sherbet, mulled wine and great silver bowls containing Bishop Christmas punch. There were horns of plenty spilling treats and candies, and Saint Nicholas’s bags, each containing a lump of coal, a bit of sugar, or a lemon drop, to tell the receiver whether their behavior that year had been mischievous, sweet, or sour. There had been tea and presents earlier just for the inhabitants of the Institute, the group of them exchanging their gifts before the guests arrived—Charlotte, balanced on Henry’s lap as he sat in his rolling chair, opening gift after gift for the baby due to arrive in April. (Whose name, it had been decided, was going to be Charles. “Charles Fairchild,” Charlotte had said proudly, holding up the small blanket that Sophie had knitted for her, with a neat C.F. in the corner.)

“Charles Buford Fairchild,” Henry had corrected.

Charlotte had made a face. Tessa, laughing, had asked, “Fairchild? Not Branwell?”

Charlotte had given a shy smile. “I am the Consul. It has been decided that in this case the child will take my name. Henry doesn’t mind, do you, Henry?”

“Not at all,” Henry had said. “Especially as Charles Buford Branwell would have sounded rather silly, but Charles Buford Fairchild has an excellent ring to it.”

“Henry …”

Tessa smiled now at the memory. She was standing near the Christmas tree, watching the members of the Enclave in all their finery—women in the deep jewel tones of winter, dresses of red satin and sapphire silk and gold taffeta, men in elegant evening dress—as they milled and laughed. Sophie stood with Gideon, glowing and relaxed in an elegant green velvet gown; there was Cecily in blue, dashing here and there, delighted to be looking at everything, and Gabriel following her, all long limbs and tousled hair and adoring amusement. A massive Yule log, wound round with wreaths of ivy and holly, burned in the enormous stone fireplace, and hanging above the fireplace were nets containing golden apples, walnuts, colored popcorn, and candies. There was music, too, soft and haunting, and Charlotte seemed finally to have found a use for Bridget’s singing, for it rose above the sound of the instruments, lilting and sweet.

“Alas, my love, ye do me wrong

To cast me off discourteously.

And I have loved you so long,

Delighting in your company.

Greensleeves was all my joy;

Greensleeves was my delight;

Greensleeves was my heart of gold,

And who but Lady Greensleeves?”

“‘Let the sky rain potatoes,’” said a musing voice. “‘Let it thunder to the tune of Greensleeves.’”

Tessa started and turned. Will had appeared somehow at her elbow, which was vexing, as she had been looking for him since she had come into the room and had seen no sign of him. As always, the sight of him in evening dress—all blue and black and white—took her breath away, but she hid the hitch in her chest with a smile. “Shakespeare,” she said. “The Merry Wives of Windsor.”

“Not one of the better plays,” Will said, narrowing his blue eyes as he took her in. Tessa had chosen to wear rose-colored silk that night, and no jewelry save a velvet ribbon, wrapped twice about her throat and hanging down her back. Sophie had done her hair—as a favor, now, not as a lady’s maid—and woven small white berries in among the upswept curls. Tessa felt very fancy, and conspicuous. “Though it has its moments.”

“Always a literary critic,” Tessa sighed, gazing away from him, across the room, to where Charlotte was in conversation with a tall, fair-haired man Tessa did not recognize.

Will leaned in toward her. He smelled faintly of something green and wintry, fir or lime or cypress. “Those are mistletoe berries in your hair,” he said, his breath ghosting across her cheek. “Technically, I believe that means anyone can kiss you at any time.”

She widened her eyes at him. “Do you think they’re likely to try?”

He touched her cheek lightly; he was wearing white chamois gloves, but she felt it as if it were his skin on hers. “I’d kill anyone who did.”

“Well,” Tessa said. “It wouldn’t be the first time you did something scandalous at Christmas.”

Will paused for a moment and then grinned, that rare grin of his that lit up his face and changed the whole nature of it. It was a smile Tessa had worried once was gone forever, gone with Jem down into the darkness of the Silent City. Jem was not dead, but some bit of Will had gone with him when he’d left, some bit chiseled out of Will’s heart and buried down there among the whispering bones. And Tessa had worried, for that first week just after, that Will would not recover, that he would always be a sort of ghost, wandering about the Institute, not eating, always turning to speak to someone who was not there, the light in his face dying as he remembered and fell silent.

But she had been determined. Her own heart had been broken, but to mend Will’s, she was sure, would mean to mend her own somehow. As soon as she’d been strong enough, she had set herself to bring him tea he did not want, and books that he did, and harried him, in and out of the library, and demanded his help with training. She told Charlotte to stop treating him like glass that would break and to send him out into the city to fight, as he had been sent before, with Gabriel or Gideon instead of Jem. And Charlotte had done it, uneasily, but Will had come back from them bloody and bruised, but with his eyes alive and alight.

“That was clever,” Cecily had said to her later, as they’d stood by the window, watching Will and Gabriel talking in the courtyard. “Being Nephilim gives my brother a purpose. Shadowhunting will mend the cracks in him. Shadowhunting, and you.”

Tessa had let the curtain fall closed, thoughtfully. She and Will had not spoken of what had happened in Cadair Idris, the night they had spent together. Indeed, it seemed as distant as a dream. It was like something that had happened to another person, not her, not Tessa. She did not know if Will felt the same way. She knew Jem had known, or guessed, and forgave them both, but Will had not approached her again, not said he loved her, not asked if she loved him since the day Jem had left.

It seemed that endless ages went by, though it was only about a fortnight, before Will came and found her alone in the library, and asked her—rather abruptly—if she would go for a carriage ride with him the next day. Puzzled, Tessa had agreed, privately wondering if there was some other reason he wanted her company. A mystery to investigate? A confession to make?

But no, it had been a simple carriage ride through the park. The weather had been growing colder, and ice was riming the edges of the ponds. The bare branches of the trees were bleak and lovely, and Will made polite conversation with her about the weather and city landmarks. He seemed determined to take up where Jem had left off her London education. They went to the British Museum and the National Gallery, to Kew Gardens and to Saint Paul’s Cathedral, where Tessa finally lost her temper.

They had been standing in the famous Whispering Gallery, Tessa leaning on the railing and gazing down into the cathedral below. Will was translating the Latin inscription on the wall of the crypt where Christopher Wren was buried—“if you seek his monument, look about you”—when Tessa absently reached to slip her hand into his. He immediately drew back, flushing.

She looked at him in surprise. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” he said, too quickly. “I simply—I did not bring you here that I might maul you in the Whispering Gallery.”

Tessa exploded. “I am not asking you to maul me in the Whispering Gallery! But by the Angel, Will, would you stop being so polite?”

He looked at her in amazement. “But wouldn’t you rather—”

“I would not rather. I don’t want you to be polite! I want you to be Will! I don’t want you to indicate points of architectural interest to me as if you were a Baedeker guide! I want you to say dreadfully mad, funny things and make up songs and be—” The Will I fell in love with, she almost said. “And be Will,” she finished instead. “Or I shall hit you with my umbrella.”

“I am trying to court you,” Will said in exasperation. “Court you properly. That’s what all this has been about. You know that, don’t you?”

“Mr. Rochester never courted Jane Eyre,” Tessa pointed out.

“No, he dressed up as a woman and terrified the poor girl out of her wits. Is that what you want?”

“You would make a very ugly woman.”

“I would not. I would be stunning.”

Tessa laughed. “There,” she said. “There is Will. Isn’t that better? Don’t you think so?”

“I don’t know,” Will said, eyeing her. “I’m afraid to answer that. I’ve heard that when I speak, it makes American women wish to strike me with umbrellas.”

Tessa laughed again, and then they were both laughing, their smothered giggles bouncing off the walls of the Whispering Gallery. After that, things were decidedly easier between them, and Will’s smile when he helped her down from the carriage on their return was bright and real.

That night there had been a soft tap on Tessa’s door, and when she had gone to open it, she had found nobody there, only a book resting on the corridor floor. A Tale of Two Cities. An odd present, she had thought. There was a copy of the book in the library, which she could read as often as she wanted, but this one was brand-new, with a receipt from Hatchards marking the title page. It was only when she took it to bed with her that she realized that there was an inscription on the title page as well.

Tess, Tess, Tessa.

Was there ever a more beautiful sound than your name? To speak it aloud makes my heart ring like a bell. Strange to imagine that, isn’t it—a heart ringing? But when you touch me, that is what it is like, as if my heart is ringing in my chest and the sound shivers down my veins and splinters my bones with joy.

Why have I written these words in this book? Because of you. You taught me to love this book, where I had scorned it. When I read it for the second time, with an open mind and heart, I felt the most complete despair and envy of Sydney Carton—yes, Sydney, for even if he had no hope that the woman he loved would love him, at least he could tell her of his love. At least he could do something to prove his passion, even if that thing was to die.

I would have chosen death for a chance to tell you the truth, Tessa, if I could have been assured that death would be my own. And that is why I envied Sydney, for he was free.

And now at last I am free, and I can finally tell you, without fear of danger to you, all that I feel in my heart.

You are not the last dream of my soul.

You are the first dream, the only dream I ever was unable to stop myself from dreaming. You are the first dream of my soul, and from that dream I hope will come all other dreams, a lifetime’s worth.

With hope at last,

Will Herondale

She had sat up for a long time after that, holding the book without reading it, watching the dawn come up over London. In the morning she had fairly flown to get dressed, before she’d seized up the book and dashed downstairs with it. She caught Will coming out of his bedroom, hair still damp from the pitcher, and hurled herself at him, catching his lapels and pulling him to her, burying her face in his chest. The book thumped to the floor between him as he reached to hold her, smoothing her hair down her back, whispering softly, “Tessa, what is it, what’s wrong? Did you not like—”

“No one has ever written me anything so beautiful,” she said, her face pressed against his chest, the soft beat of his heart steady beneath his shirt and jacket. “Not ever.”

“I wrote it just after I discovered the curse was false,” Will said. “I had meant to give it to you then, but—” His hand tightened in her hair. “When I found out you were engaged to Jem, I put it away. I did not know when I could, when I should, give it to you. And then yesterday, when you wanted me to be myself, I had hope enough to take out those old dreams again, to dust them off and give them to you.”

They went to the park that day, though it was as cold as it was bright, and there were not many people about. The Serpentine was bright under the wintry sun, and Will pointed out the place where he and Jem had fed poultry pies to the mallards. It was the first time she saw him smile while talking about Jem.

She knew she could not be Jem for Will. No one could. But slowly the hollow places in his heart were filling in. Having Cecily about was a joy for Will; Tessa could see that when they sat together before the fire, speaking Welsh softly, and his eyes glowed; he had even grown to like Gabriel and Gideon, and they were friends for him, though no one could be a friend as Jem had been. And of course, Charlotte’s and Henry’s love was as steadfast as ever. The wound would never go away, Tessa knew, not for herself and not for Will, either, but as the weather grew colder and Will smiled more and ate more regularly and the haunted look faded from his eyes, she began to breathe more easily, knowing that look was not a mortal one.

“Hmm,” he said now, rocking back on his heels slightly as he surveyed the ballroom floor. “You may be right. I think it was round about Christmas when I got my Welsh dragon tattoo.”

At that, Tessa had to try very hard not to blush. “How did that happen?”

Will made an airy gesture with his hand. “I was drunk …”

“Nonsense. You were never really drunk.”

“On the contrary—in order to learn how to pretend to be inebriated, one must become inebriated at least once, as a reference point. Six-Fingered Nigel had been at the mulled cider—”

“You can’t mean there’s truly a Six-Fingered Nigel?”

“Of course there is—,” Will began with a grin, which suddenly faded; he was looking past Tessa, out at the ballroom. She turned to follow his gaze and saw the same tall, fair-haired man who had been talking to Charlotte earlier shouldering his way through the crowd toward them.

He was stocky, perhaps in his late thirties, with a scar that ran along his jaw. Tousled, fairish hair, and blue eyes, and skin tanned by the sun. It looked even darker against his starched white shirtfront. There was something familiar about him, something that teased at the edges of Tessa’s memories.

He came to a stop in front of them. His eyes flicked to Will. They were a paler blue than Will’s, almost the color of cornflowers. The skin around them was tanned and lined with faint crow’s-feet. He said, “You are William Herondale?”

Will nodded without speaking.

“I am Elias Carstairs,” the man said. “Jem Carstairs was my nephew.”

Will turned white, and Tessa realized what it was about the man that seemed familiar—there was something about him, something about the way he carried himself and the shape of his hands, that reminded her of Jem. Since Will seemed unable to speak, Tessa said:

“Yes, this is Will Herondale. And I am Theresa Gray.”

“The shape-changer girl,” said the man—Elias, Tessa reminded herself; Shadowhunters used each other’s given names. “You were engaged to James before he became a Silent Brother.”

“I was,” Tessa said quietly. “I love him very much.”

He gave her a look—not hostile or challenging, only curious. Then he turned his gaze to Will. “You were his parabatai?”

Will found his voice. “I am still,” he said, and set his jaw stubbornly.

“James spoke of you,” said Elias. “After I left China, when I returned to Idris, I asked if he would come and live with me. We had sent him away from Shanghai, considering it unsafe for him there while Yanluo’s minions ran free, still seeking vengeance. But when I asked him if he would come to me in Idris, he said no, he could not. I asked him to reconsider. Told him I was his family, his blood. But he said he could not leave his parabatai, that there were some things more important than blood.” Elias’s light blue eyes were steady. “I have brought you a gift, Will Herondale. Something I intended to give to him, when he was of age, because his father no longer lived to give it to him. But I cannot give it to him now.”

Will was tense all over, a bowstring strung too tight. He said: “I have not done anything to deserve a gift.”

“I think you have.” Elias drew from the belt at his waist a short sword in an intricate scabbard. He held it out to Will, who, after a moment, took it. The scabbard was covered in intricate designs of leaves and runes, carefully worked, gleaming under the golden light. With a decisive gesture Will pulled the sword free and held it up in front of his face.

The hilt was covered with the same pattern of runes and leaves, but the blade itself was simple and bare, save for a line of words that ran down its center. Tessa leaned in to read the words upon the metal.

I am Cortana, of the same steel and temper as Joyeuse and Durendal.

“Joyeuse was Charlemagne’s sword,” said Will, his voice still stiff in that way that Tessa knew now meant that he was forcing down emotion. “Durendal was Roland’s. This sword is—it is of legend born.”

“Forged by the first Shadowhunter weapons maker, Wayland the Smith. It has a feather from the wing of the Angel in its hilt,” said Elias. “It has been in the Carstairs family for hundreds of years. I was instructed by Jem’s father to give it to him when he reached eighteen. But the Silent Brothers cannot accept gifts.” He looked at Will. “You were his parabatai. You should have it.”

Will slammed the sword back into its scabbard. “I cannot take it. I will not.”

Elias looked stunned. “But you must,” he said. “You were his parabatai, and he loved you—”

Will held the sword back out toward Elias Carstairs, hilt-first. After a moment Elias took it, and Will turned and walked away, vanishing into the crowd.

Elias looked after him in bewilderment. “I did not intend to cause offense.”

“You spoke of Jem in the past tense,” said Tessa. “Jem is not with us, but he is not dead. Will—he cannot bear that Jem be thought of as lost, or forgotten.”

“I did not mean to forget him,” said Elias. “I meant simply that the Silent Brothers do not have emotions like we do. They do not feel as we do. If they love—”

“Jem still loves Will,” Tessa said. “Whether he is a Silent Brother or not. There are things no magic can destroy, for they are magic in themselves. You never saw them together, but I did.”

“I meant to give him Cortana,” Elias said. “I cannot give it to James, so I thought his parabatai ought to have it.”

“You mean well,” Tessa said. “But, forgive my impertinence, Mr. Carstairs—do you never mean to have any children of your own?”

His eyes widened. “I had not thought—”

Tessa looked at the shimmering blade, and then at the man holding it. She could see Jem in him a little, as if she were looking at the reflection of what she loved in rippling water. That love, remembered and present, made her voice gentle when she spoke. “If you are not sure,” she said, “then keep it. Keep it for your own heirs. Will would prefer that. For he does not need a sword to remember Jem by. However illustrious its lineage.”

It was cold on the Institute steps, cold where Will stood without a coat or hat, looking out into the frost-dusted night. The wind blew tiny drifts of snow against his cheeks, his bare hands, and he heard, as he always did, Jem’s voice in the back of his head, telling him not to be ridiculous, to get back inside before he gave himself the flu.

Winter had always seemed the purest season to Will—even the smoke and dirt of London caught by the chill, frozen hard and clean. That morning he had broken a layer of ice that had formed on his water jug, before splashing the icy fluid onto his face and shivering as he looked in the mirror, his wet hair painting his face in black stripes. First Christmas morning without Jem in six years. The purest cold, bringing the purest pain.

“Will.” The voice was a whisper, of a very familiar kind. He turned his head, an image of Old Molly rising in his mind—but ghosts so rarely strayed from where they had died or were buried, and besides, what would she want with him now?

A gaze met his, level and dark. The rest of her was not so much transparent as edged by silver: the blond hair, the doll-pretty face, the white gown she had died in. Blood, red like a flower, on her chest.

“Jessamine,” he said.

“Merry Christmas, Will.”

His heart, which had stopped for a moment, began to beat again, the blood running fast in his veins. “Jessamine, why—what are you doing here?”

She pouted a little. “I am here because I died here,” she said, her voice growing in strength. It was not unusual for a ghost to achieve a greater solidity and auditory power when they were close to a human, especially one who could hear them. She indicated the courtyard at their feet, where Will had held her in her dying moments, her blood running onto the flagstones. “Are you not pleased to see me, Will?”

“Should I be?” he said. “Jessie, usually when I see ghosts, it is because there is some unfinished business or some sorrow that holds them to this world.”

She raised her head, looking up at the snow. Though it fell all around her, she was as untouched by it as if she stood under glass. “And if I had a sorrow, would you help me cure it? You never cared for me much in life.”

“I did,” Will said. “And I am truly sorry if I gave the impression that I cared nothing for you, or hated you, Jessamine. I think you reminded me more of myself than I wished to admit, and therefore I judged you with the same harshness I would have judged myself.”

At that, she did look at him. “Why, was that straightforward honesty, Will? How you have changed.” She took a step back, and he saw that her feet made no impression in the dusting of snow on the steps. “I am here because in life I did not wish to be a Shadowhunter, to guard the Nephilim. I am charged now with the guard of the Institute, for as long as it needs guarding.”

“And you do not mind?” he asked. “Being here, with us, when you could have passed over …”

She wrinkled her nose. “I did not care to pass over. So much was demanded of me in life, the Angel knows what it might be like afterward. No, I am happy here, watching you all, quiet and drifting and unseen.” Her silvery hair shone in the moonlight as she inclined her head toward him. “Though you are near to driving me mad.”

“I?”

“Indeed. I always said you would be a dreadful suitor, Will, and you are nigh on proving it.”

“Truly?” Will said. “You have come back from death like the ghost of Old Marley, but to nag me about my romantic prospects?”

“What prospects? You’ve taken Tessa on so many carriage rides, I’d wager she could draw a map of London from memory, but have you proposed to her? You have not. A lady cannot propose to herself, William, and she cannot tell you she loves you if you do not state your intentions!”

Will shook his head. “Jessamine, you are incorrigible.”

“I am also right,” she pointed out. “What is it you are afraid of?”

“That if I do state my intentions, she will say she does not love me back, not the way she loved Jem.”

“She will not love you as she loved Jem. She will love you as she loves you, Will, an entirely different person. Do you wish she had not loved Jem?”

“No, but neither do I wish to marry someone who does not love me.”

“You must ask her to find that out,” said Jessamine. “Life is full of risks. Death is much simpler.”

“Why have I not seen you before tonight, when you have been here all this time?” he asked.

“I cannot enter the Institute yet, and when you are out in the courtyard, you are always with someone else. I have tried to go through the doors, but a sort of force prevents me. It is better than it was. At first I could go only a few steps. Now I am as you see me.” She indicated her position on the stairs. “One day I shall be able to go inside.”

“And when you do, you shall find that your room is as it ever was, and your dolls as well,” said Will.

Jessamine smiled a smile that made Will wonder if she had always been so sad, or if death had changed her more than he had thought ghosts could be changed. Before he could speak again, though, a look of alarm crossed her face, and she vanished within a swirl of snow.

Will turned to see what had frightened her off. The doors of the Institute had opened, and Magnus had emerged. He wore an astrakhan wool greatcoat, and his tall silk hat was already being spotted by the falling snowflakes.

“I should have known I’d find you out here, doing your best to turn yourself into an icicle,” Magnus said, descending the steps until he stood beside Will, looking out at the courtyard.

Will did not feel like mentioning Jessamine. Somehow he thought she would not have wanted him to. “Were you leaving the party? Or just looking for me?”

“Both,” Magnus said, pulling on a pair of white gloves. “In fact, I am leaving London.”

“Leaving London?” Will said in dismay. “You can’t mean that.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Magnus flicked a finger at an errant snowflake. It sparked blue and vanished. “I am not a Londoner, Will. I have been stopping with Woolsey for some time, but his home is not my home, and Woolsey and I wear out each other’s company after not much duration.”

“Where will you go?”

“New York. The New World! A new life, a new continent.” Magnus threw his hands up. “I may even take your cat with me. Charlotte says he has been mourning since Jem left.”

“Well, he bites everyone. You’re welcome to him. Do you think he’ll like New York?”

“Who knows? We will find out together. The unexpected is what keeps me from stagnating.”

“Those of us who do not live forever do not like change perhaps as much as those of you who do. I am tired of losing people,” Will said.

“So am I,” Magnus said. “But it is as I said, isn’t it? You learn to bear it.”

“I have heard sometimes that men who lose an arm or a leg still feel the pain in those limbs, though they are gone,” said Will. “It is like that sometimes. I can feel Jem with me, though he is gone, and it is like I am missing a part of myself.”

“But you are not,” Magnus said. “He is not dead, Will. He lives because you let him go. He would have stayed with you and died, if you had asked it, but you loved him enough to prefer that he live, even if that life is separate from yours. And that above all things proves that you are not Sydney Carton, Will, that yours is not the kind of love that can be redeemed only through destruction. It is what I saw in you, what I have always seen in you, what made me want to help you. That you are not despairing. That you have in you an infinite capacity for joy.” He put one gloved hand under Will’s chin and lifted Will’s face. There were not many people Will had to raise his head to look in the eye, but Magnus was one. “Bright star,” Magnus said, and his eyes were thoughtful, as if he were remembering something, or someone. “Those of you who are mortal, you burn so fiercely. And you fiercer than most, Will. I will not ever forget you.”

“Nor I you,” said Will. “I owe you a great deal. You broke my curse.”

“You were not cursed.”

“Yes, I was,” Will said. “I was. Thank you, Magnus, for all you did for me. If I did not say it before, I am saying it now. Thank you.”

Magnus dropped his hand. “I don’t think a Shadowhunter has ever thanked me before.”

Will smiled crookedly. “I would try not to become too accustomed to it. We are not a thankful sort.”

“No.” Magnus laughed. “No, I won’t.” His bright cat’s eyes narrowed. “I leave you in good hands, I think, Will Herondale.”

“You mean Tessa.”

“I do mean Tessa. Or do you deny that she holds your heart?” Magnus had begun to descend the stairs; he paused, and looked back at Will.

“I do not,” Will said. “But she will be sorry that you have left without saying good-bye to her.”

“Oh,” Magnus said, turning at the bottom of the steps, with a curious smile. “I don’t think that will be necessary. Tell her I will see her again.”

Will nodded. Magnus turned away, hands in the pockets of his coat, and began to walk toward the gates of the Institute. Will watched until his retreating figure faded into the whiteness of the falling snow.

Tessa had slipped out of the ballroom without anyone noticing. Even the usually keen-eyed Charlotte was distracted, sitting beside Henry in his wheeled chair, her hand in his, smiling at the antics of the musicians.

It did not take Tessa long to find Will. She had guessed where he would be, and she was correct—standing on the front steps of the Institute, without a coat or hat, letting the snow fall on his head and shoulders. There was a white dusting of it all over the courtyard, like icing sugar, frosting the line of carriages waiting there, the black iron gates, the flagstones upon which Jessamine had died. Will was staring intently ahead of him, as if trying to discern something through the descending flakes.

“Will,” Tessa said, and he turned to look up at her. She had caught up a silk wrap, but nothing heavier, and she felt the cool sting of snowflakes against the bare skin of her neck and shoulders.

“I should have been more polite to Elias Carstairs,” Will said by way of reply. He was looking up at the sky, where a pale crescent of moon darted in between thick sweeps of cloud and fog. Flakes of white snow had fallen and mixed with his black hair. His cheeks and lips were flushed with the cold. He looked more handsome than she had ever remembered him. “Instead I behaved as I would have—before.”

Tessa knew what he meant. For Will there was only one before and after.

“You are allowed to have a temper,” she said. “I have told you before, I do not want you to be perfect. Only to be Will.”

“Who will never be perfect.”

“Perfect is dull,” Tessa said, descending the last step to stand beside him. “They are playing ‘complete the poetic quotation’ inside now. You could have made quite a showing. I do not think there is anyone there who could challenge your knowledge of literature.”

“Other than you.”

“I would be difficult competition indeed. Perhaps we could make ourselves a team of sorts, and divide the winnings.”

“That seems bad form.” Will spoke absently, tilting back his head. The snow circled whitely about them, as if they stood at the bottom of a whirlpool. “Today, when Sophie Ascended …”

“Yes?”

“Is that something that you would have wanted?” He turned to look at her, white snowflakes caught in his dark lashes. “For yourself?”

“You know that isn’t possible for me, Will. I am a warlock. Or at least, that is the closest approximation of what I am. I cannot ever be fully Nephilim.”

“I know.” He looked down at his hands, opening his fingers to let snowflakes settle, melting, on his palms. “But in Cadair Idris you said that you had hoped to be a Shadowhunter—that Mortmain had dashed those hopes—”

“I did feel that way at the time,” she allowed. “But when I became Ithuriel—when I Changed and destroyed Mortmain—how could I hate something that allowed me to protect the ones I care about? It is not easy to be different, and even less so to be unique. But I begin to think I was never meant for an easy road.”

Will laughed. “The easy road? No, not for you, my Tessa.”

“Am I your Tessa?” She drew her wrap closer around herself, pretending her shiver was just the cold. “Are you bothered by what I am, Will? That I am not like you?”

The words hung between them, unspoken: There is no future for a Shadowhunter who dallies with warlocks.

Will paled. “Those things I said on the roof, so long ago—you know I did not mean them.”

“I know—”

“I do not wish you other than you are, Tessa. You are what you are, and I love you. I do not love just the parts of you that meet with the Clave’s approval—”

She raised her eyebrows. “You are willing to endure the rest?”

He raked a hand through his dark, snow-dampened hair. “No. I am misspeaking. There is nothing about you that I can imagine not loving. Do you really think it is so important to me that you be Nephilim? My mother isn’t a Shadowhunter. And when I saw you Change into the angel—when I saw you blaze forth with the fire of Heaven—it was glorious, Tess.” He took a step toward her. “What you are, what you can do, it is like some great miracle of the earth, like fire or wildflowers or the breadth of the sea. You are unique in the world, just as you are unique in my heart, and there will never be a time when I do not love you. I would love you if you were not in any part a Shadowhunter at all—”

She gave him a shaky smile. “But I am glad that I am, if only by half,” she said, “since it means that I may stay with you, here, in the Institute. That the family I have found here can remain my family. Charlotte said that if I chose, I could cease to be a Gray and take the name my mother should have had before she was married. I could be a Starkweather. I could have a true Shadowhunter name.”

She heard Will exhale a breath. It came out a puff of white in the cold. His eyes were blue and wide and clear, fixed on her face. He wore the expression of a man who had steeled himself to do a terrifying thing, and was carrying it through. “Of course you can have a true Shadowhunter name,” Will said. “You can have mine.”

Tessa stared at him, all black and white against the black-and-white snow and stone. “Your name?”

Will took a step toward her, till they stood face-to-face. Then he reached to take her hand and slid off her glove, which he put into his pocket. He held her bare hand in his, his fingers curved around hers. His hand was warm and callused, and his touch made her shiver. His eyes were steady and blue; they were everything Will was: true and tender, sharp and witty, loving and kind. “Marry me,” he said. “Marry me, Tess. Marry me and be Tessa Herondale. Or be Tessa Gray, or be whatever you wish to call yourself, but marry me and stay with me and never leave me, for I cannot bear another day of my life to go by that does not have you in it.”

The snow was swirling down around them, white and cold and perfect. The clouds above had parted, and through the gaps she could see the stars.

“Jem told me what Ragnor Fell said about my father,” Will went on. “That for my father there was only ever one woman he loved, and it was her for him, or nothing. You are that for me. I love you, and I will only ever love you until I die—”

“Will!”

He bit his lip. His hair was thick with snow, his lashes starred with flakes. “Was that too grand a statement? Did I frighten you? You know how I am with words—”

“Oh, I do.”

“I recall what you said to me once,” Will went on. “That words have the power to change us. Your words have changed me, Tess; they have made me a better man than I would have been otherwise. Life is a book, and there are a thousand pages I have not yet read. I would read them together with you, as many as I can, before I die—”

She put her hand against his chest, just over his heart, and felt its beat against her palm, a unique time signature that was all its own. “I only wish you would not speak of dying,” she said. “But even for that, yes, I know how you are with your words, and, Will—I love all of them. Every word you say. The silly ones, the mad ones, the beautiful ones, and the ones that are only for me. I love them, and I love you.”

Will began to speak, but Tessa covered his mouth with her hand.

“I love your words, my Will, but hold them for a moment,” she said, and smiled into his eyes. “Think of all the words I have held inside all this time, while I did not know your intentions. When you came to me in the drawing room and told me that you loved me, it was the hardest thing I have ever done to send you away. You said you loved the words of my heart, the shape of my soul. I remember. I remember every word you said from that day to this. I will never forget them. There are so many words I wish to say to you, and so many I wish to hear you say to me. I hope we have all our lives to say them to each other.”

“Then you will marry me?” Will said, looking dazed, as if he did not quite believe in his good fortune.

“Yes,” she said—the last, the simplest, and most important word of all.

And Will, who had words for every occasion, opened his mouth and closed it on silence, and instead reached for her to pull her against him. Her wrap fell onto the stairs, but his arms were warm around her, and his mouth hot against hers as he slanted his head down to kiss her. He tasted like snowflakes and wine, like winter and Will and London. His mouth was soft against hers, his hands in her hair, scattering white berries across the stone steps. Tessa held fast to Will as the snow swirled around them. Through the windows of the Institute, she could hear the faint sound of the music playing in the ballroom: the pianoforte, the cello, and rising above it all, like sparks leaping toward the sky, the sweet, celebratory strains of the violin.

“I can’t believe we’re really going home,” Cecily said. Her hands were clasped in front of her, and she was bouncing up and down in her white kid boots. She was bundled into a red winter coat, the brightest thing in the dark crypt except the Portal itself, great and silver and shining against the far wall.

Through it Tessa could catch a glimpse, like a glimpse in a dream, of blue sky (the sky outside the Institute was a spitting London gray) and snow-dusted hills. Will stood beside her, his shoulder brushing hers. He looked pale and nervous, and she longed to take his hand. “We’re not going home, Cecy,” he said. “Not to stay. We’re visiting. I wish to introduce our parents to my fiancée”—and at that his pallor faded slightly, his lips curving into a smile—“that they might know the girl I am going to marry.”

“Oh, pish tosh,” said Cecily. “We can use the Portal to see them whenever we want! Charlotte is the Consul, so we cannot possibly get in trouble.”

Charlotte groaned. “Cecily, this is a singular expedition. It is not a toy. You cannot simply use the Portal whenever you like, and this excursion must be kept a secret. None but we here can know you visited your parents, that I allowed you to break the Law!”

“I won’t tell anyone!” Cecily protested. “And neither will Gabriel.” She glanced at the boy at her side. “You won’t, will you?”

“Why are we bringing him along, again?” Will inquired, of the world in general as well as his sister.

Cecily put her hands on her hips. “Why are you bringing Tessa?”

“Because Tessa and I are going to be married,” Will said, and Tessa smiled; the way that Will’s little sister could ruffle his feathers like no one else was still amusing to her.

“Well, Gabriel and I might well be married,” Cecily said. “Someday.”

Gabriel made a choking noise, and turned an alarming shade of purple.

Will threw up his hands. “You can’t be married, Cecily! You’re only fifteen! When I get married, I’ll be eighteen! An adult!”

Cecily did not look impressed. “We may have a long engagement,” she said. “But I cannot see why you are counseling me to marry a man my parents have never met.”

Will sputtered. “I am not counseling you to marry a man your parents have never met!”

“Then we are in agreement. Gabriel must meet Mam and Dad.” Cecily turned to Henry. “Is the Portal ready?”

Tessa leaned close to Will. “I do love the way she manages you,” she whispered. “It is quite entertaining to watch.”

“Wait until you meet my mother,” Will said, and slipped his hand into hers. His fingers were cold; his heart must have been racing. Tessa knew he had been up all night. The idea of seeing his parents after so many years was as terrifying to him as it was joyful. She knew that admixture of hope and fear, infinitely worse than just one alone.

“The Portal is quite ready,” said Henry. “And remember, in an hour I shall open it again, that you may return through it.”

“And understand that this is just this once,” Charlotte said anxiously. “Even if I am the Consul, I cannot allow you to visit your mundane family—”

“Not even at Christmas?” said Cecily, with large, tragic eyes.

Charlotte weakened visibly. “Well, perhaps Christmas …”

“And birthdays,” said Tessa. “Birthdays are special.”

Charlotte put her hands over her face. “Oh, by the Angel.”

Henry laughed, and swept an arm toward the door. “Go on through,” he said, and Cecily went first, vanishing through the Portal as if she had stepped through a waterfall. Gabriel followed, and then Will and Tessa, holding tightly to each other’s hands. Tessa concentrated on the warmth of Will’s hand, the pulse of blood through his skin, as the cold and darkness took them, whirling them about for breathless, ageless moments. Lights burst behind her eyes, and she emerged from the darkness suddenly, blinking and stumbling. Will caught her to him, keeping her from falling.

They were standing on the wide curved drive in front of Ravenscar Manor. Tessa had seen the place only from above, when she and Jem and Will had visited Yorkshire together, not realizing that Will’s family inhabited the house now. She recalled that the manor was held in the cup of a valley, with hills sweeping up on either side, covered in gorse and heather—patched now with a dusting of snow. The trees had been green then; they were leafless now, and from the dark slate roof of the manor hung sparkling icicles.

The door was dark oak, a heavy brass knocker set in the center. Will looked at his sister, who nodded minutely at him, then squared his shoulders and reached to lift and release it. The resultant crash seemed to echo through the valley, and Will swore under his breath.

Tessa touched his wrist lightly with her hand. “Be brave,” she said. “It’s not a duck, is it?”

He turned to smile at her, dark hair falling in his eyes, just as the door opened to reveal a neatly dressed parlor maid in a black dress and white mobcap. She took one look at the group on the doorstep, and her eyes widened like saucers.

“Miss Cecily,” she gasped, and then her eyes went to Will. She clapped a hand over her mouth, turned, and bolted back into the house.

“Oh, dear,” said Tessa.

“I have that effect on women,” Will said. “I probably should have warned you before you agreed to marry me.”

“I can still change my mind,” Tessa said sweetly.

“Don’t you dare—,” he began with a breathless half laugh, and then suddenly there were people at the door—a tall man, broad-shouldered, with a mass of fair hair streaked with gray, and light blue eyes. Just behind him was a woman: slender and startlingly beautiful, with Will and Cecily’s ink-black hair and blue eyes as dark as violets. She cried out the moment her gaze fell on Will, and her hands came up, fluttering like white birds startled by a gust of wind.

Tessa released Will’s hand. He seemed frozen, like a fox when the hounds were almost on him. “Go on,” Tessa said softly, and he stepped forward, and then his mother was embracing him, saying, “I knew you’d come back. I knew you would,” followed by a torrent of Welsh, of which Tessa could discern only Will’s name. Their father was stunned but smiling, holding out his arms for Cecily, who went into them as agreeably as Tessa had ever seen her do anything.

For the next few moments Tessa and Gabriel stood awkwardly on the doorstep, not quite looking at each other but not quite sure where else to look either. After a long moment Will drew away from his mother, patting her gently on the shoulder. She laughed, though her eyes were full of tears, and said something in Welsh that Tessa strongly suspected was a comment on the fact that Will was now taller than she was.

“Little mother,” he said affectionately, confirming Tessa’s suspicions, and he swung around just as his mother’s gaze fell on Tessa, and then Gabriel, her eyes widening. “Mam and Dad, this is Theresa Gray. We are engaged to be married, next year.”

Will’s mother gave a gasp—though she sounded more surprised than anything else, to Tessa’s relief—and Will’s father’s gaze went immediately to Gabriel, and then to Cecily, his eyes narrowing. “And who is the gentleman?”

Will’s grin widened. “Oh, him,” he said. “This is Cecily’s—friend, Mr. Gabriel Lightworm.”

Gabriel, half in the act of stretching out his hand to greet Mr. Herondale, froze in horror. “Lightwood,” he sputtered. “Gabriel Lightwood—”

“Will!” Cecily said, breaking away from her father to glare at her brother.

Will looked at Tessa, his blue eyes shining. She opened her mouth to remonstrate with him, to say Will! as Cecily had just done, but it was too late—she was already laughing.