Clockwork Princess

7 DARE TO WISH

To: Consul Wayland

From: Gabriel and Gideon Lightwood

Dear Sir,

We are most thankful that you have assigned us the task of monitoring Mrs. Branwell’s behavior. Women, as we know, need to be closely watched so they do not go astray. We are grieved to announce that we have shocking tidings to report.

A woman’s management of her household is her most important duty, and one of the most important womanly virtues is frugality. Mrs. Branwell, however, seems addicted to expenditure and cares for nothing save vulgar display.

Though she may be dressed plainly when you pay a visit, we are saddened to report that in her leisure hours she bedecks herself with the finest silks and the most costly jewels imaginable. You asked us to, and loath though we were to invade a lady’s privacy, we did so. We would report the exact details of her letter to her modiste, but we fear you would be overcome. Suffice it to say, the money outlaid upon hats rivals the annual income of a large estate or a small country. We fail to see why one small woman needs so many hats. She is unlikely to be concealing additional heads upon her person.

We would be too gentlemanly to comment upon a lady’s attire, except for the deleterious effect it has on our duties. She skimps on household necessities to the most horrifying degree. Every night we sit down to a dinner of gruel as she sits at table dripping with gems and gewgaws. This is, you may conceive, hardly fighting fare for your valiant Shadowhunters. We are so weak that we were almost vanquished by a Behemoth demon last Tuesday, and of course those creatures are chiefly composed of a viscous substance. At our peak, and sustained with good victuals, either of us would be capable of crushing beneath our boot heels a dozen Behemoth demons at a time.

We very much hope that you will be able to render us assistance in this matter, and that Mrs. Branwell’s outlay upon hats—and other feminine articles of clothing that we hesitate in delicacy to name—will be checked.

Yours truly,

Gideon and Gabriel Lightwood

“What’s a gewgaw?” Gabriel asked, blinking owlishly down at the epistle he had just helped compose. Actually, Gideon had dictated most of it; Gabriel had merely moved the pen across the page. He was beginning to suspect that behind his brother’s dour facade lay an unsung comic genius.

Gideon waved a dismissive hand. “It doesn’t matter. Seal the envelope and let us give it to Cyril that it may go out with the morning post.”

It had been several days since the battle with the great worm, and Cecily was in the training room again. She was beginning to wonder if she should simply move her bed and other furnishing into this space, as she seemed to spend most of her time here. The bedroom Charlotte had given her was nearly bare of decoration or anything that might remind her of home. She had brought almost nothing personal with her from Wales, not expecting that she would be staying for a lengthy time.

Here at least in the weapons room she felt secure. Perhaps because there was no room like it where she had grown up; it was purely a Shadowhunter place. Nothing about it could possibly make her homesick. The walls were hung with dozens of weapons. Her first lesson with Will, when he had still been blazing with rage that she was there at all, had involved memorizing all their names and what they did. Katana blades from Japan, double-handed broadswords, thin-bladed misericords, morning stars and maces, curved Turkish blades, crossbows and slingshots and tiny pipes that blew poisoned needles. She remembered him spitting the words out as if they were poison.

Be as angry as you want, big brother, she had thought. I may pretend I wish to be a Shadowhunter now, because it gives you no choice but to keep me here. But I will show you that these people are not your family. I will bring you home.

She lifted a sword down from the wall now and balanced it carefully in her hands. Will had explained to her that the way to hold a two-handed sword was just below the rib cage, pointing straight out. Legs should be balanced with equal weight on them, and the sword should be swung from the shoulders, not the arms, to get the most force into a killing blow.

A killing blow. For so many years she had been angry at her brother for leaving them all to join the Shadowhunters in London, for giving himself up to what her mother had termed a life of mindless murder, of weapons and blood and death. What was so poor to him about the green mountains of Wales? What did their family lack? Why turn your back on the bluest of blue seas, for something as empty as all that?

And yet here she was, choosing to spend her time alone in the training room with the silent collection of weaponry. The weight of the sword in her hand was comforting, almost as if it served as a barrier between herself and her feelings.

She and Will had wandered all over the city a few nights before, from opium dens to gambling hells to ifrit haunts, a blur of color and scents and light. He had not been exactly friendly, but she knew that, for Will, allowing her to accompany him on such a sensitive errand had been a gesture indeed.

She had enjoyed their companionship that night. It had been like having her brother back. But as the evening had worn on, Will had become progressively more silent, and when they’d returned to the Institute, he had stalked away, clearly wishing to be alone, leaving Cecily with nothing to do but return to her room and lie awake staring at the ceiling until dawn came.

She had thought, somehow, when she had planned to come here, that the bonds that held him here could not be that strong. His attachment to these people could not be like his attachment to family. But as the night had gone on and she had seen his hope, and then his disappointment, at each new establishment when he’d asked after yin fen and there was none to be had, she had understood—oh, she had been told it before, had known it before, but that was not the same as understanding—that the ties that bound him here were as strong as any ties of blood.

She was tired now, and though she gripped the sword as Will had taught her—right hand below the guard, left hand on the pommel—it slipped from her grasp and tipped forward, burying itself point-down in the floor.

“Oh, dear,” said a voice from the doorway. “I’m afraid I could only give that effort a three. Four perhaps, if I were inclined to give you an extra point for practicing swordplay in an afternoon dress.”

Cecily, who indeed had not bothered to change into gear, flung her head back and glared at Gabriel Lightwood, who had appeared in the doorway like some sort of imp of the perverse. “Perhaps I am not interested in your opinion, sir.”

“Perhaps.” He took a step forward into the room. “The Angel knows your brother never has been.”

“In that we are united,” Cecily remarked, pulling the sword free of the floor.

“But not in much else.” Gabriel moved to stand behind her. They were both reflected in one of the training mirrors; Gabriel was a good head taller than her, and she could see his face clearly over her shoulder. He had one of those odd sharp-boned faces: handsome from some angles, and peculiarly interesting-looking from others. There was a small white scar on his chin, as if he had been nicked there by a thin blade. “Would you like me to show you how to properly hold the sword?”

“If you must.”

He did not reply but reached around her, adjusting her grip on the pommel. “You never want to hold your sword point-down,” he said. “Hold it like this—point out—so that if your opponent charges you, they will skewer themselves on your blade.”

Cecily adjusted her grip accordingly. Her mind was racing. She had thought of Shadowhunters as monsters for such a long time. Monsters who had kidnapped her brother, and she a heroine, riding up to rescue him even if he didn’t realize he needed rescuing. It had been strange and gradual, realizing how human they were. She could feel the warmth rising from Gabriel’s body, his breath stirring her hair, and oh, it was odd, to be conscious of so many things about someone else: the way they felt, the brush of their skin, the way they smelled—

“I saw the way you fought at Lightwood House,” Gabriel Lightwood murmured. His callused hand brushed down over her fingers, and Cecily fought back a small shiver.

“Badly?” she said, attempting a teasing tone.

“With passion. There are those who fight because it is their duty and those who fight because they love it. You love it.”

“I don’t—,” Cecily began, but she was interrupted as the training room door flew open with a loud bang.

It was Will, filling the doorway with his lanky, broad-shouldered frame. His blue eyes were thunderous. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

So much for the brief peace they had achieved the night before. “I am practicing,” Cecily said. “You told me I would get no better without practice.”

“Not you. Gabriel Lightworm over here.” Will jerked his chin toward the other boy. “Sorry. Lightwood.”

Gabriel slowly unhitched his arms from around Cecily. “Whoever has been tutoring your sister in swordplay has imparted many bad habits. I was merely endeavoring to help.”

“I told him it was all right,” Cecily said, having no idea why she was defending Gabriel, except that she suspected it would annoy Will.

It did. His eyes narrowed. “And did he tell you he has been looking for years for a way to get back at me for what he perceives as an insult to his sister? And what better way to do it than through you?”

Cecily whipped her head around to stare at Gabriel, who wore an expression of mixed annoyance and defiance. “Is that true?”

He did not reply to her but to Will. “If we are going to live in the same house, Herondale, then we shall have to learn to treat each other cordially. Don’t you agree?”

“As long as I can still break your arm as easily as look at you, I agree to no such thing.” Will reached up and plucked a rapier off the wall. “Now get out of here, Gabriel. And leave my sister alone.”

With a single scornful look, Gabriel pushed his way past Will and out of the room. “Was that absolutely necessary, Will?” Cecily demanded as soon as the door had shut behind him.

“I know Gabriel Lightwood and you do not. I suggest you leave it to me to be the best judge of his character. He wishes to use you to hurt me—”

“Really, you cannot imagine a motivation he might have that is not yourself?”

“I know him,” Will said again. “He has shown himself to be a liar and a traitor—”

“People change.”

“Not that much.”

“You have,” Cecily said, striding across the room and dropping her sword onto a bench with a clatter.

“So have you,” Will said, surprising her. She turned on him.

“I have changed? How have I changed?”

“When you came here,” he said, “you spoke over and over of getting me to come home with you. You disliked your training. You pretended otherwise, but I could tell. Then it ceased to be ‘Will, you must go home,’ and became ‘Write a letter, Will.’ And you began to enjoy your training. Gabriel Lightwood is a bounder, but he was right about one thing: You did enjoy fighting the great worm at Lightwood House. Shadowhunter blood is like gunpowder in your veins, Cecy. Once it is lit, it is not so easily extinguished. Remain much longer here, and there is every likelihood you will be like me—too entwined to leave.”

Cecily squinted at her brother. His shirt was open at the collar, showing something scarlet winking in the hollow of his throat. “Are you wearing a woman’s necklace, Will?”

Will put a hand to his neck with a startled look, but before he could respond, the door to the training room opened once more and Sophie stood there, an anxious expression upon her scarred face.

“Master Will, Miss Herondale,” she said. “I have been looking for you. Charlotte has requested that everyone come to the drawing room right away; it is a matter of some urgency.”

Cecily had always been something of a lonely child. It was difficult not to be when your elder siblings were dead or missing and there were no young people your age nearby whom your parents considered suitable companions. She had learned early to amuse herself with her own observations of people, unshared with others but kept close that she might take them out later and examine them when she was in solitude.

The habits of a lifetime were not broken quickly, and though Cecily was no longer lonely, since she had come to the Institute eight weeks ago, she had made its inhabitants the subject of her close study. They were Shadowhunters, after all—the enemy at first, and then, as that had become less and less her view, simply the subject of fascination.

She examined them now as she walked into the drawing room beside Will. First was Charlotte, seated behind her desk. Cecily had not known Charlotte long, and yet she knew that Charlotte was the sort of woman who kept her calm even under pressure. She was tiny but strong, a bit like Cecily’s own mother, although with less of a penchant for muttering in Welsh.

Then there was Henry. He might have been the first of them all to convince Cecily that though Shadowhunters were different, they were not dangerously alien. There was nothing frightening about Henry, all lanky legs and angles as he leaned against Charlotte’s desk.

Her eyes slid over Gideon Lightwood next, shorter and stockier than his brother—Gideon, whose green-gray eyes usually followed Sophie about the Institute like a hopeful puppy’s. She wondered if the others in the Institute had noticed his attachment to their maid, and what Sophie thought about it herself.

And then there was Gabriel. Cecily’s thoughts where he was concerned were jumbled and confused. His eyes were bright, his body tense as a coiled spring as he leaned against his brother’s armchair. On the dark velvet sofa just across from the Lightwoods sat Jem, with Tessa beside him. He had looked up as the door had opened and, as he always did, had seemed to glow a little brighter when he saw Will. It was a quality peculiar to both of them, and Cecily wondered if it was that way for all parabatai, or if they were a unique case. In either eventuality, it must be terrifying to be so intertwined with another person, especially when one of them was as fragile as Jem.

As she watched, Tessa laid her hand over Jem’s and said something quiet to him that made him smile. Tessa looked quickly to Will, but he only crossed the room as he always did to lean against the fireplace mantel. Cecily had never been able to decide if he did this because he was perpetually cold or because he thought he looked dashing standing before the leaping flames.

You must be ashamed of your brother—harboring illicit feelings for his parabatai’s fiancée, Will had said to her. If he had been anyone else, she would have told him there was no point keeping secrets. The truth would out, eventually. But in Will’s case, she was not sure. He had the skill of years of hiding and pretending on his side. He was a master actor. If it were not that she was his sister, if it were not that she saw his face at the moments when Jem was not looking, she did not think she would have guessed it either.

And then there was the awful truth that he would not need to hide his secret forever. He needed to hide it only as long as Jem lived. If James Carstairs were not so unrelentingly kind and well intentioned, Cecily thought, she might have hated him on her brother’s behalf. Not only was he marrying the girl Will loved, but when he himself died, she feared, Will would never recover. But you could not blame someone for dying. For leaving on purpose, perhaps, as her brother had left her and her parents, but not for dying, the power over which was surely beyond the grasp of any mortal human.

“I’m glad you’re all here,” Charlotte said in a strained voice that snapped Cecily out of her brown study. Charlotte was looking gravely down at a polished salver on her desk, on which was an opened letter and a small packet wrapped in waxed paper. “I have received a disturbing piece of correspondence. From the Magister.”

“From Mortmain?” Tessa leaned forward, and the clockwork angel she always wore around her neck swung free, glittering in the light from the fire. “He wrote to you?”

“Not to inquire about your health, one presumes,” said Will. “What does he want?”

Charlotte took a deep breath. “I will read you the letter.”

My Dear Mrs. Branwell,

Forgive me for troubling you at what must be a distressing time for your household. I was grieved, though I must confess not shocked, to hear of Mr. Carstairs’s grave indisposition.

I believe you are aware that I am the happy possessor of a large—I might say exclusively large—portion of the medicine that Mr. Carstairs requires for his continued well-being. Thus we find ourselves in a most interesting situation, which I am eager to resolve to the satisfaction of us both. I would be very glad to make an exchange: If you are willing to confide Miss Gray to my keeping, I will place a large portion of yin fen in yours.

I send a token of my goodwill. Pray let me know your decision by writing to me. If the correct sequence of numbers that are printed at the bottom of this letter, are spoken to my automaton, I am sure to receive it.

Yours sincerely,

Axel Mortmain

“That is all,” Charlotte said, folding the letter in half and placing it back on the salver. “There are instructions on how to summon the automaton to which he wishes us to give our answer, and there are the number he speaks of, but they give no clue as to his location.”

There was a shocked silence. Cecily, who had seated herself in a small flowered armchair, glanced at Will and saw him look away quickly as if to hide his expression. Jem paled, his face turning the color of old ash, and Tessa—Tessa sat very still, the light from the fire chasing shadows across her face.

“Mortmain wants me,” she said finally, breaking the silence. “In exchange for Jem’s yin fen.”

“It is ridiculous,” Jem said. “Untenable. The letter should be given to the Clave to see if they can discern anything about his location from it, but that is all.”

“They will not be able to discern anything about his location from it,” said Will quietly. “The Magister has proved himself over and over too clever for that.”

“This is not clever,” said Jem. “This is the crudest form of blackmail—”

“I do not disagree,” said Will. “I say we take the packet as a blessing, a handful more of yin fen that will help you, and we ignore the rest.”

“Mortmain wrote the letter about me,” Tessa said, interrupting them both. “The decision should be mine.” She angled her body toward Charlotte. “I will go.”

There was another dead silence. Charlotte looked ashen; Cecily could feel her own hands slippery with sweat where they twisted in her lap. The Lightwood brothers seemed desperately uncomfortable. Gabriel looked as if he wished he were anywhere else but there. Cecily could hardly blame them. The tension between Will, Jem, and Tessa felt like a powder keg that needed only a match to blow it to kingdom come.

“No,” Jem said finally, rising to his feet. “Tessa, you cannot.”

She followed his motion, rising as well. “I can. You are my fiancé. I cannot allow you to die when I might help you, and Mortmain does not mean me physical harm—”

“We do not know what he means! He cannot be trusted!” Will said suddenly, and then he put his head down, his hand gripping the mantel so hard that his fingers were white. Cecily could tell he was forcing himself to be silent.

“If it were you Mortmain wanted, Will, you would go,” said Tessa, looking at Cecily’s brother with a meaning in her eyes that brooked no contradiction. Will flinched at her words.

“No,” said Jem. “I would forbid him as well.”

Tessa turned to Jem with the first expression of anger toward him Cecily had ever seen on her face. “You cannot forbid me—any more than you could Will—”

“I can,” Jem said. “For a very simple reason. The drug is not a cure, Tessa. It only extends my living. I will not allow you to throw away your own life for a remnant of mine. If you go to Mortmain, it will be for nothing. I still won’t take the drug.”

Will lifted his head. “James—”

But Tessa and Jem were staring at each other, eyes locked. “You would not,” Tessa breathed. “You would not insult me by hurling a sacrifice I made for you back in my face like that.”

Jem strode across the room and seized the packet—and the letter—off Charlotte’s desk. “I would rather insult you than lose you,” he said, and before any of them could make a move to stop him, he cast both items into the fire.

The room erupted in shouts. Henry dashed forward, but Will had already dropped to his knees before the grate and thrust both his hands into the flames.

Cecily bolted out of her chair. “Will!” she shouted, and darted over to her brother. She seized him by the shoulders of his jacket and pulled him away from the fire. He tumbled backward, the still-burning packet falling from his hands. Gideon was there a moment later, stamping out the small flames with his feet, leaving a mess of burned paper and silvery powder on the rug.

Cecily stared into the grate. The letter with the instructions telling how to summon Mortmain’s automaton was gone, burned into ashes.

“Will,” Jem said. He looked sick. He fell to his knees next to Cecily, still holding her brother’s shoulders, and drew a stele from his jacket. Will’s hands were scarlet, livid white where blisters were already forming on the skin, and patched black with soot. His breath was hitching and harsh in Cecily’s ear—gasps of pain, the way he had sounded when he’d fallen off the roof of their house when he was nine and had shattered the bones in his left arm. “Byddwch yn iawn, Will,” she said as Jem put the stele to her brother’s forearm and drew quickly. “You’ll be all right.”

“Will,” Jem said, half under his breath. “Will, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. Will—”

Will’s hitching breaths were slowing as the iratze took effect, his skin paling back to its normal color. “There’s still some yin fen that can be preserved,” Will said, slumping back against Cecily. He smelled like smoke and iron. She could feel his heart pounding through his back. “It had better be gathered up before anything else—”

“Here.” It was Tessa, kneeling down; Cecily was dimly aware that all the others were standing, Charlotte with one hand over her mouth in shock. In Tessa’s right hand was a handkerchief, in which was perhaps half a handful of yin fen, all that Will had saved from the fire. “Take this,” she said, and put it in Jem’s free hand, the one that did not hold the stele. He looked as if he were about to speak to her, but she had already straightened up. Looking utterly shattered, Jem watched as she walked from the room.

“Oh, Will. Whatever are we going to do with you?”

Will sat, feeling rather incongruous in the flowered armchair in the drawing room, letting Charlotte, perched on a small stool before him, smear salve on his hands. They no longer hurt much, after three iratzes, and they had returned to their normal color, but Charlotte insisted on treating them anyway.

The others had gone, save for Cecily and Jem; Cecily sat beside him, perched on the arm of his chair, and Jem knelt on the burned rug, his stele still in his hands, not touching Will but close. They had refused to leave, even after the others had drifted away and Charlotte had sent Henry back to the cellar to work. There was nothing more to be done, after all. The instructions on how to contact Mortmain were gone, burned to ash, and there was no more decision to be made.

Charlotte had insisted that Will stay and have his hands salved, and Cecily and Jem had refused to leave him. And Will had to admit he liked it, liked having his sister there on the arm of his chair, liked the fiercely protective glares she shot at anyone who came near him, even Charlotte, sweet and harmless with her salve and her motherly clucking. And Jem, at his feet, leaning a bit against his chair, as he had so many times when Will was being bandaged up from fights or iratzed because of wounds he’d gotten in battle.

“Do you remember the time Meliorn tried to knock your teeth out for calling him a pointy-eared layabout?” Jem said. He had taken some of the yin fen Mortmain had sent, and there was color in his cheeks again.

Will smiled, despite everything; he couldn’t help it. It had been the one thing in the past few years that had made him feel fortunate: that he had someone in his life who knew him, knew what he was thinking before he said it out loud. “I would have knocked his teeth out in return,” he said, “but when I went to find him again, he had emigrated to America. To avoid my wrath, no doubt.”

“Hmph,” said Charlotte, the way she always did when she thought Will was getting above himself. “He had many enemies in London, to my understanding.”

“Dydw I ddim yn gwybod pwy yw unrhyw un o’r bobl yr ydych yn siarad amdano,” said Cecily plaintively.

“You may not know who we are talking about, but no one else knows what you are saying,” said Will, though his tone held no real reproof. He could hear the exhaustion in his own voice. The lack of sleep of the night before was taking its toll. “Speak English, Cecy.”

Charlotte rose, returned to her desk, and set the jar of salve down. Cecily tugged on a lock of Will’s hair. “Let me see your hands.”

He held them up. He remembered the fire, the white-hot agony of it, and more than anything else Tessa’s shocked face. He knew she would understand why he had done what he had done, why he had not thought twice about it, but the look in her eyes—as if her heart had broken for him.

He only wished that she were still here. It was good to be here with Jem and Cecily and Charlotte, to be surrounded by their affection, but without her there would always be something missing, a Tessa-shaped part chiseled out of his heart that he would never get back.

Cecily touched his fingers, which looked quite normal now, aside from the soot under his fingernails. “It is quite astonishing,” she said, then patted his hands lightly, careful not to smear the salve. “Will has always been prone to damaging himself,” she added, with fondness in her tone. “I cannot count the broken limbs he sustained when we were children—the scratches, the scars.”

Jem leaned closer against the chair, staring into the fire. “Better it were my hands,” he said.

Will shook his head. Exhaustion was muting the edges of everything in the room, blurring the flocked wallpaper into a single mass of dark color. “No. Not your hands. You need your hands for the violin. What do I need mine for?”

“I should have known what you would do,” Jem said in a low voice. “I always know what you will do. I should have known you would put your hands into the fire.”

“And I should have known you would throw that packet away,” said Will, without rancor. “It was—it was a madly noble thing to do. I understand why you did it.”

“I was thinking of Tessa.” Jem drew his knees up and rested his chin on them, then laughed softly. “Madly noble. Isn’t that meant to be your area of expertise? Suddenly I am the one who does ridiculous things and you tell me to stop?”

“God,” said Will. “When did we change places?”

The firelight played over Jem’s face and hair as he shook his head. “It is a very strange thing, to be in love,” he said. “It changes you.”

Will looked down at Jem, and what he felt, more than jealousy, more than anything else, was a wistful desire to commiserate with his best friend, to speak of the feelings he held in his heart. For were they not the same feelings? Did they not love the same way, the same person? But, “I wish you wouldn’t risk yourself,” was all he said.

Jem stood up. “I have always wished that about you.”

Will raised his eyes, so drowsy with sleep and the tiredness that came with healing runes that he could see Jem only as a haloed figure of light. “Are you going?”

“Yes, to sleep.” Jem touched his fingers lightly to Will’s healing hands. “Let yourself rest, Will.”

Will’s eyes were already drifting closed, even as Jem turned to go. He did not hear the door close behind Jem. Somewhere down the corridor Bridget was singing, her voice rising above the crackle of the fire. Will did not find it as annoying as he usually did, but rather more like a lullaby that his mother would once have sung him, to guide him to sleep.

“Oh, what is brighter than the light?

What is darker than the night?

What is keener than an axe?

What is softer than melting wax?

Truth is brighter than the light,

Falsehood darker than the night.

Revenge is keener than an axe,

And love is softer than melting wax.”

“A riddle song,” Cecily said, her voice drowsy and half-awake. “I’ve always liked those. Do you remember when Mam used to sing to us?”

“A little,” Will admitted. If he were not so tired, he might not have admitted it at all. His mother had always been singing, music filling the corners of the manor house, singing while she walked beside the waters in the Mawddach estuary, or among the daffodils in the gardens. Llawn yw’r coed o ddail a blode, llawn o goriad merch wyf inne.

“Do you remember the sea?” he said, exhaustion making his voice heavy. “The lake at Tal-y-Llyn? There is nothing so blue here in London as either of those things.”

He heard Cecily take a sharp breath. “Of course I remember. I thought you did not.”

Images from dreams painted themselves on the inside of Will’s eyelids, sleep reaching for him like a current, pulling him away from the lighted shore. “I don’t think I can get up out of this chair, Cecy,” he murmured. “I shall rest here tonight.”

Her hand came up, felt for his, and circled it in a loose clasp. “Then I will stay with you,” she said, and her voice became part of the current of dreams and sleep that caught him finally and drew him down and over and under.

To: Gabriel and Gideon Lightwood

From: Consul Josiah Wayland

I was most surprised to receive your missive. I fail to perceive how I could possibly have made myself more clear. I wish for you to relay the details of Mrs. Branwell’s correspondence with her relatives and well-wishers in Idris. I did not request any persiflage about the woman’s milliner. I care neither about her manner of dress nor about your daily menu.

Pray write back to me a letter containing relevant information. I devoutly hope such a letter will also be one more befitting Shadowhunters and less Bedlamites.

In Raziel’s name,

Consul Wayland