Clockwork Princess

began.
    “This is,” Sophie began, and paused. “I don’t— This is quite unexpected.”
    “Is it?” Gideon moved away from the sideboard and leaned on the table; his shirtsleeves were rolled up slightly, and Sophie found herself staring at his wrists, downed with faint blond hair and marked with the white memories of Marks. “Surely you must have been able to see the respect and esteem I had for you. The admiration.”
    “Well,” Sophie said. “Admiration.” She managed to make it sound like a very pale word indeed.
    Gideon flushed. “My dear Miss Collins,” he began again. “It is true that my feelings for you go far beyond admiration. I would describe them as the most ardent affection. Your kindness, your beauty, your generous heart—they have quite overset me, and it is to that alone that I can ascribe my behavior of this morning. I do not know what came over me, to speak the dearest wishes of my heart aloud. Please do not feel obligated to accept my proposal simply because it was public. Any embarrassment over the matter would and should be mine.”
    Sophie looked up at him. Color was coming and going in his cheeks, making his agitation clear. “But you haven’t proposed,”
    Gideon looked startled. “I— What?”
    “You haven’t proposed,” Sophie said with equanimity. “You did announce to the whole breakfast table that you intended to marry me, but that is not a proposal. That is only a declaration. A proposal is when you ask me.”
    “Now
that’s
putting my brother in his place,” said Gabriel, looking delighted in that manner that younger siblings did when their brothers or sisters were entirely set down.
    “Oh, shush!” whispered Cecily, squeezing his hand hard. “I want to hear what Mr. Lightwood says!”
    “Very well, then,” said Gideon, in the decided (yet slightly terrified) manner of Saint George setting off to fight the dragon. “A proposal it shall be.”
    Sophie’s eyes tracked him as he crossed the room toward her and knelt down at her feet. Life was an uncertain thing, and there were some moments one wished to remember, to imprint upon one’s mind that the memory might be taken out later, like a flower pressed between the pages of a book, and admired and recollected anew.
    She knew she would not want to forgot the way Gideon reached for her hand with his own hand trembling, or the way he bit his lip before he spoke. “My dear Miss Collins,” he said. “Please forgive me for my untoward outburst. It is simply that I have such—such strong esteem—no, not esteem,
adoration—
for you that I feel as if it must blaze from me every moment of the day. Ever since I came to this house, I have been struck more forcibly each day by your beauty, your courage, and your nobility. It is an honor I could never deserve but most earnestly aspire to if you could only be mine—that is, if you would consent to be my wife.”
    “Gracious,” Sophie said, startled out of all countenance. “Have you been
practicing
that?”
    Gideon blinked. “I assure you it was entirely extemporaneous.”
    “Well, it was lovely.” Sophie squeezed his hands. “And yes. Yes, I love you, and yes, I will marry you, Gideon.”
    A brilliant smile broke out over his face, and he startled both of them by reaching for her and kissing her soundly on the mouth. She held his face between her hands as they kissed—he tasted slightly of tea leaves, and his lips were soft and the kiss entirely sweet. Sophie floated in it, in the prism of the moment, feeling safe from all the rest of the world.
    Until Bridget’s voice broke in on her happiness, drifting lugubriously from the kitchen.
    “On a Tuesday they were wed
And by Friday they were dead
And they buried them in the churchyard side by side,
Oh, my love,
And they buried them in the churchyard side by side.”
    Breaking away from Gideon with some reluctance, Sophie rose to her feet and dusted off her dress. “Please forgive me, my dear Mr. Lightwood—I mean Gideon—but I must go and murder the cook. I shall be directly back.”
    “Ohhh,” Cecily breathed. “That was
so
romantic!”
    Gabriel took his hand away from the door and smiled down at her. His face quite changed when he smiled: all the sharp lines were softened, and his eyes went from the color of ice to the green of leaves in spring sunshine. “Are you crying, Miss Herondale?”
    She blinked damp eyelashes, suddenly aware that her hand was still in his—she could still feel the soft