Clockwork Princess

said Mortmain, his eyes still on Tessa. “There is an old saying in China—perhaps your beloved fiancé familiarized you with it—that states, ‘A man may not live under the same Heaven with the slayer of his father.’ I shall erase the Shadowhunters from under Heaven; they will not longer live upon the earth. Do not seek to appeal to my better nature, Tessa, for I have none.”
    Tessa could not help herself—she thought of
A Tale of Two Cities
, of Lucie Manette’s appeals to Sydney Carton’s better nature. She had always thought of Will as Sydney, consumed by sin and despair against his own better knowledge, even against his own desire. But Will was a good man, a much better one than Carton had ever been. And Mortmain was barely a man at all. It was not his better nature she appealed to but his vanity: All men thought of themselves as good in the end, surely. No one believed themselves a villain. She took a breath. “Surely that is not so—surely you might again be worthy and good. You have done what you set out to do. You have brought life and intelligence to these—these Infernal Devices of yours. You have created that which might destroy the Shadowhunters. All your life you have pursued justice because you believed the Shadowhunters were corrupt and vicious. Now, if you stay your hand, you win the greatest victory. You show that you are better than they.”
    She searched Mortmain’s face with her eyes. Surely there was some hesitation there—surely the thin lips were shaking slightly, surely there was the tension of doubt in his shoulders?
    His mouth quirked into a smile. “You think, then, that I can be a better man? And if I were to do as you say, to stay my hand, you would have me believe that you would stay with me out of admiration, that you would not return to the Shadowhunters?”
    “Why, yes, Mr. Mortmain. I swear it.” She swallowed against the bitterness in her throat. If she had to remain with Mortmain in order to save Will and Jem, to save Charlotte and Henry and Sophie, she would do it. “I believe you can find your better self; I believe we all can.”
    His thin lips turned up at the corners. “It is afternoon already, Miss Gray,” he said. “I did not wish to wake you earlier. Come with me now, outside the mountain. Come and see this day’s work, for there is something that I wish to show you.”
    A finger of ice touched her spine. She straightened. “And what is that?”
    His smile spread across his face. “What I have been waiting for.”
    To: Consul Josiah Wayland
    From: Inquisitor Victor Whitelaw
    Josiah: Forgive my informality, for I write in haste. I am certain that this will not be the only letter you will receive on this subject; in fact, it is likely not even the first. I myself have already received many. Each touches upon the same question that burns in my mind: Is Charlotte Branwell’s information correct? For if so, it seems to me that there is a more than likely chance that the Magister is indeed in Wales. I know of your doubts in the veracity of William Herondale, but we both knew his father. A hasty soul, and too greatly ruled by his passions, but a more honest man you could not find. I do not think the younger Herondale a liar
.
    Regardless, as a result of Charlotte’s message, the Clave is in chaos. I insist that we hold a dedicated Council meeting immediately. If we do not, the trust of the Shadowhunters in their Consul and their Inquisitor will be irrevocably eroded. I leave the announcement of the meeting in your hands, but this is not a request. Send out the call for the Council, or I shall resign my position and let it be known why
.
    Victor Whitelaw
    Will was awoken by screams.
    Years of training made themselves known instantly: He was on the floor in a crouch before he was even properly awake. Glancing around, he saw that the small room of the inn was empty save for himself, and the furniture—narrow bed and plain deal table, barely visible in the shadows—was undisturbed.
    The screams came again, louder. They were emanating from outside the window. Will rose to his feet, crossed the room soundlessly, and twitched one of the curtains back to look out.
    He barely remembered walking into town, leading Balios behind him, the horse clopping slowly in exhaustion. A small Welsh town, like other small Welsh towns, unremarkable in any particular way. He had found the local public house easily and turned Balios over to the ministrations of the stable-boy,