Clockwork Princess

sat—all who had room to sit. The chamber was filled to bursting; this many Shadowhunters rarely appeared at any one meeting. There were representatives here from all the Institutes—New York, Bangkok, Geneva, Bombay, Kyoto, Buenos Aires. Only the London Shadowhunters, Charlotte Branwell and her cohorts, were absent.
    Only Aloysius Starkweather remained standing, his ragged dark cloak flapping about him like crow’s wings. “Where is Charlotte Branwell?” he demanded. “It was understood from the message you sent out that she would be here to explain the contents of her message to the Council.”
    “I will explain the contents of her message,” said the Consul through gritted teeth.
    “It would be preferable to hear it from her,” said Malhotra, his dark eyes keen as he looked from the Consul to the Inquisitor and back. Inquisitor Whitelaw looked drawn, as if he had been suffering recent sleepless nights; his mouth was tight at the corners.
    “Charlotte Branwell is overreacting,” said the Consul. “I take full responsibility for having put her in charge of the London Institute. It was something I should never have done. She has been relieved of her position.”
    “I have had occasion to meet and speak with Mrs. Branwell,” said Starkweather in his hoarse Yorkshire tones. “She does not strike me as someone who would easily overreact.”
    Looking as if he remembered exactly why he had been so glad Starkweather had ceased attending Council meetings, the Consul said tightly: “She is in a delicate way, and I believe she has become … overset.”
    Chatter and confusion. The Inquisitor looked over at Wayland and gave him a narrow glance of disgust. The Consul returned his look with a glare. It was clear that the two men had been arguing: The Consul was flushed with anger, the look he bent toward the Inquisitor in return filled with betrayal. It was clear that Whitelaw did not agree with the Consul’s words.
    A woman rose to her feet from the crowded benches. She had white hair piled high on her head and an imperious manner. The Consul looked as if he were groaning inwardly. Callida Fairchild, Charlotte Branwell’s aunt. “If you are suggesting,” she said in a frozen voice, “that my niece is making hysterical and unreasonable decisions because she is carrying one of the next generation of Shadowhunters, Consul, I suggest you think again.”
    The Consul ground his teeth. “There is no evidence that Charlotte Branwell’s statements that Mortmain is in Wales have any truth to them,” he said. “It all stems from the reports of Will Herondale, who is only a boy, and a reprehensibly irresponsible one at that. All evidence, including the journals of Benedict Lightwood, point to an attack on London, and it is there we must marshal our forces.”
    A buzz went through the room, the words “an attack on London” repeated over and over. Amalia Morgenstern fanned herself with a lace handkerchief, while Lilian Highsmith, her fingers stroking the haft of a dagger protruding from the wrist of one glove, looked delighted.
    “Evidence,” snapped Callida. “My niece’s word
is
evidence—”
    There was another rustle, and a young woman rose to her feet. She wore a bright green dress and a defiant expression. The last time the Consul had seen her, she had been sobbing in this same Council room, demanding justice. Tatiana Blackthorn, née Lightwood.
    “The Consul is right about Charlotte Branwell!” she exclaimed. “Charlotte Branwell and William Herondale are the reason my husband is dead!”
    “Oh?” It was Inquisitor Whitelaw, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Who exactly killed your husband? Was it Will?”
    There was a murmur of astonishment. Tatiana looked outraged. “It was not my father’s fault—”
    “On the contrary,” interrupted the Inquisitor. “This was kept from public knowledge, Mrs. Blackthorn, but you force my hand. We opened an investigation into the matter of your husband’s death, and it was determined that your father was indeed at fault, most grievous fault. If it were not for the actions of your brothers—and of William Herondale and Charlotte Branwell, among the others of the London Institute—the name of Lightwood would be stricken from the Shadowhunter records and you would be living the rest of your life as a friendless mundane.”
    Tatiana turned beet red and clenched her fists. “William Herondale has—he has offered me insults unspeakable to a