Clockwork Princess

from the Council of all who had been killed in battle before the automatons had disintegrated upon Mortmain’s death. And Tessa—Tessa not speaking, not waking, being carried off to her room by the Silent Brothers, and he had not been able to go with her. Being neither brother nor husband he could only stand and stare after her, closing and unclosing his bloodstained hands. Never had he felt more helpless.
    And when he had turned to find Jem, to share his fear with the only other person in the world who loved Tessa as much as he did—Jem had been gone, back to the Silent City on the orders of the Brothers. Gone without even a word of good-bye.
    Though Cecily had tried to soothe him, Will had been angry—angry with Jem, and with the Council and the Brotherhood themselves, for allowing Jem to become a Silent Brother, though Will knew that was unfair, that it had been Jem’s choice and the only way to keep him alive. And yet since their return to the Institute, Will had felt constantly seasick—it was like having been a ship at anchor for years and being cut free to float on the tides, with no idea which direction to steer in. And Tessa—
    The sound of tearing paper interrupted his thoughts, as Charlotte opened the letter and read it, the color draining from her face. She lifted her eyes and stared at the Inquisitor. “Is this some sort of jest?”
    The Inquisitor’s frown deepened. “There is no jest, I assure you. Do you have an answer?”
    “Lottie,” said Henry, looking up at his wife, even his tufts of gingery hair radiating anxiety and love. “Lottie, what is it, what’s wrong?”
    She looked at him, and then back at the Inquisitor. “No,” she said. “I don’t have an answer. Not yet.”
    “The Council does not wish—,” he began, and then seemed to see Will for the first time. “If I could speak to you in private, Charlotte.”
    Charlotte straightened her spine. “I will not send either Will or Henry away.”
    The two of them glared at each other, eyes locked. Will knew that Henry was looking at him anxiously. In the aftermath of Charlotte’s disagreement with the Consul, and the Consul’s death, they had all waited breathlessly for the Council to hand down some sort of retributive judgment. Their hold on the Institute felt precarious. Will could see it in the minute trembling of Charlotte’s hands, and the set of her mouth.
    He wished suddenly that Jem or Tessa were here, someone he could speak to, someone he could ask what he should do for Charlotte, to whom he owed so much.
    “It’s all right,” he said, rising to his feet. He wanted to see Tessa, even if she would not open her eyes, not recognize him. “I had meant to go anyway.”
    “Will—,” Charlotte protested.
    “It’s all right, Charlotte,” Will said again, and he pushed past the Inquisitor to the door. Once out in the corridor, he leaned against the wall for a moment, recovering himself. He couldn’t help remembering his own words—God, it seemed a million years ago now, and no longer in the least bit funny:
The Consul? Breaking up our breakfast time? Whatever next? The Inquisitor over for tea?
    If the Institute was taken from Charlotte …
    If they all lost their home …
    If Tessa …
    He could not finish the thought. Tessa would live; she must live. As he set off down the corridor, he thought of the blues and greens and grays of Wales. Perhaps he could return there, with Cecily, if the Institute was lost, make some kind of life for themselves in their home country. It would not be a Shadowhunting life, but without Charlotte, without Henry, without Jem or Tessa or Sophie or even the bloody Lightwoods, he did not want to be a Shadowhunter. They were his family, and precious to him—just another realization, he thought, that had come to him all at once and yet too late.
    “Tessa. Wake up. Please, wake up.”
    Sophie’s voice now, cutting through the darkness. Tessa struggled, forcing her eyes open for a split second. She saw her bedroom at the Institute, the familiar furniture, the drapes pulled back, weak sunlight casting squares of light on the floor. She fought to hold on to it. It was like this, brief periods of lucidity in between fever and nightmares—never enough, never enough time to reach out, to speak.
Sophie
, she fought to whisper, but her dry lips would not pass the words. Lightning shivered down through her vision, splitting the world apart. She cried out soundlessly as the Institute broke into