Clockwork Princess

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