Clockwork Princess

your heart to seek out Mrs. Branwell, then we will not try to stop you.”
    Sophie looked from him to Gideon. Then, with a quick inclination of her head, she came forward and set the lamp down on the desk. Taking the letter from Gideon, she unfolded it and read out loud:
    “To: Consul Josiah Wayland
    From: Gideon and Gabriel Lightwood
    Dear Sir
,
    You have displayed your usual great wisdom in asking us to read Mrs. Branwell’s missives to Idris. We obtained a private glance into said correspondence and observed that she is in almost daily communication with her great-uncle Roderick Fairchild
.
    The contents of these letters, sir, would shock and disappoint you. It has robbed us of much of our belief in the fairer sex
.
    Mrs. Branwell displays a most callous, inhumane, and unfeminine attitude toward his many grievous ills. She recommends the application of less liquor to cure his gout, shows unmistakable signs of being amused by his dire ailment of dropsy, and entirely ignores his mention of a suspicious substance building up within his ears and other orifices
.
    Signs of the tender feminine care one would expect from a woman to her male relatives, and the respect any relatively young woman should give her elder as his due—there are none! Mrs. Branwell, we fear, has run mad with power. She must be stopped before it is too late and many brave Shadowhunters have fallen by the wayside for lack of feminine care
.
    Yours faithfully
,
    Gideon and Gabriel Lightwood”
    There was silence when she had finished. Sophie stood for what felt like an eternity, staring wide-eyed at the paper. At last she said, “Which one of you wrote this?”
    Gideon cleared his throat. “I did.”
    She looked up. She had pressed her lips together, but they were trembling. For a horrible moment Gabriel thought she was about to cry. “Oh, my gracious,” she said. “And is this the first?”
    “No, there has been one other,” Gabriel admitted. “It was about Charlotte’s hats.”
    “Her hats?” A peal of laughter escaped Sophie’s lips, and Gideon looked at her as if he had never seen anything so marvelous. Gabriel had to admit she did look quite pretty when she laughed, scar or not. “And was the Consul furious?”
    “Murderously so,” said Gideon.
    “Are you going to tell Mrs. Branwell?” demanded Gabriel, who could not stand the suspense another moment.
    Sophie had stopped laughing. “I will not,” she said, “for I do not wish to compromise you in the eyes of the Consul, and also, I think such news would hurt her, and to no good end. Spying on her like that, that awful man!” Her gaze sparked. “If you would like aid in your plan to frustrate the Consul’s schemes, I am happy to give it. Let me keep the letter, and I shall ensure that it is posted tomorrow.”

    The music room was not as dusty as Tessa remembered it—it looked as if it had received a good cleaning recently; the mellow wood of the windowsills and floors shone, as did the grand piano in the corner. A fire was leaping in the grate, outlining Jem in fire as he turned away from it and, seeing her, smiled a nervous smile.
    Everything in the room seemed soft, as muted as watercolor—the light of the fire bringing the white-sheeted instruments to life like ghosts, the dark gleam of the piano, the flames a dim reflected gold in the windowpanes. She could see her and Jem too, facing each other: a girl in a dark blue evening dress, and a thin rake of a boy with a mop of silvery hair, his black jacket hanging just slightly too loose on his slender frame.
    His face in the shadows was all vulnerability, anxiety in the soft curve of his mouth. “I was not sure that you would come.”
    At that, she took a step forward, wanting to fling her arms about him, but she stopped herself. She had to speak first. “Of course I came,” she said. “Jem, I am so sorry. So very sorry. I cannot explain—it was a sort of madness. I could not bear the thought that harm would come to you because of me, because in some way I am connected to Mortmain, and he to me.”
    “That is not your fault. It was never your choice—”
    “I was not seeing sense. Will was right; Mortmain cannot be trusted. Even if I went to him, there is no guarantee that he would honor his end of the bargain. And I would be placing a weapon in the hands of your enemy. I do not know what he wants to use me for, but it is not for the good of Shadowhunters; of that we can be sure. I could even in the end yet