"Mr. Lightwood," she said, raising herself up on her elbows. "Are those scones under your bed?"
Gideon froze, blinking, a rabbit cornered by hounds. "What?"
"There." She pointed to the mounded dark shapes piled beneath the four-poster. "There is a veritable mountain of scones beneath your bed. What on earth?"
Gideon sat up, raking his hands through his tumbled hair as Sophie scrambled back away from him, her skirts rustling around her. "I ..."
"You called for those scones. Nearly every day. You asked for them, Mr. Lightwood. Why would you do that if you didn't want them?"
His cheeks darkened. "It was the only way I could think of to see you. You wouldn't speak to me, wouldn't listen when I tried to talk to you--"
"So you lied?" Seizing up her fallen cap, Sophie rose to her feet. "Do you have any idea how much work I have to do, Mr. Lightwood? Carrying coal and hot water, dusting, polishing, cleaning up after you and the others--and I don't mind or complain, but how dare you make extra work for me, make me drag heavy trays up and down the stairs, just to bring you something you didn't even want?"
Gideon scrambled to his feet, his clothes even more wrinkled now. "Forgive me," he said. "I did not think."
"No," Sophie said, furiously tucking her hair up under her cap. "You lot never do, do you?"
And with that, she stalked from the room, leaving Gideon staring hopelessly after her.
"Nicely done, brother," said Gabriel from the bed, blinking sleepy green eyes at Gideon.
Gideon threw a scone at him.
"Henry." Charlotte moved across the floor of the crypt. The witchlight torches were burning so brightly it looked almost as if it were day, though she knew it was closer to midnight. Henry was hunched over the largest of the great wooden tables scattered about the center of the room. Something or other odious was burning in a beaker on another table, giving off great puffs of lavender smoke. A massive piece of paper, the sort butchers used to wrap their wares in, was spread across Henry's table, and he was covering it with all sorts of mysterious ciphers and calculations, muttering to himself under his breath as he scribbled. "Henry, darling, aren't you exhausted? You've been down here for hours."
Henry started and looked up, pushing the spectacles he wore when he worked up into his gingery hair. "Charlotte!" He seemed astonished, if thrilled, to see her; only Henry, Charlotte thought dryly, would be astonished to see his own wife in their own home. "My angel. What are you doing down here? It's freezing cold. It can't be good for the baby."
Charlotte laughed, but she didn't object when Henry hurried over to her and gave her a gentle hug. Ever since he had found out they were going to have a child, he had been treating her like fine china. He pressed a kiss into the top of her hair now and drew back to study her face. "In fact, you look a little peaked. Perhaps rather than supper you should have Sophie bring you some strengthening beef tea in your room? I shall go and--"
"Henry. We decided not to have supper hours ago--everyone was brought sandwiches in their rooms. Jem is still too ill to eat, and the Lightwood boys too shaken up. And you know how Will is when Jem is unwell. And Tessa, too, of course. Really, the whole house is going all to pieces."
"Sandwiches?" said Henry, who seemed to have seized on this as the substantive part of Charlotte's speech, and was looking wistful.
Charlotte smiled. "There are some for you upstairs, Henry, if you can tear yourself away. I suppose I shouldn't scold you--I've been going through Benedict's journals, and quite fascinating they are--but what are you working on?"
"A portal," said Henry eagerly. "A form of transport. Something that might conceivably whisk a Shadowhunter from one point of the globe to another in a matter of seconds. It was Mortmain's rings that gave me the idea."
Charlotte's eyes were wide. "But Mortmain's rings are assuredly dark magic... ."
"But this is not. Oh, and there is something else. Come. It is for Buford."
Charlotte allowed her husband to take her wrist and draw her across the room. "I have told you a hundred times, Henry, no son of mine will ever be named Buford-- By the Angel, is that a cradle?"
Henry beamed. "It is better than a cradle!" he announced, flinging his arm out to indicate the sturdy-looking wooden baby's bed, hung between two poles that it might rock from side to side. Charlotte had to admit to herself it was quite a nice-looking piece of furniture. "It is a self-rocking cradle!"
"A what?" Charlotte asked faintly.
"Watch." Proudly Henry stepped forward and pressed some sort of invisible button. The cradle began to rock gently from side to side.
Charlotte expelled a breath. "That's lovely, darling."
"Don't you like it?" Henry beamed. "There, it's rocking a bit faster now." It was, with a slight jerkiness to the motion that gave Charlotte the feeling that she had been cast adrift on a choppy sea.
"Hm," she said. "Henry, I do have something I wish to speak to you about. Something important."
"More important than our child being rocked gently to sleep each night?"
"The Clave has decided to release Jessamine," Charlotte said. "She is returning to the Institute. In two days."
Henry turned to her with an incredulous look. Behind him the cradle was rocking even faster, like a carriage hurtling ahead at full tilt. "She is coming back here?"
"Henry, she has nowhere else to go."
Henry opened his mouth to reply, but before a word could emerge, there was a terrible ripping sound, and the cradle tore free of its mooring and flew across the room to crash against the farthest wall, where it exploded into splinters.
Charlotte gave a little gasp, her hand rising to cover her mouth. Henry's brow furrowed. "Perhaps with some refinements to the design ..."
"No, Henry," Charlotte said firmly.
"But--"
"Under no circumstances." There were daggers in Charlotte's voice.
Henry sighed. "Very well, dear."
The Infernal Devices are without pity. The Infernal Devices are without regret. The Infernal Devices are without number. The Infernal Devices will never stop coming.
The words written on the wall of Benedict's study echoed in Tessa's head as she sat by Jem's bed, watching him sleep. She was not sure what time it was exactly; certainly it was "in the wee smalls," as Bridget would have said, no doubt past midnight. Jem had been awake when she had come in, just after Will had gone, awake and sitting up and well enough to take some tea and toast, though he'd been more breathless than she would have liked, and paler.
Sophie had come later to clear away the food, and had smiled at Tessa. "Fluff his pillows up," she had suggested in a whisper, and Tessa had done it, though Jem had looked amused at her fussing. Tessa had never had much experience with sickrooms. Taking care of her brother when he'd been drunk was the closest she had come to playing nursemaid. She did not mind it now that it was Jem, did not mind sitting holding his hand while he breathed softly, his eyes half-closed, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheekbones.
"Not very heroic," he said suddenly without opening his eyes, though his voice was steady.
Tessa started, and leaned forward. She had slid her fingers into his earlier, and their linked hands lay beside him on the bed. His fingers were cool in hers, his pulse slow. "What do you mean?"
"Today," he said in a low voice, and coughed. "Collapsing and coughing up blood all over Lightwood House--"
"It only improved the look of the place," said Tessa.
"Now you sound like Will." Jem gave a sleepy smile. "And you're changing the subject, just like he would."
"Of course I am. As if I would ever think any less of you for being ill; you know that I don't. And you were quite heroic today. Though Will was saying earlier," she added, "that heroes all come to bad ends, and he could not imagine why anyone would want to be one anyway."
"Ah." Jem's hand squeezed hers briefly, and then let it go. "Well, Will is looking at it from the hero's viewpoint, isn't he? But as for the rest of us, it's
an easy answer."
"Is it?"
"Of course. Heroes endure because we need them. Not for their own sakes."
"You speak of them as though you were not one." She reached to brush the hair from his forehead. He leaned into her touch, his eyes closing. "Jem--have you ever--" She hesitated. "Have you ever thought of ways to prolong your life that are not a cure for the drug?"
At that his eyelids flew open. "What do you mean?"
She thought of Will, on the floor of the attic, choking on holy water. "Becoming a vampire. You would live forever--"
He scrambled upright against the pillows. "Tessa, no. Don't--you can't think that way."