"No," he said, too quickly. "I simply--I did not bring you here that I might maul you in the Whispering Gallery."
Tessa exploded. "I am not asking you to maul me in the Whispering Gallery! But by the Angel, Will, would you stop being so polite?"
He looked at her in amazement. "But wouldn't you rather--"
"I would not rather. I don't want you to be polite! I want you to be Will! I don't want you to indicate points of architectural interest to me as if you were a Baedeker guide! I want you to say dreadfully mad, funny things and make up songs and be--" The Will I fell in love with, she almost said. "And be Will," she finished instead. "Or I shall hit you with my umbrella."
"I am trying to court you," Will said in exasperation. "Court you properly. That's what all this has been about. You know that, don't you?"
"Mr. Rochester never courted Jane Eyre," Tessa pointed out.
"No, he dressed up as a woman and terrified the poor girl out of her wits. Is that what you want?"
"You would make a very ugly woman."
"I would not. I would be stunning."
Tessa laughed. "There," she said. "There is Will. Isn't that better? Don't you think so?"
"I don't know," Will said, eyeing her. "I'm afraid to answer that. I've heard that when I speak, it makes American women wish to strike me with umbrellas."
Tessa laughed again, and then they were both laughing, their smothered giggles bouncing off the walls of the Whispering Gallery. After that, things were decidedly easier between them, and Will's smile when he helped her down from the carriage on their return was bright and real.
That night there had been a soft tap on Tessa's door, and when she had gone to open it, she had found nobody there, only a book resting on the corridor floor. A Tale of Two Cities. An odd present, she had thought. There was a copy of the book in the library, which she could read as often as she wanted, but this one was brand-new, with a receipt from Hatchards marking the title page. It was only when she took it to bed with her that she realized that there was an inscription on the title page as well.
Tess, Tess, Tessa.
Was there ever a more beautiful sound than your name? To speak it aloud makes my heart ring like a bell. Strange to imagine that, isn't it--a heart ringing? But when you touch me, that is what it is like, as if my heart is ringing in my chest and the sound shivers down my veins and splinters my bones with joy.
Why have I written these words in this book? Because of you. You taught me to love this book, where I had scorned it. When I read it for the second time, with an open mind and heart, I felt the most complete despair and envy of Sydney Carton--yes, Sydney, for even if he had no hope that the woman he loved would love him, at least he could tell her of his love. At least he could do something to prove his passion, even if that thing was to die.
I would have chosen death for a chance to tell you the truth, Tessa, if I could have been assured that death would be my own. And that is why I envied Sydney, for he was free.
And now at last I am free, and I can finally tell you, without fear of danger to you, all that I feel in my heart.
You are not the last dream of my soul.
You are the first dream, the only dream I ever was unable to stop myself from dreaming. You are the first dream of my soul, and from that dream I hope will come all other dreams, a lifetime's worth.
With hope at last,
Will Herondale
She had sat up for a long time after that, holding the book without reading it, watching the dawn come up over London. In the morning she had fairly flown to get dressed, before she'd seized up the book and dashed downstairs with it. She caught Will coming out of his bedroom, hair still damp from the pitcher, and hurled herself at him, catching his lapels and pulling him to her, burying her face in his chest. The book thumped to the floor between him as he reached to hold her, smoothing her hair down her back, whispering softly, "Tessa, what is it, what's wrong? Did you not like--"
"No one has ever written me anything so beautiful," she said, her face pressed against his chest, the soft beat of his heart steady beneath his shirt and jacket. "Not ever."
"I wrote it just after I discovered the curse was false," Will said. "I had meant to give it to you then, but--" His hand tightened in her hair. "When I found out you were engaged to Jem, I put it away. I did not know when I could, when I should, give it to you. And then yesterday, when you wanted me to be myself, I had hope enough to take out those old dreams again, to dust them off and give them to you."
They went to the park that day, though it was as cold as it was bright, and there were not many people about. The Serpentine was bright under the wintry sun, and Will pointed out the place where he and Jem had fed poultry pies to the mallards. It was the first time she saw him smile while talking about Jem.
She knew she could not be Jem for Will. No one could. But slowly the hollow places in his heart were filling in. Having Cecily about was a joy for Will; Tessa could see that when they sat together before the fire, speaking Welsh softly, and his eyes glowed; he had even grown to like Gabriel and Gideon, and they were friends for him, though no one could be a friend as Jem had been. And of course, Charlotte's and Henry's love was as steadfast as ever. The wound would never go away, Tessa knew, not for herself and not for Will, either, but as the weather grew colder and Will smiled more and ate more regularly and the haunted look faded from his eyes, she began to breathe more easily, knowing that look was not a mortal one.
"Hmm," he said now, rocking back on his heels slightly as he surveyed the ballroom floor. "You m
ay be right. I think it was round about Christmas when I got my Welsh dragon tattoo."
At that, Tessa had to try very hard not to blush. "How did that happen?"
Will made an airy gesture with his hand. "I was drunk ..."
"Nonsense. You were never really drunk."
"On the contrary--in order to learn how to pretend to be inebriated, one must become inebriated at least once, as a reference point. Six-Fingered Nigel had been at the mulled cider--"
"You can't mean there's truly a Six-Fingered Nigel?"
"Of course there is--," Will began with a grin, which suddenly faded; he was looking past Tessa, out at the ballroom. She turned to follow his gaze and saw the same tall, fair-haired man who had been talking to Charlotte earlier shouldering his way through the crowd toward them.
He was stocky, perhaps in his late thirties, with a scar that ran along his jaw. Tousled, fairish hair, and blue eyes, and skin tanned by the sun. It looked even darker against his starched white shirtfront. There was something familiar about him, something that teased at the edges of Tessa's memories.
He came to a stop in front of them. His eyes flicked to Will. They were a paler blue than Will's, almost the color of cornflowers. The skin around them was tanned and lined with faint crow's-feet. He said, "You are William Herondale?"
Will nodded without speaking.
"I am Elias Carstairs," the man said. "Jem Carstairs was my nephew."
Will turned white, and Tessa realized what it was about the man that seemed familiar--there was something about him, something about the way he carried himself and the shape of his hands, that reminded her of Jem. Since Will seemed unable to speak, Tessa said:
"Yes, this is Will Herondale. And I am Theresa Gray."
"The shape-changer girl," said the man--Elias, Tessa reminded herself; Shadowhunters used each other's given names. "You were engaged to James before he became a Silent Brother."
"I was," Tessa said quietly. "I love him very much."
He gave her a look--not hostile or challenging, only curious. Then he turned his gaze to Will. "You were his parabatai?"
Will found his voice. "I am still," he said, and set his jaw stubbornly.