Clockwork Princess (The Infernal Devices, #3)(141)

Still, Will’s voice followed her down the corridor as she walked away, her heart a great deal lighter than it had been moments ago.

“… and cannot watch over him, if that is not too bold a thing to say, as closely as I would. But if any fraud or treachery is practicing against him, I hope that simple love and truth will be strong in the end. I hope that real love and truth are stronger in the end than any evil or misfortune in the world….”





24

THE MEASURE OF LOVE


The measure of love is to love without measure.

—attributed to Saint Augustine



The Council room was full of light. A great double circle had been painted upon the raised dais at the front of the room, and in the space between the circles were runes: runes of binding, runes of knowledge, runes of skill and craft, and the runes that symbolized Sophie’s name. Sophie knelt in the center of the circles. Her dark hair was unbound and fell to her waist, a ripple of dark curls against her darker gear. She looked very beautiful in the light that streamed from the skylighted dome above, the scar on her cheek red as a rose.

The Consul stood above her, her white hands upraised, the Mortal Cup held within them. Charlotte wore simple scarlet robes that billowed around her. Her small face was serious and severe. “Take the Cup, Sophia Collins,” she said, and the room was breathlessly silent. The Council chamber was not full, but the row Tessa sat at the end of was: Gideon and Gabriel, Cecily and Henry, and her and Will, all leaning forward eagerly, waiting for Sophie to Ascend. At each end of the dais stood a Silent Brother, their heads bent, their parchment robes looking as if they had been carved out of marble.

Charlotte lowered the Cup, and held it out to Sophie, who took it carefully.

“Do you swear, Sophia Collins, to forsake the mundane world and follow the path of the Shadowhunter? Will you take into yourself the blood of the Angel Raziel and honor that blood? Do you swear to serve the Clave, to follow the Law as set forth by the Covenant, and to obey the word of the Council? Will you defend that which is human and mortal, knowing that for your service there will be no recompense and no thanks but honor?”

“I swear,” said Sophie, her voice very steady.

“Can you be a shield for the weak, a light in the dark, a truth among falsehoods, a tower in the flood, an eye to see when all others are blind?”

“I can.”

“And when you are dead, will you give up your body to the Nephilim to be burned, that your ashes may be used to build the City of Bones?”

“I will.”

“Then drink,” said Charlotte. Tessa heard Gideon draw in his breath. This was the dangerous part of the ritual. This was the part that could kill the untrained or unworthy.

Sophie bent her dark head and set the Cup to her lips. Tessa sat forward, her chest tight with apprehension. She felt Will’s hand slide over hers, a warm, comforting weight. Sophie’s throat moved as she swallowed.

The circle that surrounded her and Charlotte flared up once with a cold, blue-white light, obscuring them both. When it faded, Tessa was left blinking stars from her eyes as the light dwindled. She blinked hastily, and saw Sophie hold up the Cup. There was a glow about the Cup she held as she handed it back to Charlotte, who smiled broadly.

“You are Nephilim now,” she said. “I name you Sophia Shadowhunter, of the blood of Jonathan Shadowhunter, child of the Nephilim. Arise, Sophia.”

And Sophie rose, amid the cheering of the crowd, Gideon’s cheers the loudest among many. Sophie was smiling, her whole face shining in the winter sunlight that gleamed down through the clear skylight. Shadows moved across the floor, darting and quick. Tessa looked up in wonder—whiteness streaked the windows, swirling gently beyond the glass.

“Snow,” Will said softly in her ear. “Merry Christmas, Tessa.”

That night was the night of the Enclave’s annual Christmas party. It was the first time Tessa had seen the great ballroom at the Institute thrown open and filled with people. The enormous windows glowed with reflected light, casting a golden sheen across the polished floor. Beyond the dark glass, one could see the snow falling, in great soft white flakes, but inside the Institute all was warm and golden and secure.

Christmas among Shadowhunters was not Christmas as Tessa had come to know it. There were no advent wreaths, no carols sung, no Christmas crackers. There was a tree, though it was not decorated in the traditional fashion. A massive fir, it rose to nearly touch the ceiling at the far end of the ballroom. (When Will asked Charlotte how on earth it had gotten in there, she had only waved her hands and said something about Magnus.) Candles balanced on each branch, though Tessa could not see how they were fastened or supported. They cast even more golden light over the room.

Tied to the branches of the tree—and dangling from sconces, from the candelabras on tables, the knobs of doors—were crystalline glittering runes, each one as clear as glass yet refracting light, throwing glimmering rainbows through the room. The walls were decorated with intertwined wreaths of holly and ivy, the red berries glowing against the green leaves. Here and there were white-berried sprigs of mistletoe. There was even one tied to the collar of Church, who was hovering under one of the Christmas tables and looking furious.

Tessa didn’t think she had ever seen so much food. The tables were laden with carved chicken and turkey, game birds and hare, Christmas hams and pies, wafer-thin sandwiches, ices and trifles and blancmanges and cream puddings, jewel-colored jellies, tipsy-cake and Christmas puddings flamed with brandy, iced sherbet, mulled wine and great silver bowls containing Bishop Christmas punch. There were horns of plenty spilling treats and candies, and Saint Nicholas’s bags, each containing a lump of coal, a bit of sugar, or a lemon drop, to tell the receiver whether their behavior that year had been mischievous, sweet, or sour. There had been tea and presents earlier just for the inhabitants of the Institute, the group of them exchanging their gifts before the guests arrived—Charlotte, balanced on Henry’s lap as he sat in his rolling chair, opening gift after gift for the baby due to arrive in April. (Whose name, it had been decided, was going to be Charles. “Charles Fairchild,” Charlotte had said proudly, holding up the small blanket that Sophie had knitted for her, with a neat C.F. in the corner.)