Clockwork Princess (The Infernal Devices, #3)(2)

London, 1873.

“Will?” Charlotte Fairchild eased the door of the Institute’s training room open. “Will, are you in there?”

A muffled grunt was the only response. The door swung all the way open, revealing the wide, high-ceilinged room on the other side. Charlotte herself had grown up training here, and she knew every warp of the floorboards, the ancient target painted on the north wall, the square-paned windows, so old that they were thicker at the base than the top. In the center of the room stood Will Herondale, a knife held in his right hand.

He turned his head to look at Charlotte, and she thought again what an odd child he was—although at twelve he was barely still a child. He was a very pretty boy, with thick dark hair that waved slightly where it touched his collar—wet now with sweat, and pasted to his forehead. His skin had been tanned by country air and sun when he had first come to the Institute, though six months of city life had drained its color, causing the red flush across his cheekbones to stand out. His eyes were an unusually luminous blue. He would be a handsome man one day, if he could do something about the scowl that perpetually twisted his features.

“What is it, Charlotte?” he snapped.

He still spoke with a slight Welsh accent, a roll to his vowels that would have been charming if his tone hadn’t been so sour. He drew his sleeve across his forehead as she came partway through the door, then paused. “I’ve been looking for you for hours,” she said with some asperity, though asperity had little effect on Will. Not much had an effect on Will when he was in a mood, and he was nearly always in a mood. “Didn’t you recall what I told you yesterday, that we were welcoming a new arrival to the Institute today?”

“Oh, I remembered.” Will threw the knife. It stuck just outside the circle of the target, deepening his scowl. “I just don’t care.”

The boy behind Charlotte made a stifled noise. A laugh, she would have thought, but certainly he couldn’t be laughing? She had been warned the boy coming to the Institute from Shanghai was not well, but she had still been startled when he had stepped from the carriage, pale and swaying like a reed in the wind, his curling dark hair streaked with silver as if he were a man in his eighties, not a boy of twelve. His eyes were wide and silvery-black, strangely beautiful but haunting in such a delicate face. “Will, you shall be polite,” she said now, and drew the boy out from behind her, ushering him ahead into the room. “Don’t mind Will; he’s only moody. Will Herondale, may I introduce you to James Carstairs, of the Shanghai Institute.”

“Jem,” said the boy. “Everyone calls me Jem.” He took another step forward into the room, his gaze taking in Will with a friendly curiosity. He spoke without the trace of an accent, to Charlotte’s surprise, but then his father was—had been—British. “You can too.”

“Well, if everyone calls you that, it’s hardly any special favor to me, is it?” Will’s tone was acid; for someone so young, he was amazingly capable of unpleasantness. “I think you will find, James Carstairs, that if you keep to yourself and let me alone, it will be the best outcome for both of us.”

Charlotte sighed inwardly. She had so hoped that this boy, the same age as Will, would prove a tool to disarm Will of his anger and his viciousness, but it seemed clear that Will had been speaking the truth when he had told her he did not care if another Shadowhunter boy was coming to the Institute. He did not want friends, or want for them. She glanced at Jem, expecting to see him blinking in surprise or hurt, but he was only smiling a little, as if Will were a kitten that had tried to bite him. “I haven’t trained since I left Shanghai,” he said. “I could use a partner—someone to spar with.”

“So could I,” said Will. “But I need someone who can keep up with me, not some sickly creature that looks as if he’s doddering off to the grave. Although I suppose you might be useful for target practice.”

Charlotte, knowing what she did about James Carstairs—a fact she had not shared with Will—felt a sickly horror come over her. Doddering off to the grave, oh dear Lord. What was it her father had said? That Jem was dependent on a drug to live, some kind of medicine that would extend his life but not save it. Oh, Will.

She made as if to move in between the two boys, as if she could protect Jem from Will’s cruelty, more awfully accurate in this instance than even he knew—but then she paused.

Jem had not even changed expression. “If by ‘doddering off to the grave’ you mean dying, then I am,” he said. “I have about two years more to live, three if I am lucky, or so they tell me.”

Even Will could not hide his shock; his cheeks flushed red. “I …”

But Jem had set his steps toward the target painted on the wall; when he reached it, he yanked the knife free from the wood. Then he turned and walked directly up to Will. Delicate as he was, they were of the same height, and only inches from each other their eyes met and held. “You may use me for target practice if you wish,” said Jem, as casually as if he were talking about the weather. “It seems to me I have little to fear from such an exercise, as you are not a very good shot.” He turned, took aim, and let the knife fly. It stuck directly into the heart of the target, quivering slightly. “Or,” Jem went on, turning back to Will, “you could allow me to teach you. For I am a very good shot.”