Clockwork Princess (The Infernal Devices, #3)(26)

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.”

She darted her eyes away from him. “Is the thought of becoming a Downworlder truly so horrible to you?”

“Tessa …” He exhaled. “I am a Shadowhunter. Nephilim. Like my parents before me. It is the heritage I claim, just as I claim my mother’s heritage as part of myself. It does not mean I hate my father. But I honor the gift they gave me, the blood of the Angel, the trust placed in me, the vows I have taken. Nor, I think, would I make a very good vampire. Vampires by and large despise us. Sometimes they Turn a Nephilim, as a joke, but that vampire is scorned by the others. We carry day and the fire of angels in our veins, everything they hate. They would shun me, and the Nephilim would shun me. I would no longer be Will’s parabatai, no longer be welcome in the Institute. No, Tessa. I would rather die and be reborn and see the sun again, than live to the end of the world without daylight.”

“A Silent Brother, then,” she said. “The Codex says that the runes they put upon themselves are powerful enough to arrest their mortality.”