Clockwork Princess (The Infernal Devices, #3)(50)

Sophie had stopped laughing. “I will not,” she said, “for I do not wish to compromise you in the eyes of the Consul, and also, I think such news would hurt her, and to no good end. Spying on her like that, that awful man!” Her gaze sparked. “If you would like aid in your plan to frustrate the Consul’s schemes, I am happy to give it. Let me keep the letter, and I shall ensure that it is posted tomorrow.”



The music room was not as dusty as Tessa remembered it—it looked as if it had received a good cleaning recently; the mellow wood of the windowsills and floors shone, as did the grand piano in the corner. A fire was leaping in the grate, outlining Jem in fire as he turned away from it and, seeing her, smiled a nervous smile.

Everything in the room seemed soft, as muted as watercolor—the light of the fire bringing the white-sheeted instruments to life like ghosts, the dark gleam of the piano, the flames a dim reflected gold in the windowpanes. She could see her and Jem too, facing each other: a girl in a dark blue evening dress, and a thin rake of a boy with a mop of silvery hair, his black jacket hanging just slightly too loose on his slender frame.

His face in the shadows was all vulnerability, anxiety in the soft curve of his mouth. “I was not sure that you would come.”

At that, she took a step forward, wanting to fling her arms about him, but she stopped herself. She had to speak first. “Of course I came,” she said. “Jem, I am so sorry. So very sorry. I cannot explain—it was a sort of madness. I could not bear the thought that harm would come to you because of me, because in some way I am connected to Mortmain, and he to me.”

“That is not your fault. It was never your choice—”

“I was not seeing sense. Will was right; Mortmain cannot be trusted. Even if I went to him, there is no guarantee that he would honor his end of the bargain. And I would be placing a weapon in the hands of your enemy. I do not know what he wants to use me for, but it is not for the good of Shadowhunters; of that we can be sure. I could even in the end yet be what hurts you all.” Tears stung her eyes, but she held them back by force. “Forgive me, Jem. We cannot waste the time we have together in anger. I understand why you did what you did—I would have done it for you.”

His eyes went soft and silver as she spoke. “Zhe shi jie shang, wo shi zui ai ne de,” he whispered.

She understood it. In all the world, you are what I love the most.

“Jem—”

“You know that; you must know that. I could never let you go away from me, not into danger, not while I have breath.” He held his hand up, before she could take a step toward him. “Wait.” He bent down, and when he rose, he was holding his square violin case and bow. “I— There was something I wished to give you. A bridal gift, when we were married. But I would like to give it to you now, if you will let me.”

“A gift?” she said, wonderingly. “After— But we quarreled!”

He smiled at that, the lovely smile that lit his face and made you forget how thin and drawn he looked. “An integral part of married life, I have been informed. It will have been good practice.”

“But—”

“Tessa, did you imagine that there exists any quarrel, large or small, that could make me stop loving you?” He sounded amazed, and she thought suddenly of Will, of the years that Will had tested Jem’s loyalty, driven him mad with lies and evasion and self-harm, and through all of it Jem’s love for his blood brother had never frayed, much less broken.

“I was afraid,” she said softly. “And I—I have no gift for you.”

“Yes, you do.” He said it quietly but firmly. “Sit down, Tessa, please. Do you remember how we met?”

Tessa sat down on a low chair with gilded arms, her skirts crinkling around her. “I barged into your room in the middle of the night like a madwoman.”

Jem grinned. “You glided gracefully into my bedroom and found me playing the violin.” He was tightening the screw on the bow; he finished, set it down, and lovingly took his violin out of its case. “Would you mind if I play for you now?”

“You know I love to hear you play.” It was true. She even loved to hear him talk about the violin, though she understood little of it. She could listen to him rattle on passionately for hours about rosin, pegs, scrolls, bowing, finger positions, and the tendency of A strings to break—without getting bored.

“Wo wei ni xie de,” he said as he raised the violin to his left shoulder and tucked it under his chin. He had told her that many violinists used a shoulder rest, but he did not. There was a slight mark on the side of his throat, like a permanent bruise, where the violin rested.

“You—made something for me?”

“I wrote something for you,” he corrected with a smile, and began to play.

She watched in amazement. He began simply, softly, his grip light on the bow, producing a soft, harmonic sound. The melody rolled over her, as cool and sweet as water, as hopeful and lovely as sunrise. She watched his fingers in fascination as they moved and an exquisite note rose from the violin. The sound deepened as the bow moved faster, Jem’s forearm sawing back and forth, his slim body seeming to blur into motion from the shoulder. His fingers slid up and down slightly, and the pitch of the music deepened, thunderclouds gathering on a bright horizon, a river that had become a torrent. The notes crashed at her feet, rose to surround her; Jem’s whole body seemed to be moving in tune with the sounds he wrung from the instrument, though she knew his feet were firmly planted on the floor.