Clockwork Princess

everyone seemed to hold their breath, even Gabriel. Jem’s gaze held Will’s, steadily, and not for the first time Tessa had the sense of unspoken words passing between them.
    Will sighed and half-closed his eyes. “Tessa will be wanting to come next.”
    “Of course I am coming,” Tessa said. “I may not be a Shadowhunter, but I too have trained. Jem is not going without me.”
    “You are in your
wedding dress
,” Will protested.
    “Well, now that you’ve all seen it, I can’t possibly wear it to be married in,” said Tessa. “Bad luck, you know.”
    Will groaned something in Welsh—unintelligible, but clearly the tone of a man defeated. Across the room Jem cast Tessa a slight, worried smile. The Institute door swung open then, letting a blaze of autumn sunlight into the entryway. Cyril stood on the threshold, breathless.
    “The second carriage is now ready,” he said. “Who’ll be coming, then?”
    To: Consul Josiah Wayland
From: The Council
    Dear Sir
,
    As you are doubtless aware, your term of service as Consul, after ten years, is coming to an end. The time has come to appoint a successor
.
    As for ourselves, we are giving serious consideration to the appointment of Charlotte Branwell, née Fairchild. She has done good work as the head of the London Institute, and we believe her to have your stamp of approval, as she was appointed by you after the death of her father
.
    As your opinion and esteem are to us of the highest value, we would appreciate any thoughts that you might have on the matter
.
    Yours with the highest regards
,
    Victor Whitelaw, Inquisitor, on behalf of the Council

2
T HE C ONQUEROR W ORM
    And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot
.
    —Edgar Allan Poe, “The Conqueror Worm”
    As the Institute’s carriage rolled through the gates of Lightwood House in Chiswick, Tessa was able to appreciate the place as she had not the first time she had been there, in the dead of night. A long gravel road flanked by trees led up to an immense white house with a circular drive in front of it. The house bore a strong resemblance to sketches she had seen of the classical temples of Greece and Rome with its strong, symmetrical lines and clean columns. There was a carriage drawn up before the steps, and gravel paths spread out through a network of gardens.
    And lovely gardens they were. Even in October they were a riot of blooms—late-flowering red roses and chrysanthemums in bronze-orange, yellow, and dark gold bordered neat paths that wandered through the trees. As Henry drew their carriage to a stop, Tessa stepped out of the carriage, helped by Jem, and heard the sound of water: a stream, she suspected, diverted to run through the gardens. It was such a lovely place, she could hardly associate it in her mind with the same location where Benedict had held his devilish ball, though she could see the path that wound around the side of the house that she had taken that night. It led to a wing of the house that looked as if it had been recently added….
    The Lightwood carriage rolled up behind them, driven by Gideon. Gabriel, Will, and Cecily spilled out. The Herondale siblings were still arguing with each other as Gideon climbed down, Will illustrating his points with bold sweeps of his arms. Cecily was scowling at him, the furious expression on her face making her look so much like her brother that it would, under other circumstances, have been amusing.
    Gideon, even paler than before, turned in a circle, his blade unsheathed in his hand.
    “Tatiana’s carriage,” he said shortly as Jem and Tessa reached him. He pointed toward the vehicle drawn up by the steps. Its doors were both open. “She must have decided to pay a call.”
    “Of all the times …” Gabriel sounded furious, but his green eyes were sick with fear. Tatiana was their sister, recently married. The coat of arms on the carriage, a wreath of thorns, must have been the symbol of her husband’s family, Tessa thought. The group stood frozen, watching, as Gabriel moved to the carriage, slipping a long sabre from his belt. He leaned in the door, and cursed aloud.
    He pulled back, his eyes meeting Gideon’s. “There’s blood on the seats,” he said. “And … this stuff.” He prodded at a wheel with the tip of the sabre; when he drew it away, a long thread of stinking slime trailed from it.
    Will whipped a seraph blade from his coat and called aloud,
“Eremiel!”
As it began to blaze, a pale