Clockwork Angel (The Infernal Devices #1)(53)
Author: Cassandra Clare

“With Henry’s invention,” Charlotte said. There was a slight—only very slight—tremble to her voice as she said it. “The Phosphor. It will send up a flare of extremely bright witchlight, illuminating all the windows in de Quincey’s house, just for a moment. That will be the signal.”

“Oh, good Lord, not one of Henry’s inventions again,” said George.

“There were some complications with the Phosphor at first, but Henry demonstrated it for me last night,” Charlotte protested. “It works perfectly.”

Frederick snorted. “Remember the last time Henry offered us the use of one of his inventions? We were all cleaning fish guts off our gear for days.”

“But it wasn’t supposed to be used near water—,” Charlotte began, still in the same quavering voice, but the others had already begun talking over her, chattering excitedly about Henry’s failed inventions and the dreadful consequences thereof, while Charlotte lapsed into silence. Poor Charlotte, Tessa thought. Charlotte, whose sense of her own authority was so important, and so dearly bought.

“Bastards, talking over her like that,” muttered Will. Tessa looked at him in astonishment. He was staring intently down at the scene before him, his fists tight at his sides. So he was fond of Charlotte, she thought, and she was surprised how pleased she was to realize it. Perhaps it meant Will actually did have feelings after all.

Not that it had anything to do with her, whether he did or not, of course. She looked hastily away from Will, at Jem, who seemed equally out of countenance. He was biting his lip. “Where is Henry? Shouldn’t he have arrived by now?”

As if in answer, the door to the storage room banged open with a crash, and the three of them spun around to see Henry standing wild-eyed and wild-haired in the doorway. He was clutching something in his hand—the copper tube with the black button on the side that had nearly caused Will to break his arm falling off the sideboard in the dining room.

Will eyed it fearfully. “Get that blasted object away from me.”

Henry, who was red-faced and sweating, stared at them all in horror. “Hell,” he said. “I was looking for the library. The Enclave—”

“Is meeting,” said Jem. “Yes, we know. It’s a flight down from here, Henry. Third door on the right. And you’d better go. Charlotte’s waiting for you.”

“I know,” Henry wailed. “Blast, blast, blast. I was just trying to get the Phosphor right, is all.”

“Henry,” Jem said, “Charlotte needs you.”

“Right.” Henry turned as if to dart out of the room, then swung around and stared at them, a look of confusion passing over his freckled face, as if he had only now had cause to wonder why Will, Tessa, and Jem might be crouching together in a mostly disused storage room. “What are you three doing in here, anyway?”

Will tilted his head to the side and smiled at Henry. “Charades,” he said. “Massive game.”

“Ah. Right, then,” said Henry, and dashed out the door, letting it swing shut behind him.

“Charades.” Jem snorted in disgust, then leaned forward again, elbows on his knees, as Callida’s voice drifted up from below. “Honestly, Charlotte,” she was saying, “when will you admit that Henry hasn’t anything to do with running this place, and that you’re doing it all by yourself? Perhaps with help from James Carstairs and Will Herondale, but neither of them is any older than seventeen. How much help can they be?”

Charlotte made a murmured noise of deprecation.

“It’s too much for one person, especially someone your age,” said Benedict. “You’re only twenty-three years old. If you’d like to step down—”

Only twenty-three! Tessa was astonished. She’d thought Charlotte was much older, probably because she exuded such an air of competence.

“Consul Wayland assigned the running of the Institute to me and my husband five years ago,” Charlotte replied sharply, apparently having found her voice again. “If you have some issue with his choice, you should take it up with him. In the meantime I shall direct the Institute as I see fit.”

“I hope that means that plans such as the one you’re suggesting are still up for a vote?” said Benedict Lightwood. “Or are you governing by fiat now?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lightwood, of course it’s up for a vote,” said Lilian crossly, without giving Charlotte a chance to answer. “All in favor of moving on de Quincey, say aye.”

To Tessa’s surprise, there was a chorus of ayes, and not a single nay. The discussion had been contentious enough that she’d been certain at least one of the Shadowhunters would try to back out. Jem caught her startled look and smiled. “They’re always like this,” he murmured. “They like to jockey for power, but none of them would vote no on an issue like this. They’d be branded a coward for doing so.”

“Very well,” said Benedict. “Tomorrow night it is, then. Is everyone sufficiently prepared? Are there—”

The door to the library banged open, and Henry charged in—looking, if possible, even more wild-eyed and wild-haired than before. “I’m here!” he announced. “Not too late, am I?”

Charlotte covered her face with her hands.

“Henry,” said Benedict Lightwood dryly. “How pleasant to see you. Your wife was just briefing us on your newest invention. The Phosphor, is it?”

“Yes!” Henry held the Phosphor up proudly. “This is it. And I can promise it works as advertised. See?”

“Now, there’s no need for a demonstration,” Benedict began hastily, but it was too late. Henry had already pressed the button. There was a bright flash, and the lights in the library winked out suddenly, leaving Tessa staring at an unlit black square in the floor. Gasps rose up from below. There was a shriek, and something crashed to the ground and shattered. Rising above it all was the sound of Benedict Lightwood, swearing fluently.

Will looked up and grinned. “Bit awkward for Henry, of course,” he remarked cheerfully, “and yet, somehow quite satisfying, don’t you think?”

Tessa couldn’t help but agree, on both counts.

10

PALE KINGS AND PRINCES

I saw pale kings and princes too,

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all

—John Keats, “La Belle Dame Sans Merci”

As the coach rattled along the Strand, Will raised a black-gloved hand and drew one of the velvet curtains back from the window, letting a splash of yellow gaslight find its way into the carriage’s dark interior. “It rather looks,” he said, “as if we might be in for rain tonight.”