Clockwork Prince (49 page)

Sophie protested, but Tessa insisted firmly enough that Sophie soon had the door open and was stoking the fire in the grate while Tessa sank into an armchair. There was a pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches on the table beside the bed, and she helped herself to it gratefully. She no longer felt dizzy, but she did feel tired, with a weariness that was more spiritual than physical. She remembered the bitter taste of the tisane she’d drunk, and the way it had felt to be held by Will—but that had been a dream. She wondered how much else of what she’d seen last night had been a dream—Jem whispering at the foot of her bed, Jessamine sobbing into her blankets in the Silent City . . .

“I was sorry to hear about your brother, miss.” Sophie was on her knees by the fire, the rekindling flames playing over her lovely face. Her head was bent, and Tessa could not see her scar.

“You don’t have to say that, Sophie. I know it was his fault, really, about Agatha—and Thomas—”

“But he was your brother.” Sophie’s voice was firm. “Blood mourns blood.” She bent farther over the coals, and there was something about the kindness in her voice, and the way her hair curled, dark and vulnerable, against the nape of her neck, that made Tessa say:

“Sophie, I saw you with Gideon the other day.”

Sophie stiffened immediately, all over, without turning to look at Tessa. “What do you mean, miss?”

“I came back to get my necklace,” Tessa said. “My clockwork angel. For luck. And I saw you with Gideon in the corridor.” She swallowed. “He was . . . pressing your hand. Like a suitor.”

There was a long, long silence, while Sophie stared into the flickering fire. At last she said, “Are you going to tell Mrs. Branwell?”

Tessa recoiled. “What? Sophie, no! I just—wanted to warn you.”

Sophie’s voice was flat. “Warn me against what?”

“The Lightwoods . . .” Tessa swallowed. “They are not nice people. When I was at their house—with Will—I saw dreadful things, awful—”

“That’s Mr. Lightwood, not his sons!” The sharpness in Sophie’s voice made Tessa flinch. “They’re not like him!”

“How different could they be?”

Sophie stood up, the poker clattering into the fire. “You think I’m such a fool that I’d let some half-hour gentleman make a mockery of me after all I been through? After all Mrs. Branwell’s taught me? Gideon’s a good man—”

“It’s a question of upbringing, Sophie! Can you picture him going to Benedict Lightwood and saying he wants to marry a mundane, and a parlor maid to boot? Can you see him doing that?”

Sophie’s face twisted. “You don’t know anything,” she said. “You don’t know what he’d do for us—”

“You mean the
training
?” Tessa was incredulous. “Sophie, really—”

But Sophie, shaking her head, had gathered up her skirts and stalked from the room, letting the door slam shut behind her.

Charlotte, her elbows on the desk in the drawing room, sighed and balled up her fourteenth piece of paper, and tossed it into the fireplace. The fire sparked up for a moment, consuming the paper as it turned black and fell to ashes.

She picked up her pen, dipped it into the inkwell, and began again.

I, Charlotte Mary Branwell, daughter of Nephilim, do hereby and on this date tender my resignation as the director of the London Institute, on behalf of myself and of my husband, Henry Jocelyn Branwell—

“Charlotte?”

Her hand jerked, sending a blot of ink sprawling across the page, ruining her careful lettering. She looked up and saw Henry hovering by the desk, a worried look on his thin, freckled face. She set her pen down. She was conscious, as she always was with Henry and rarely at any other times, of her physical appearance—that her hair was escaping from its chignon, that her dress was not new and had an ink blot on the sleeve, and that her eyes were tired and puffy from weeping.

“What is it, Henry?”

Henry hesitated. “It’s just that I’ve been—Darling, what are you writing?” He came around the desk, glancing over her shoulder.
“Charlotte!”
He snatched the paper off the desk; though ink had smeared through the letters, enough of what she had written was left for him to get the gist. “Resigning from the Institute? How can you?”

“Better to resign than to have Consul Wayland come in over my head and force me out,” Charlotte said quietly.

“Don’t you mean ‘us’?” Henry looked hurt. “Should I have at least a say in this decision?”

“You’ve never taken an interest in the running of the Institute before. Why would you now?”

Henry looked as if she had slapped him, and it was all Charlotte could do not to get up and put her arms around him and kiss his freckled cheek. She remembered, when she had fallen in love with him, how she had thought he reminded her of an adorable puppy, with his hands just a bit too large for the rest of him, his wide hazel eyes, his eager demeanor. That the mind behind those eyes was as sharp and intelligent as her own was something she had always believed, even when others had laughed at Henry’s eccentricities. She had always thought it would be enough just to be near him always, and love him whether he loved her or not. But that had been before.

“Charlotte,” he said now. “I know why you’re angry with me.”

Her chin jerked up in surprise. Could he truly be that perceptive? Despite her conversation with Brother Enoch, she had thought no one had noticed. She had barely been able to think about it herself, much less how Henry would react when he knew. “You do?”

“I wouldn’t go with you to meet with Woolsey Scott.”

Relief and disappointment warred in Charlotte’s breast. “Henry,” she sighed. “That is hardly—”

“I didn’t realize,” he said. “Sometimes I get so caught up in my ideas. You’ve always known that about me, Lottie.”

Charlotte flushed. He so rarely called her that.

“I would change it if I could. Of all the people in the world, I did think you understood. You know—you know it isn’t just tinkering for me. You know I want to create something that will make the world better, that will make things better for the Nephilim. Just as you do, in directing the Institute. And though I know I will always come second for you—”

“Second for
me
?” Charlotte’s voice shot up to an incredulous squeak. “
You
come second for
me
?”

“It’s all right, Lottie,” Henry said with incredible gentleness. “I knew when you agreed to marry me that it was because you needed to be married to run the Institute, that no one would accept a woman alone in the position of director—”

“Henry.” Charlotte rose to her feet, trembling. “How can you say such terrible things to me?”

Henry looked baffled. “I thought that was just the way it was—”

“Do you think I don’t know why you married me?” Charlotte cried. “Do you think I don’t know about the money your father owed my father, or that my father promised to forgive the debt if you’d marry me? He always wanted a boy, someone to run the Institute after him, and if he couldn’t have that, well, why not
pay
to marry his unmarriageable daughter—too plain, too headstrong—off to some poor boy who was just doing his duty by his family—”

“CHARLOTTE.” Henry had turned brick red. She had never seen him so angry. “WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?”

Charlotte braced herself against the desk. “You know very well,” she said. “It is why you married me, isn’t it?”

“You’ve never said a word about this to me before today!”

“Why would I? It’s nothing you didn’t know.”

“It is, actually.” Henry’s eyes were blazing. “I know nothing of my father’s owing yours anything. I went to your father in good faith and asked him if he would do me the honor of allowing me to ask for your hand in marriage. There was never any discussion of money!”

Charlotte caught her breath. In the years they had been married, she had never said a word about the circumstances of her betrothal to Henry; there had never seemed a reason, and she had never before wanted to hear any stammered denials of what she knew was true. Hadn’t her father said it to her when he had told her of Henry’s proposal?
He is a good enough man, better than his father, and you need some sort of a husband, Charlotte, if you are going to direct the Institute. I’ve forgiven his father’s debts, so that matter is closed between our families.

Of course, he had never said, not in so many words, that that was
why
Henry had asked to marry her. She had assumed . . .

“You are not plain,” Henry said, his face still blazing. “You are beautiful. And I didn’t ask your father if I could marry you out of duty; I did it because I loved you. I’ve always loved you. I’m your
husband
.”

“I didn’t think you wanted to be,” she whispered.

Henry was shaking his head. “I know people call me eccentric. Peculiar. Even mad. All of those things. I’ve never minded. But for you to think I’d be so weak-willed—Do you even love me at all?”

“Of course I love you!” Charlotte cried. “That was never in question.”

“Wasn’t it? Do you think I don’t hear what people say? They speak about me as if I weren’t there, as if I were some sort of half-wit. I’ve heard Benedict Lightwood say enough times that you married me only so that you could pretend a man was running the Institute—”

Now it was Charlotte’s turn to be angry. “And you criticize me for thinking you weak-willed! Henry, I’d never marry you for that reason, never in a thousand years. I’d give up the Institute in a moment before I’d give up . . .”

Henry was staring at her, his hazel eyes wide, his ginger hair bristling as if he had run his hands madly through it so many times that he was in danger of pulling it out in chunks. “Before you’d give up what?”

“Before I’d give
you
up,” she said. “Don’t you know that?”

And then she said nothing else, for Henry put his arms around her and kissed her. Kissed her in such a way that she no longer felt plain, or conscious of her hair or the ink spot on her dress or anything but Henry, whom she had always loved. Tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks, and when he drew away, he touched her wet face wonderingly.

“Really,” he said. “You love me, too, Lottie?”

“Of course I do. I didn’t marry you so I’d have someone to run the Institute with, Henry. I married you because—because I knew I wouldn’t mind how difficult directing this place was, or how badly the Clave treated me, if I knew yours would be the last face I saw every night before I went to sleep.” She hit him lightly on the shoulder. “We’ve been married for years, Henry. What did you
think
I felt about you?”

He shrugged his thin shoulders and kissed the top of her head. “I thought you were fond of me,” he said gruffly. “I thought you might come to love me, in time.”

“That’s what I thought about you,” she said wonderingly. “Could we really both have been so stupid?”

“Well, I’m not surprised about
me
,” said Henry. “But honestly, Charlotte, you ought to have known better.”

She choked back a laugh. “Henry!” She squeezed his arms. “There’s something else I have to tell you, something very important—”

The door to the drawing room banged open. It was Will. Henry and Charlotte drew apart and stared at him. He looked exhausted—pale, with dark rings about his eyes—but there was a clarity in his face Charlotte had never seen before, a sort of brilliance in his expression. She braced herself for a sarcastic remark or cold observation, but instead he just smiled happily at them.

“Henry, Charlotte,” he said. “You haven’t seen Tessa, have you?”

“She’s likely in her room,” said Charlotte, bewildered. “Will, is something the matter? Oughtn’t you be resting? After the injuries you sustained—”

Will waved this away. “Your excellent
iratzes
did their work. I don’t require rest. I only wish to see Tessa, and to ask you—” He broke off, staring at the letter on Charlotte’s desk. With a few strides of his long legs, he had reached the desk and snatched it up, and read it with the same look of dismay Henry had worn. “Charlotte—no, you can’t give up the Institute!”

“The Clave will find you another place to live,” Charlotte said. “Or you may stay here until you turn eighteen, though the Lightwoods—”

“I wouldn’t want to live here without you and Henry. What d’you think I stay for? The ambiance?” Will shook the piece of paper till it crackled. “I even bloody miss Jessamine—Well, a bit. And the Lightwoods will sack our servants and replace them with their own. Charlotte, you can’t let it happen. This is our home. It’s Jem’s home, Sophie’s home.”

Charlotte stared. “Will, are you sure you haven’t a fever?”

“Charlotte.” Will slammed the paper back down onto the desk. “I
forbid
you to resign your directorship. Do you understand? Over all these years you’ve done everything for me as if I were your own blood, and I’ve never told you I was grateful. That goes for you as well, Henry. But I am grateful, and because of it I shall not let you make this mistake.”

“Will,” said Charlotte. “It is over. We have only three days to find Mortmain, and we cannot possibly do so. There simply is not time.”

“Hang Mortmain,” said Will. “And I mean that literally, of course, but also figuratively. The two-week limit on finding Mortmain was in essence set by Benedict Lightwood as a ridiculous test. A test that, as it turns out, was a cheat. He is working for Mortmain. This test was his attempt to leverage the Institute out from under you. If we but expose Benedict for what he is—Mortmain’s puppet—the Institute is yours again, and the search for Mortmain can continue.”

“We have Jessamine’s word that to expose Benedict is to play into Mortmain’s hands—”

“We cannot do nothing,” Will said firmly. “It is worth at least a conversation, don’t you think?” Charlotte couldn’t think of a word to say. This Will was not a Will she knew. He was firm, straightforward, intensity shining in his eyes. If Henry’s silence was anything to go by, he was just as surprised. Will nodded as if taking this for agreement.