"I have had occasion to meet and speak with Mrs. Branwell," said Starkweather in his hoarse Yorkshire tones. "She does not strike me as someone who would easily overreact."
Looking as if he remembered exactly why he had been so glad Starkweather had ceased attending Council meetings, the Consul said tightly: "She is in a delicate way, and I believe she has become ... overset."
Chatter and confusion. The Inquisitor looked over at Wayland and gave him a narrow glance of disgust. The Consul returned his look with a glare. It was clear that the two men had been arguing: The Consul was flushed with anger, the look he bent toward the Inquisitor in return filled with betrayal. It was clear that Whitelaw did not agree with the Consul's words.
A woman rose to her feet from the crowded benches. She had white hair piled high on her head and an imperious manner. The Consul looked as if he were groaning inwardly. Callida Fairchild, Charlotte Branwell's aunt. "If you are suggesting," she said in a frozen voice, "that my niece is making hysterical and unreasonable decisions because she is carrying one of the next generation of Shadowhunters, Consul, I suggest you think again."
The Consul ground his teeth. "There is no evidence that Charlotte Branwell's statements that Mortmain is in Wales have any truth to them," he said. "It all stems from the reports of Will Herondale, who is only a boy, and a reprehensibly irresponsible one at that. All evidence, including the journals of Benedict Lightwood, point to an attack on London, and it is there we must marshal our forces."
A buzz went through the room, the words "an attack on London" repeated over and over. Amalia Morgenstern fanned herself with a lace handkerchief, while Lilian Highsmith, her fingers stroking the haft of a dagger protruding from the wrist of one glove, looked delighted.
"Evidence," snapped Callida. "My niece's word is evidence--"
There was another rustle, and a young woman rose to her feet. She wore a bright green dress and a defiant expression. The last time the Consul had seen her, she had been sobbing in this same Council room, demanding justice. Tatiana Blackthorn, nee Lightwood.
"The Consul is right about Charlotte Branwell!" she exclaimed. "Charlotte Branwell and William Herondale are the reason my husband is dead!"
"Oh?" It was Inquisitor Whitelaw, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Who exactly killed your husband? Was it Will?"
There was a murmur of astonishment. Tatiana looked outraged. "It was not my father's fault--"
"On the contrary," interrupted the Inquisitor. "This was kept from public knowledge, Mrs. Blackthorn, but you force my hand. We opened an investigation into the matter of your husband's death, and it was determined that your father was indeed at fault, most grievous fault. If it were not for the actions of your brothers--and of William Herondale and Charlotte Branwell, among the others of the London Institute--the name of Lightwood would be stricken from the Shadowhunter records and you would be living the rest of your life as a friendless mundane."
Tatiana turned beet red and clenched her fists. "William Herondale has--he has offered me insults unspeakable to a lady--"
"I fail to see how that is germane to the matter at hand," said the Inquisitor. "One may be rude in one's personal life but also correct about larger matters."
"You took our house!" Tatiana screeched. "I am forced to rely on the generosity of my husband's family like some starving beggar--"
The Inquisitor's eyes were glittering to match the stones in his rings. "Your house was confiscated, Mrs. Blackthorn, not stolen. We searched the Lightwood family house," he went on, raising his voice. "It was full of evidence of the elder Mr. Lightwood's connections to Mortmain, journals detailing acts vile and filthy and unspeakable. The Consul cites the man's journals as evidence that there will be an attack on London, but by the time Benedict Lightwood died, he was mad with demon pox. Nor is it likely Mortmain would have confided his true plans to him, even had he been sane."
Looking nearly desperate, Consul Wayland interrupted. "The matter of Benedict Lightwood is closed--closed, and irrelevant. We are here to discuss the matters of Mortmain and the Institute! First, as Charlotte Branwell has been removed from the position, and the situation facing us is centered most heavily upon London, we require a new leader of the London Enclave. I am going to throw the floor open. Does anyone wish to step forward as her replacement?"
There was a rustle and murmur. George Penhallow had begun to rise to his feet--when the Inquisitor burst in furiously: "This is ridiculous, Josiah. There is no proof yet that Mortmain is not where Charlotte says he will be. We have not even begun to discuss sending reinforcements after her--"
"After her? What do you mean after her?"
The Inquisitor swept an arm out at the throng. "She is not here. Where do you think the inhabitants of the London Institute are? They have gone to Cadair Idris, after the Magister. And yet, instead of discussing whether we shall give them aid, we convene a Council to discuss Charlotte's replacement?"
The Consul's temper snapped. "There will be no aid!" he roared. "There will never be aid for those who--"
But the Council never found out who was destined to go unaided, for at that moment a steel blade, deadly sharp, whipped through the air behind the Consul and neatly severed his head from his body.
The Inquisitor jerked back, reaching for his staff, as blood sheeted across him; the Consul's body fell, tumbling to the ground in two severed parts: his body slumping to the blood-wet floor of the podium while his severed head rolled away like a tennis ball. As he collapsed, revealed behind him was an automaton--as spindly as a human skeleton, dressed in the ragged remains of a red military tunic. It grinned like a skull as it retracted its scarlet-drenched blade and looked out upon the silent, stunned crowd of Shadowhunters.
The only other sound in the room came from Aloysius Starkweather, who was laughing, steadily and softly, apparently to himself. "She told you," he wheezed. "She told you what would happen--"
A moment later the automaton had moved forward, its clawed hand shooting out to close about Aloysius's throat. Blood burst from the old man's throat as the creature lifted him off his feet, still grinning. The Shadowhunters began to shout--and then the doors burst open and a flood of clockwork creatures poured into the room.
"Well," said a very amused voice. "This is unexpected."
Tessa sat bolt upright, pulling the heavy coverlet around her. Beside her, Will stirred, propping himself up on his elbows, eyelids fluttering open slowly. "What--"
The room was filled with bright light. The torches had come on at full strength, and it was like the place was lit with daylight. Tessa could see the wreck of the room that they had made: their clothes scattered across the floor and the bed, the rug before the fireplace rucked up, the bedclothes wound about them. On the other side of the invisible wall was lounging a familiar figure in an elegant dark suit, one thumb hooked into the waistband of his trousers. His cat-pupilled eyes glimmered with mirth.
Magnus Bane.
"You might want to get up," he said. "Everyone will be here quite soon to rescue you, and you may prefer to have clothes on when they arrive." He shrugged. "I would, at any rate, but then, I am well known to be remarkably shy."
Will swore in Welsh. He was sitting up now, the covers tucked about his waist, and had done his best to move his body to shield Tessa from Magnus's gaze. He was without a shirt, of course, and in the brighter light Tessa could see where the tan on his hands and face faded into the paler white of his chest and shoulders. The white star mark on his shoulder gleamed out like a light, and she saw Magnus's eyes go to it, and narrow.
"Interesting," he said.
Will made an incoherent noise of protest. "Interesting? By the Angel, Magnus--"
Magnus gave him a wry look. There was something in it--something that made Tessa feel as if Magnus knew something they didn't. "If I were a different person, I would have a lot to say to you right now," he said.
"I appreciate your restraint."
"You won't soon," said Magnus shortly. Th
en he reached up as if he were knocking on a door, and tapped the invisible wall between them. It was like watching someone plunge their hand into water--ripples spread out from the place where his fingers touched, and suddenly the wall slid away and was gone, in a shower of blue sparks. "Here," the warlock said, and tossed a tied leather sack onto the foot of the bed. "I brought gear. I thought you might be in need of clothing, but I didn't realize quite how in need."
Tessa glared at him around Will's shoulder. "How did you find us here? How did you know--which of the others are with you? Are they all right?"
"Yes. Quite a few of them are, hurrying through this place, looking for you. Now get dressed," he said, and turned his back, giving them privacy. Tessa, mortified, reached for the sack on the bed, scrabbled through it until she found her gear, and then stood up with the sheet wrapped around her body and dashed behind the tall Chinese screen in the corner of the room.
She did not look at Will as she went; she couldn't bring herself to. How could she look at him without thinking of what they'd done? Wondering if he was horrified, if he couldn't believe either of them would do such a thing after Jem--
Viciously she yanked on the gear. Thank goodness that gear, unlike dresses, could be assembled on the body without recourse to help from anyone else. Through the screen she heard Magnus explaining to Will that he and Henry had managed, through a combination of magic and invention, to create a Portal that would transport them from London to Cadair Idris. She could see them only in silhouette, but she saw Will nodding in relief as Magnus listed those who had come with him--Henry, Charlotte, the Lightwood brothers, Cyril, Sophie, Cecily, Bridget, and a group of the Silent Brothers.