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February 19 - February 22, 2020
I held it truth, with him who sings To one clear harp in divers tones, That men may rise on stepping-stones Of their dead selves to higher things. —Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “In Memoriam A.H.H.”
Marry on Monday for health, Tuesday for wealth, Wednesday the best day of all, Thursday for crosses, Friday for losses, and Saturday for no luck at all. —Folk rhyme
“Well, then it should be no great concern to you to make the bet, William.” She used his full name purposefully. She knew it bothered him, coming from her, though when his best friend—no, his parabatai; she had learned since coming to the Institute that these were quite different things—Jem did it, Will seemed to take it as a term of affection. Possibly it was because he still had memories of her toddling after him on chubby legs, calling Will, Will, after him in breathless Welsh. She had never called him “William,” only ever “Will” or his Welsh name, Gwilym.
The words she had wanted to say had dissolved on her tongue, and she had matched him, glare for glare. And so it had been since, Will barely enduring her presence as if she were a stone in his shoe, a constant but minor annoyance.
That’s life with brothers 🥰🥰
He looked like a prince in a fairy-tale book, and she might have considered developing an attachment to him, were it not so absolutely clear that he was entirely in love with Tessa Gray. His eyes followed her where she went, and his voice changed when he spoke to her. Cecily had once heard her mother say in amusement that one of their neighbors’ boys looked at a girl as if she were “the only star in the sky” and that was the way Jem looked at Tessa.
“Unfortunately, you may have to delay your plans for sororicide a bit longer. Gabriel Lightwood is downstairs, and I have two words for you. Two of your favorite words, at least when you put them together.” “ ‘Utter simpleton’?” inquired Will. “ ‘Worthless upstart’?” Jem grinned. “ ‘Demon pox,’ ” he said.
Gideon, who had half-raised his hand, let it drop to his side. He looked so woebegone that Sophie’s heart softened.
a certified idiot like Gabriel
“I am not a certified idiot—” “Lack of certification hardly proves intelligence,” Will muttered.
Jem, beside Tessa, hooked his smallest finger through hers. It was a habitual affectionate gesture, one that Tessa had grown used to over the past months, enough that she sometimes put out her hand without thinking when he was standing by her.
Will groaned something in Welsh—unintelligible, but clearly the tone of a man defeated.
And much of Madness, and more of Sin, And Horror the soul of the plot. —Edgar Allan Poe, “The Conqueror Worm”
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.
Usually how me and my brother look when we’re fighting 💀
“You don’t think I can fight,” Tessa said, drawing back and matching his silvery gaze with her own. “Because I’m a girl.” “I don’t think you can fight because you’re wearing a wedding dress,” said Jem. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think Will could fight in that dress either.” “Perhaps not,” said Will, who had ears like a bat’s. “But I would make a radiant bride.”
She truly must be in distress if she throws herself at Will WILL OF ALL PEOPLE like that
There was a brisk wind, the smell of leaves in the air. Tessa heard a rustle and glanced at the house behind her. Its smooth white facade rose high, broken only by the arches of balconies. “Will,” she whispered as he reached up and unlocked her hands from around his neck. He drew her gloves off, and they joined her mask and Jessie’s pins on the stone floor of the balcony. He pulled off his own mask next and cast it aside, running his hands through his damp black hair, pushing it back from his forehead. The lower edge of the mask had left marks across his high cheekbones, like light scars, but
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“A forty-foot worm?” Will muttered to Jem as they moved through the Italian garden, their boots—thanks to a pair of Soundless runes—making no noise on the gravel. “Think of the size of the fish we could catch.” Jem’s lips twitched. “It’s not funny, you know.” “It is a bit.” “You cannot reduce the situation to worm jokes, Will. This is Gabriel and Gideon’s father we’re discussing.” “We’re not just discussing him; we’re chasing him through an ornamental sculpture garden because he’s turned into a worm.” “A demonic worm,” said Jem, pausing to peer cautiously around a hedgerow. “A great serpent.
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“Halt!” Cecily cried. She held her blazing seraph blade out in front of her; she looked absolutely fearless. “Get back, damned creature!” The worm lashed down toward her. She stood fast, her blade in hand, as its great jaws descended—and Will leaped at her, knocking her out of the way.
Her eyes were blue fire.
Tessa had bent over her as if to protect her from the sight of her father, and much of the demon blood had splashed upon Tessa’s hair and clothes. She looked up, her face pale, and her eyes met Will’s. For a moment the garden, the noise, the stench of blood and demon, vanished away, and he was alone in a soundless place with only Tessa. He wanted to run to her, wrap her in his arms. Protect her. But it was Jem’s place to do those things, not his. Not his.
“Thank you, Will,” Jem murmured as Tessa drew the stumbling girl away as quickly as she could, and Will felt the words as three needle pricks inside his heart. Always when Will did something to protect Tessa, Jem thought it was for his sake, not for Will’s. Always Will wished Jem could be entirely right. Each needle prick had its own name. Guilt. Shame. Love.
“By the Angel, it just crushed Sophocles,” noted Will as the worm vanished behind a large structure shaped like a Greek temple. “Has no one respect for the classics these days?”
“We must pursue it,” said Gideon. “It has gone behind the folly—” “The what?” said Will. “A folly, Will,” said Jem. “It is a decorative structure. I assume there is no real interior.”
“Cecily, what are you doing?” Will demanded, interrupting Gideon; he knew he sounded like a distracted parent, but he didn’t care. Cecily had slid her blade into her belt and appeared to be trying to climb one of the small yew trees inside the first row of hedges. “Now is not the time for climbing trees!” She looked toward him angrily, her black hair blowing across her face. She opened her mouth to answer, but before she could speak, there was a sound like an earthquake, and the folly burst apart in shards of plaster.
“Tessa,” he exclaimed, and then he was beside her, helping her to her feet. “By the Angel, we’re a pair,”
“And clawed you,” Tessa said in concern. “You’re bleeding—” “No, I did that myself. Fell on my dagger,” Henry said sheepishly, drawing a stele from his belt. “Don’t tell Charlotte.”
THE INFERNAL DEVICES ARE WITHOUT PITY. THE INFERNAL DEVICES ARE WITHOUT REGRET. THE INFERNAL DEVICES ARE WITHOUT NUMBER. THE INFERNAL DEVICES WILL NEVER STOP COMING.
MAY GOD HAVE MERCY ON OUR SOULS.
As Will wiped burning ichor from his eyes with his free hand, Cecily dropped from the yew tree and landed squarely on the worm’s back. Will dropped the sword-cane in shock. He had never done that before, never dropped a weapon in the middle of a battle, but there was his little sister, clinging with grim determination to the back of a massive demon worm, like a tiny flea clinging to the fur of a dog. As he stared in horror, Cecily yanked a dagger from her belt and drove it viciously into the demon’s flesh. What does she think she’s doing? As if that tiny dagger could kill a thing that size!
“Let me go,” Will insisted, and tried to pull away, but Jem’s cool hand was cupping the back of his neck, and then there was the burn of a stele on his wrist, and the pain he had not even known he was feeling began to ebb. Jem let go of him with a small hiss of pain of his own; he had gotten some of the ichor on his fingers. Will paused, irresolute—but Jem waved him away, already applying his own stele to his hand.
HERONSTAIRS
“Get away from my sister,” he barked, and Gabriel stepped back, his mouth thinning into a hard line.
Her black hair had escaped from its braid, and she looked like the wild girl he remembered, fierce and unafraid of anything. “Are you hurt, cariad?” The word slipped out before he could stop it—a childhood endearment he had almost forgotten. “Cariad?” she echoed, her eyes flashing disbelief. “I am quite unhurt.”
“Cecily, what could you possibly have been—” “That was one of the bravest things I’ve seen a Shadowhunter do,” interrupted Gabriel. He was not looking at Will but at Cecily, with a mixture of surprise and something else in his expression.
She broke off, her eyes widening as she looked past Will. Jem coughed again, and this time Will heard it; he turned just in time to see his parabatai slump to his knees on the ground.
Not, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee; Not untwist—slack they may be—these last strands of man In me or, most weary, cry I can no more. I can; Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be. —Gerard Manley Hopkins, “Carrion Comfort”
Will stood beside him, his hand tightly gripping Jem’s shoulder. Tessa knew as she hurried toward them that it was not just a brotherly gesture. His grip would be much of what was keeping Jem upright.
then of what had happened to Jem, and everything for Tessa had gone white, as if she had been struck suddenly and hard across the face. They were words she had not heard in a long time, but half-expected always, and dreamed of sometimes in nightmares that left her bolting upright, fighting for air—“Jem,” “collapse,” “breathing,” “blood,” “Will,” “Will is with him,” “Will—” Of course Will was with him.
Will’s eyes met Tessa’s as she came closer, almost tripping again over her torn gown. For a moment they were in perfect understanding. Jem was what they could still look each other straight in the eye about. On the topic of Jem they were both fierce and unyielding. Tessa saw Will’s hand tighten on Jem’s sleeve. “She’s here,” he said. Jem’s eyes opened slowly. Tessa fought to keep the look of shock from her face. His pupils were blown out, his irises a thin ring of silver around the black. “Ni shou shang le ma, quin ai de?” he whispered.
“Are you hurt, my love?” Will said. His voice was as level as his eyes, and for a moment the blood came up in Tessa’s cheeks and she glanced down at her hand where it held Jem’s; his fingers were paler than hers, like a doll’s hands, made of porcelain. How had she not seen he was so ill? “Thank you for the translation, Will,” she answered, not looking away from her fiancé. Jem and Will were both splattered with black ichor, but Jem’s chin and throat were also stained with flecks of red blood. His own blood.
“I am not hurt,” Tessa whispered, and then she thought, No, this will not do, not at all. Be strong for him.
He helped Tessa get Jem into the carriage, very careful not to brush her shoulder or touch her hand as he did.
I would rather you told me the truth, all the truth, whether it is bitter or frightening, that I might share it with you. I would never let harm come to you, nor would any in the Institute.” He smiled. “Your pulse is quickening.” The truth, all the truth, whether it is bitter or frightening. “I love you,” she said. He looked at her with a light in his thin face that made it more beautiful. “Wo xi wang ni ming tian ke yi jia gei wo.”
“You want to get married? But we are already engaged. I do not think one can get engaged twice.” He laughed, which turned into a cough; Tessa’s whole body tightened, but the cough was slight, and there was no blood. “I said I would marry you tomorrow if I could.” Tessa pretended to toss her head. “Tomorrow is not convenient for me, sir.” “But you are already appropriately attired,” he said with a smile.
Tessa laid her head against his shoulder. “There will be another time,” she said. “Another day, another dress. A time when you are well and everything is perfect.” His voice was still gentle, but it held a terrible weariness. “There is no such thing as perfect, Tessa.”
“Earl Richard had a daughter; A comely maid was she. And she laid her love on Sweet William, Though not of his degree.”
Even if Bridget were singing about forbidden love between the social classes just at the same moment that Sophie was cursing herself for clutching the curtain fabric tightly in her hand, seeing gray-green eyes in her mind as she wondered and worried—Would Gideon be all right? Was he hurt? Could he fight his father? And how dreadful if he had to—
Will was driving. Sophie recognized him, hatless, his black hair wild in the wind. He leaped down from the driver’s seat and came around to help Tessa out of the carriage—even at this distance Sophie could see that a bleak wreck had been made of her golden gown—and then Jem, leaning heavily on his parabatai’s shoulder.
The threesome had disappeared inside the Institute.
The threesome disappeared to have a threesome 🤭
“That is enough,” Sophie said firmly. “You will do him no good at all if you let yourself become ill as well. I will help you with the dress. Come, let us manage it, and quickly.” Tessa’s eyes fluttered open. “Dear sensible Sophie. Of course you are right.”
“He is all right, you know. Not hurt at all.” “Master Jem?” Tessa shook her head. “Gideon Lightwood.” Sophie blushed.
