Chapter Text
Issalinde could see ghosts.
It wasn’t so very unusual. Will could, too, though it wasn’t a common skill among the Nephilim. Apparently, it ran in the Herondale line.
At the moment, William Herondale just wished the ghosts would be quiet. Issalinde pranced along at his heels, staring with her blue eyes at any spirit that came too close in the mists of the graveyard at night. On occasion, she’d let out a sharp hiss or snarl, though Will did his best not to show any discomfort.
This graveyard, tucked away somewhere near London Bridge, wasn’t a peaceful resting place. It was where suicides, stillbirths, people with no families, or the homeless poor were buried. Ghosts shouted, wailed, tried to pull at his arm in the cases of the younger ones. He walked on, silent, until the hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and he caught sight of the figure of a hunched old woman.
“‘Hello, Mol,” he said. The shade lifted its head, showing empty eyes with blue flames. “You’re looking particularly fine this evening.”
Mol was not impressed. “William ‘Erondale,” she croaked. “Back again?”
“You know I missed your pretty face."
She grinned, and for a moment, her skin flickered to show the skull beneath. Her hand was outstretched - always was, as if to rest on a daemon she no longer had. After death, daemons faded away, but those spirits who lingered perhaps had the worst fate. They were cursed to remember them, to yearn for them, but never to reach them again. Will had enough memories of family forever out of his reach. He pulled Issalinde up into his arms.
“What d’you want, then?” Mol dragged him out of his thoughts as she spat a tendril of blue fire to the side. Will had to wonder if that skill was limited to ghosts - it was highly atmospheric. “Malphas venom? I ‘ave the talon of a Morax. Very rare.”
“No,” said Will. “I need Foraii demon powders, ground fine.”
“Now, what’s an upstanding young man such as yourself wanting with stuff like that?”
Will just sighed. Magnus had already sent him to Old Mol several times, once for tarlike candles that stuck to his skin, and once for the bones of an unborn child. Demon powders were pleasant by comparison. “I’ll give you a good price.” He held up a bag, inside which metal rattled. “They all fit your description.”
The ghost seized it, making Will flinch at the iciness of her skin. From within, she pulled a fistful of wedding rings. Like many ghosts, she was always seeking a talisman, the one thing that kept her tied to the world. Privately, Will expected that the ring she wanted was somewhere at the bottom of the Thames, but in the meantime, she’d accept any ring that might possibly be what she sought.
Without another word, the ghost pulled a packet from somewhere, and the bag vanished to some equally unknown locale. Mol shimmered, then faded out of sight.
Will turned, ignoring the other spirits clamoring for his attention, and walked back out into the streets of London, packet in hand.
“Is this really where the Council meets?” Tessa looked up at Westminster Abbey, its many spires silhouetted against hazy sunlight. “It just seems so…”
“Mundane?” offered Jem, standing beside her.
“I was going to say crowded.”
That made him laugh. Tessa relished the sound of it, of the sort of good-natured happiness Jem seemed to exude as easily as breathing. Over the past few weeks, she’d spent most of her time with Jem, and slowly but surely, she was easing out of the despair she’d fallen into after her brother’s betrayal, her feigned death, and Will’s… well. The event with Will.
It was mostly thanks to Jem, and she was glad to think she could bring him any joy in return, even a little. Chali, who had been curiously fluttering around, returned to her side and sang a cheerful few notes to Kasimela.
“I know we’re late,” said Jem. “But I wanted to show you something.” They slipped along the back of a group of upper-class tourists, and Tessa followed him into the eastern side of the building, where the floor tiles were engraved with names. “Poet’s Corner.”
Tessa stared in delight. “Oh, Coleridge! And Spenser, and Shakespeare -”
“He isn’t really buried here,” said Jem, quickly. “It’s just a monument.”
“Still!” Tessa beamed at him, and he blushed. Jem was so pale that he could never hide even the slightest blush, she thought, with great affection. She wanted to reach out and kiss the redness on his face, but… Jem was Will’s. Perhaps. Tessa wasn’t entirely sure who was whose in their odd little dance for three - perhaps she was thinking of it wrong, and no one was anyone’s - but she knew full well that Will certainly wasn’t hers, and wherever that left her and Jem…
As if her conflicted thoughts had summoned him up, a shadow slipped from between two nearby columns.
“Mortality, behold and fear/What a change in flesh is here:/Think how many royal bones/sleep within these heaps of stones," said the shadow. Jem just smiled at it, and Will stepped languidly out into the light.
“Decided to join us after all?” He asked, but there was no sharpness to his voice. “Or were you just waiting there to ominously quote poetry at passersby?”
“The latter.” Will looked tired and drawn, as though he hadn’t been sleeping enough of late. Issalinde, as well, had been brighter-eyed in the past - now, they both looked a little too rough, a little too careworn. “You’re late for the Council meeting.”
“So are you. Shall we?” Jem took Tessa’s arm with a smile, and the three of them wandered through a little square garden, then into a doorway that no one else seemed to see. It led to a rather eerie tunnel, sloping downwards, which in turn ended in another set of doors.
These were emblazoned with a pattern of four C’s, making Tessa pause.
“Clave, Council, Covenant, Consul,” said Jem.
“The Consul’s the leader, isn’t he? Like a sort of king?”
“Not quite so inbred,” said Will, who was leaning against the stone wall as he usually did. Tessa wondered uncharitably if he thought the walls would fall over if he wasn’t leaning on them at all times. “The Consul’s elected, like the prime minister.”
“And the Council?”
“You’ll see them soon enough. All the Nephilim in other countries won’t bother convening here, of course, there isn't room, but there will be representatives. They want to talk about Mortmain.”
Of course they did. Tessa held out a hand to Chali as Jem opened the door, murmuring to him, “don’t change.”
Chali just gave her an offended look. Whether it was irritation that she thought he would, or irritation that she expected him not to in the first place, she wasn’t sure.
Then the three of them stepped through and into the room, and she was too busy staring to worry much about it. The room was enormous. It was set up like an amphitheater, with rows of benches descending down to a platform, upon which several uncomfortable, straight-backed chairs were arranged. In the chairs sat Charlotte and Henry. At a sort of lectern, beyond those, stood a man in black robes like a judge. He was broad-shouldered and bearded, with a calm expression and blond hair that was close-cropped to his head. His wolf daemon, at his side, stood silent.
“Mr. Herondale,” said the man. “How kind of you to join us. And Mr. Carstairs, as well, and this must be…”
“Tessa Gray,” Tessa said, before he could finish. There was a muttering around the room at her interruption. She saw a few familiar faces - Benedict Lightwood, and his son Gabriel, with his bird of prey daemon glaring straight ahead. A few members of the London Enclave. Will had been right, though, that there were representatives from all over. An Indian woman with runes etched into her earrings. A dark-skinned man with a pleasant face. Another dark-haired woman whose features reminded her of Jem’s - and indeed, she was looking at Jem, face shocked and full of sadness.
Jem didn’t look back at her, though Tessa could tell he had noticed the woman’s stare. It took Tessa a moment, but she finally realized that the mysterious woman was likely from the Shanghai Enclave. She had known Jem, before. Had seen him as a child, before the color was bleached out of his hair and eyes by the yin fen.
Tessa suddenly wanted to go up to her, ask her what she remembered. But it seemed horribly rude, and anyway, the Consul was talking again. “I am Consul Wayland. I understand you have already answered questions for the London Enclave, but I hope you are willing to answer a few more.”
Tessa met Charlotte’s eyes across the room. When she saw no disagreement, she nodded, and walked down towards the lectern at the Consul’s gesture. Will and Jem fell into step beside her.
And then it was time to repeat all that she had said before. No, she didn’t know why Mortmain wanted to find her. No, she didn’t know where her brother Nate was, and she hadn’t suspected him of treachery. No, she didn’t know what she was, and hadn’t known of any powers she had until she had been brought to London. No, no, no.
After an exhausting quarter-hour, Tessa was permitted to sit in the lowest row. Jessamine was already there, looking for all the world as if she was watching a somewhat dull play. Will scowled at her as they took their seats.
“I have decided,” said Consul Wayland, “that Charlotte and Henry Branwell will be censured. For the next three months, all official acts they propose will have to go through me for approval before -”
“My lord Consul,” said someone, interrupting him mid-speech again. This time, it was Benedict Lightwood. “If I might speak?”
“Mr. Lightwood. You had your chance to speak during the testimonials.”
“I had no issue with the testimonials,” said Benedict. “Only with the sentence.”
The Consul leaned forward, cutting a slightly imposing figure over the lectern. “Yes?”
“You’ve let your friendship with the Fairchild family blind you to Charlotte’s shortcomings,” he said. “And Henry’s as well, but we all know his involvement is minimal at best. She has let a dangerous criminal escape, endangered our relationships with the city’s Downworlders, was fooled by a spy in her own home, and seems to have no progress on fixing any of it.”
Charlotte looked dismayed. Henry’s face was red, and Will looked furiously towards them both. The Consul’s eyes darkened. “Your hostility towards the head of your Enclave does you no credit, Benedict.”
“Apologies, Consul, but it is my belief that she should not be permitted to run the Institute.”
Will made as if to jump up and shout at Benedict, but Jem caught his wrist immediately, hissing something under his breath. Jessamine, meanwhile, looked delighted. Jascuro fluttered his wings cheerfully.
“This is finally exciting!” She whispered to Tessa, who looked at her with disgust.
“Are you hearing any of this? He’s talking about Charlotte!” Jessamine just waved her off, as the Consul began to speak again.
“And who would you suggest run it in her stead, then? Yourself, I presume?” His tone was icy. The moment he’d finished speaking, however, three figures had risen to their feet. Members of the Enclave, Lilian Highsmith and two men Tessa didn’t know by name.
“Three witnesses to support my claim,” said Benedict, his snake daemon wrapped around his neck like a hanged man’s noose. Charlotte flinched.
“No,” said the Consul.
“You cannot prevent me -”
“You’ve challenged my appointment of Charlotte from the moment I made it. Now, when unity is more important than ever, you try again.” Benedict opened his mouth, but this time Consul Wayland didn’t allow himself to be spoken over. “You suggest that the responsibility of finding Mortmain should be left upon the shoulders of those you claim lost him? And in that case, you agree that finding Mortmain is our highest priority, not who is running the Institute?”
Benedict nodded.
“Then,” said the Consul, “Let Charlotte and Henry Branwell have charge of the investigation into his whereabouts alone. If, after two weeks, he has not been found, and there is no strong evidence leading to him, your challenge will stand and you can attempt to track him down.”
“Alone?” asked Charlotte, her voice breaking. “With no assistance from the Clave?” Raimond’s head was low, his tail down.
Lilian Highsmith whirled her head around. “I don’t like this,” she said. “You’re turning the search for a madman into a game of power.”
“Do you wish to withdraw your support for Mr. Lightwood? The challenge would be null, and they would have no need to prove themselves.” The Consul’s eyes were flinty. After a moment, she went pale and shook her head.
“We have just lost some members of the Institute,” started Charlotte.
“Additional servants will be provided to you. They will be trained in combat, as yours should have been.”
“Thomas and Agatha were trained -” Charlotte began again, but Benedict shook his head.
“Yet there are others in your household who are not. I hear Miss Lovelace is woefully behind on her training, your maid is still untrained, and that Downworlder you seem to want to make a permanent addition to your household ought to know how to defend itself. My sons Gabriel, and Gideon, who returns from Spain tonight, can tutor them, since you will be so busy seeking Mortmain.”
Tessa glared at him. It was a bizarre thing, to be called it, and not a pleasant one. Will started back up, and once again, Jem pulled him back, though his eyes as well were cold and furious. She was so preoccupied with anger that it took her a moment to realize what he’d said.
“I can’t. I’ll chop my foot off,” she muttered.
“Chop off Gabriel’s foot instead,” said Will, making no effort to speak quietly. Gabriel, however, was looking at his father with shock and betrayal, and didn’t reply.
“We can train our own,” said Charlotte, red in the face.
“Mr. Lightwood is offering you a generous gift. Accept it.”
There was a beat of silence. Finally, Charlotte nodded, and the Consul turned towards the rest of the Council. “Dismissed.”
A quiet babbling of voices filled the room as people began to file out. Slowly, Charlotte rose to her feet, Henry’s hand comfortingly on her back. Jessamine was already standing, twirling her new white parasol - Henry had replaced the broken one. As they left the room, Charlotte’s back straight and chin held high, there were whispers around them.
How humiliating. What a pantomime. Two weeks. Is this really the time? They’ll never manage it. It’s the Consul, always soft on the Fairchilds. Charlotte’s father’s friend. Lightwood. At least it won't last long, and we can really get down to business finding him afterwards.
Will looked as if he wanted to jump at the whisperers and administer justice via his fists, but he didn’t, perhaps thanks to Jem’s hand on his arm. Jessamine looked bored again. Tessa had no idea what expression was on her face, but she too held her head high as they left the room and turned a corner.
Then Charlotte stopped dead, whirled, and kicked the stone wall with a quiet shriek. Raimond growled furiously.
“Oh my,” said Jessamine, as if she’d just seen some mild misfortune.
“If I might make a suggestion,” said Will, still full of furious, contained energy. “A distance behind us, in the Council room, is Benedict Lightwood. If you want to kick him instead, I suggest aiming higher and a bit to the left.”
“Charlotte.” The deep voice wasn’t any of theirs, but Consul Wayland’s. He had appeared seemingly out of nowhere, dark robe swishing. “You know what your father always said about losing your temper.”
“He did say that,” said Charlotte. “He also said that he should have had a son. If he had, would you have treated me as you just did?”
“And how did I treat you?” Raimond was snarling at the wolf daemon now, but the Consul didn’t react in any way.
“Like a child who needed scolding. You’ve set me an impossible task, just to put on some show for Benedict Lightwood.”
“Benedict Lightwood is a blackguard and a hypocrite,” said Consul Wayland. “But he’s powerful, and it’s better to appease him. As for what I ask of you...” he tilted his head. “I have set you the task of finding the Magister. A man who broke into your Institute, killed your servants, and is endangering us all with his devices. As head of the Enclave, finding him is your task. If you think it impossible, perhaps you should ask yourself why you want to keep the Institute in the first place.”