“December is a fortuitous time for a marriage,” said the seamstress, speaking around her mouthful of pins
with the ease of years of practice. “As they say, ‘When December snows fall fast, marry, and true love
will last.’” She placed a final pin in the gown and took a step back. “There. What do you think? It is
modeled after one of Worth’s own designs.”
Tessa looked at her reflection in the pier glass in her bedroom. The dress was a deep gold silk, as was
the custom for Shadowhunters, who believed white to be the color of mourning, and would not marry in it,
despite Queen Victoria herself having set the fashion for doing just that. Duchesse lace edged the tightly
fitted bodice and dripped from the sleeves.
“It’s lovely!” Charlotte clapped her hands together and leaned forward. Her brown eyes shone with
delight. “Tessa, the color looks so fine on you.”
Tessa turned and twisted in front of the mirror. The gold put some much-needed color into her cheeks.
The hourglass corset shaped and curved her everywhere it was supposed to, and the clockwork angel
around her throat comforted her with its ticking. Below it dangled the jade pendant that Jem had given her.
She had lengthened the chain so she could wear them both at once, not being willing to part with either.
“You don’t think, perhaps, that the lace is a trifle too much adornment?”
“Not at all!” Charlotte sat back, one hand resting protectively, unconsciously, over her belly. She had
always been too slim—skinny, in truth—to really need a corset, and now that she was going to have a
child, she had taken to wearing tea gowns, in which she looked like a little bird. “It is your wedding day,
Tessa. If there is ever an excuse for excessive adornment, it is that. Just imagine it.”
Tessa had spent many nights doing just that. She was not yet sure where she and Jem would be married,
for the Council was still deliberating their situation. But when she imagined the wedding, it was always in
a church, with her being marched down the aisle, perhaps on Henry’s arm, looking neither to the left or
right but straight ahead at her betrothed, as a proper bride should. Jem would be wearing gear—not the
sort one fought in, but specially designed, in the manner of a military uniform, for the occasion: black with
bands of gold at the wrists, and gold runes picked out along the collar and placket.
He would look so young. They were both so young. Tessa knew it was unusual to marry at seventeen
and eighteen, but they were racing a clock.
The clock of Jem’s life, before it wound down.
She put her hand to her throat, and felt the familiar vibration of her clockwork angel, its wings
scratching her palm. The seamstress looked up at her anxiously. She was mundane, not Nephilim, but had
the Sight, as all who served the Shadowhunters did. “Would you like the lace removed, miss?”Before Tessa could answer, there was a knock at the door, and a familiar voice. “It’s Jem. Tessa, are
you there?”
Charlotte sat bolt upright. “Oh! He mustn’t see you in your dress!”
Tessa stood dumbfounded. “Whyever not?”
“It’s a Shadowhunter custom—bad luck!” Charlotte rose to her feet. “Quickly! Hide behind the
wardrobe!”
“The wardrobe? But—” Tessa broke off with a yelp as Charlotte seized her about the waist and frog-
marched her behind the wardrobe like a policeman with a particularly resistant criminal. Released, Tessa
dusted off her dress and made a face at Charlotte, and they both peeked around the side of the furniture as
the seamstress, after a bewildered look, opened the door.
Jem’s silvery head appeared in the gap. He looked a bit disheveled, his jacket askew. He glanced
around in puzzlement before his gaze lighted on Charlotte and Tessa, half-concealed behind the wardrobe.
“Thank goodness,” he said. “I’d no idea where any of you had gone. Gabriel Lightwood’s downstairs, and
he’s making the most dreadful row.”
“Write to them, Will,” said Cecily Herondale. “Please. Just one letter.”
Will tossed his sweat-soaked dark hair back and glared at her. “Get your feet into position,” was all he
said. He pointed, with the tip of his dagger. “There, and there.”
Cecily sighed, and moved her feet. She had known she was out of position; she’d been doing in
intentionally, to needle Will. It was easy to needle her brother. That much she remembered about him
from when he was twelve years old. Even then daring him to do something, like climb the steeply pitched
roof of their manor house, had resulted in the same thing: an angry blue flame in his eyes, a set jaw, and
sometimes Will with a broken leg or arm at the end of it.
Of course this brother, the nearly adult Will, was not the brother she remembered from her childhood.
He had grown both more explosive and more withdrawn. He had all their mother’s beauty, and all their
father’s stubbornness—and, she feared, their father’s propensity for vices, though she had guessed that
only from whispers among the occupants of the Institute.
“Raise your blade,” Will said. His voice was as cool and professional as her governess’s.
Cecily raised it. It had taken her some time to get used to the feel of gear against her skin: the loose
tunic and trousers, the belt around her waist. Now she moved in it as comfortably as she had ever moved
in the loosest nightgown. “I don’t understand why you won’t consider writing a letter. A single letter.”
“I don’t understand why you won’t consider going home,” Will said. “If you would just agree to return
to Yorkshire yourself, you could stop worrying about our parents and I could arrange—”
Cecily interrupted him, having heard this speech a thousand times. “Would you consider a wager,
Will?”
Cecily was both pleased and a little disappointed to see Will’s eyes spark, just the way her father’s
always did when a gentleman’s bet was suggested. Men were so easy to predict.
“What sort of a wager?” Will took a step forward. He was wearing gear; Cecily could see the Marks
that twined his wrists, the mnemosyne rune on his throat. It had taken her some time to see the Marks as
something other than disfiguring, but she was used to them now—as she had grown used to the gear, to the
great echoing halls of the Institute, and to its peculiar denizens.
She pointed at the wall in front of them. An ancient target had been painted on the wall in black: abull’s-eye inside a larger circle. “If I hit the center of that three times, you have to write a letter to Dad
and Mam and tell them how you are. You must tell them of the curse and why you left.”
Will’s face closed like a door, the way it always did when she made this request. But, “You’ll never
hit it three times without missing, Cecy.”
“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.
His eyes narrowed, those dark blue eyes the same color as her own. When their mother had said
affectionately that Will would be a breaker of hearts when he was grown, Cecily had always looked at
her dubiously. Will had been all arms and legs then, skinny and disheveled and always dirty. She could
see it now, though, had seen it when she had first walked into the dining room of the Institute and he had
stood up in astonishment, and she had thought: That can’t be Will.
He had turned those eyes on her, her mother’s eyes, and she had seen the anger in them. He had not been
pleased to see her, not at all. And where in her memories there had been a skinny boy with a wild tangle
of black hair like a Gypsy’s and leaves in his clothes, there was now this tall, frightening man instead.
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.
Cecily took a deep breath, raised her chin, and prepared to throw the first knife. Will did not know,
would never know, of the hours she had spent in this room, alone, practicing, learning to balance the
weight of the knife in her hand, discovering that a good knife throw began from behind the body. She held
both arms straight down and drew her right arm back, behind her head, before bringing it, and the weight
of her body, forward. The tip of the knife was in line with the target. She released it and snapped her hand
back, sucking in a gasp.
The knife stuck, point-down in the wall, exactly in the center of the target.
“One,” Cecily said, giving Will a superior smile.
He looked at her stonily, yanked the knife from the wall, and handed it to her again.
Cecily threw it. The second throw, like the first, flew directly to its target and stuck there, vibrating
like a mocking finger.
“Two,” Cecily said in a sepulchral tone.
Will’s jaw set as he took the knife again and presented it to her. She took it with a smile. Confidence
was flowing through her veins like new blood. She knew she could do this. She had always been able to
climb as high as Will, run as fast, hold her breath as long….
She threw the knife. It struck its target, and she leaped into the air, clapping her hands, forgetting herself
for a moment in the thrill of victory. Her hair came down fro
“December is a fortuitous time for a marriage,” said the seamstress, speaking around her mouthful of pinswith the ease of years of practice. “As they say, ‘When December snows fall fast, marry, and true lovewill last.’” She placed a final pin in the gown and took a step back. “There. What do you think? It ismodeled after one of Worth’s own designs.”Tessa looked at her reflection in the pier glass in her bedroom. The dress was a deep gold silk, as wasthe custom for Shadowhunters, who believed white to be the color of mourning, and would not marry in it,despite Queen Victoria herself having set the fashion for doing just that. Duchesse lace edged the tightlyfitted bodice and dripped from the sleeves.“It’s lovely!” Charlotte clapped her hands together and leaned forward. Her brown eyes shone withdelight. “Tessa, the color looks so fine on you.”Tessa turned and twisted in front of the mirror. The gold put some much-needed color into her cheeks.The hourglass corset shaped and curved her everywhere it was supposed to, and the clockwork angelaround her throat comforted her with its ticking. Below it dangled the jade pendant that Jem had given her.She had lengthened the chain so she could wear them both at once, not being willing to part with either.“You don’t think, perhaps, that the lace is a trifle too much adornment?”“Not at all!” Charlotte sat back, one hand resting protectively, unconsciously, over her belly. She hadalways been too slim—skinny, in truth—to really need a corset, and now that she was going to have achild, she had taken to wearing tea gowns, in which she looked like a little bird. “It is your wedding day,Tessa. If there is ever an excuse for excessive adornment, it is that. Just imagine it.”Tessa had spent many nights doing just that. She was not yet sure where she and Jem would be married,for the Council was still deliberating their situation. But when she imagined the wedding, it was always ina church, with her being marched down the aisle, perhaps on Henry’s arm, looking neither to the left orright but straight ahead at her betrothed, as a proper bride should. Jem would be wearing gear—not thesort one fought in, but specially designed, in the manner of a military uniform, for the occasion: black withbands of gold at the wrists, and gold runes picked out along the collar and placket.He would look so young. They were both so young. Tessa knew it was unusual to marry at seventeenand eighteen, but they were racing a clock.The clock of Jem’s life, before it wound down.She put her hand to her throat, and felt the familiar vibration of her clockwork angel, its wingsscratching her palm. The seamstress looked up at her anxiously. She was mundane, not Nephilim, but hadthe Sight, as all who served the Shadowhunters did. “Would you like the lace removed, miss?”Before Tessa could answer, there was a knock at the door, and a familiar voice. “It’s Jem. Tessa, areyou there?”Charlotte sat bolt upright. “Oh! He mustn’t see you in your dress!”Tessa stood dumbfounded. “Whyever not?”“It’s a Shadowhunter custom—bad luck!” Charlotte rose to her feet. “Quickly! Hide behind thewardrobe!”“The wardrobe? But—” Tessa broke off with a yelp as Charlotte seized her about the waist and frog-marched her behind the wardrobe like a policeman with a particularly resistant criminal. Released, Tessadusted off her dress and made a face at Charlotte, and they both peeked around the side of the furniture asthe seamstress, after a bewildered look, opened the door.Jem’s silvery head appeared in the gap. He looked a bit disheveled, his jacket askew. He glancedaround in puzzlement before his gaze lighted on Charlotte and Tessa, half-concealed behind the wardrobe.“Thank goodness,” he said. “I’d no idea where any of you had gone. Gabriel Lightwood’s downstairs, andhe’s making the most dreadful row.”“Write to them, Will,” said Cecily Herondale. “Please. Just one letter.”Will tossed his sweat-soaked dark hair back and glared at her. “Get your feet into position,” was all hesaid. He pointed, with the tip of his dagger. “There, and there.”Cecily sighed, and moved her feet. She had known she was out of position; she’d been doing inintentionally, to needle Will. It was easy to needle her brother. That much she remembered about himfrom when he was twelve years old. Even then daring him to do something, like climb the steeply pitchedroof of their manor house, had resulted in the same thing: an angry blue flame in his eyes, a set jaw, andsometimes Will with a broken leg or arm at the end of it.Of course this brother, the nearly adult Will, was not the brother she remembered from her childhood.He had grown both more explosive and more withdrawn. He had all their mother’s beauty, and all theirfather’s stubbornness—and, she feared, their father’s propensity for vices, though she had guessed thatonly from whispers among the occupants of the Institute.“Raise your blade,” Will said. His voice was as cool and professional as her governess’s.Cecily raised it. It had taken her some time to get used to the feel of gear against her skin: the loosetunic and trousers, the belt around her waist. Now she moved in it as comfortably as she had ever movedin the loosest nightgown. “I don’t understand why you won’t consider writing a letter. A single letter.”“I don’t understand why you won’t consider going home,” Will said. “If you would just agree to returnto Yorkshire yourself, you could stop worrying about our parents and I could arrange—”Cecily interrupted him, having heard this speech a thousand times. “Would you consider a wager,Will?”Cecily was both pleased and a little disappointed to see Will’s eyes spark, just the way her father’salways did when a gentleman’s bet was suggested. Men were so easy to predict.“What sort of a wager?” Will took a step forward. He was wearing gear; Cecily could see the Marksthat twined his wrists, the mnemosyne rune on his throat. It had taken her some time to see the Marks assomething other than disfiguring, but she was used to them now—as she had grown used to the gear, to thegreat echoing halls of the Institute, and to its peculiar denizens.She pointed at the wall in front of them. An ancient target had been painted on the wall in black: abull’s-eye inside a larger circle. “If I hit the center of that three times, you have to write a letter to Dadand Mam and tell them how you are. You must tell them of the curse and why you left.”Will’s face closed like a door, the way it always did when she made this request. But, “You’ll neverhit it three times without missing, Cecy.”“Well, then it should be no great concern to you to make the bet, William.” She used his full namepurposefully. 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, Willseemed to take it as a term of affection. Possibly it was because he still had memories of her toddlingafter 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.
His eyes narrowed, those dark blue eyes the same color as her own. When their mother had said
affectionately that Will would be a breaker of hearts when he was grown, Cecily had always looked at
her dubiously. Will had been all arms and legs then, skinny and disheveled and always dirty. She could
see it now, though, had seen it when she had first walked into the dining room of the Institute and he had
stood up in astonishment, and she had thought: That can’t be Will.
He had turned those eyes on her, her mother’s eyes, and she had seen the anger in them. He had not been
pleased to see her, not at all. And where in her memories there had been a skinny boy with a wild tangle
of black hair like a Gypsy’s and leaves in his clothes, there was now this tall, frightening man instead.
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.
Cecily took a deep breath, raised her chin, and prepared to throw the first knife. Will did not know,
would never know, of the hours she had spent in this room, alone, practicing, learning to balance the
weight of the knife in her hand, discovering that a good knife throw began from behind the body. She held
both arms straight down and drew her right arm back, behind her head, before bringing it, and the weight
of her body, forward. The tip of the knife was in line with the target. She released it and snapped her hand
back, sucking in a gasp.
The knife stuck, point-down in the wall, exactly in the center of the target.
“One,” Cecily said, giving Will a superior smile.
He looked at her stonily, yanked the knife from the wall, and handed it to her again.
Cecily threw it. The second throw, like the first, flew directly to its target and stuck there, vibrating
like a mocking finger.
“Two,” Cecily said in a sepulchral tone.
Will’s jaw set as he took the knife again and presented it to her. She took it with a smile. Confidence
was flowing through her veins like new blood. She knew she could do this. She had always been able to
climb as high as Will, run as fast, hold her breath as long….
She threw the knife. It struck its target, and she leaped into the air, clapping her hands, forgetting herself
for a moment in the thrill of victory. Her hair came down fro
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