“Tessa is not made of delicate china,” said Jem. “She will not break.”
For some reason this statement, though he said it still without looking at her, sent a flood of images through Tessa’s mind of the night before—of clinging to Jem in the shadows of his bed, his hands gripping her shoulders, their mouths fierce on each other’s. No, he had not treated her as if she were breakable then. A boiling flood of heat seared her cheeks, and she looked down quickly, praying for her blush to go away.
“You might be surprised to know,” said Will, “that I saw something rather interesting in the opium den.”
“I’m sure you did,” said Charlotte with asperity.
“Was it an egg?” Henry inquired.
“Downworlders,” said Will. “Almost all werewolves.”
“There’s nothing interesting about werewolves.” Jessamine sounded aggrieved. “We’re focusing on finding Mortmain now, Will, if you haven’t forgotten, not some drug-addled Downworlders.”
“They were buying yin fen,” said Will. “Buckets of it.”
At that Jem’s head snapped up and he met Will’s eyes.
“They had already begun to change color,” said Will. “Quite a few had silver hair, or eyes. Even their skin had started to silver over.”
“This is very disturbing.” Charlotte frowned. “We should speak to Woolsey Scott as soon as this Mortmain matter is cleared up. If there is an issue of addiction to warlock powders in his pack, he will want to know about it.”
“Don’t you think he already does?” said Will, sitting back in his chair. He looked pleased to have finally gotten a reaction to his news. “It is his pack, after all.”
“His pack is all of London’s wolves,” objected Jem. “He can’t possibly keep real track of them all.”
“I’m not sure you want to wait,” said Will. “If you can get hold of Scott, I’d speak to him as soon as possible.”
Charlotte tilted her head to the side. “And why is that?”
“Because,” said Will. “One of the ifrits asked a werewolf why he needed so much yin fen. Apparently it works on werewolves as a stimulant. The answer was that it pleased the Magister that the drug kept them working all night long.”
Charlotte’s teacup crashed into her saucer. “Working on what?”
Will smirked, clearly pleased at the effect he was having. “I’ve no idea. I lost consciousness about then. I was having a lovely dream about a young woman who had mislaid nearly all her clothes . . .”
Charlotte was white-faced. “Dear God, I hope Scott isn’t caught up with the Magister. De Quincey first, now the wolves—all our allies. The Accords . . .”
“I’m sure it will all be all right, Charlotte,” said Henry mildly. “Scott doesn’t seem the sort to get tangled up with Mortmain’s sort.”
“Perhaps you should be there when I speak with him,” said Charlotte. “Nominally, you are the head of the Institute—”
“Oh, no,” said Henry with a look of horror. “Darling, you’ll be quite all right without me. You’re such a genius where these negotiations are concerned, and I’m simply not. And besides, the invention I’m working on now could shatter the whole clockwork army into pieces if I get the formulations right!”
He beamed round the table proudly. Charlotte looked at him for a long moment, then pushed her chair back from the table, stood up, and walked out of the room without another word.
Will regarded Henry from beneath half-lidded eyes. “Nothing ever disturbs your circles, does it, Henry?”
Henry blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Archimedes,” Jem said, as usual knowing what Will meant, though not looking at him. “He was drawing a mathematical diagram in the sand when his city was attacked by Romans. He was so intent on what he was doing that he didn’t see the soldier coming up behind him. His last words were ‘Do not disturb my circles.’ Of course, he was an old man by then.”
“And he was probably never married,” said Will, and he grinned at Jem across the table.
Jem didn’t return his grin. Without looking at Will, or Tessa—without looking at any of them—he got to his feet and went out of the room after Charlotte.
“Oh, bother,” said Jessamine. “Is this one of those days where we all stalk out in a fury? Because I simply haven’t got the energy for it.” She put her head down on her arms and closed her eyes.
Henry looked bewilderedly from Will to Tessa. “What is it? What have I done wrong?”
Tessa sighed. “Nothing dreadful, Henry. It’s just—I think Charlotte wanted you to come with her.”
“Then, why didn’t she say so?” Henry’s eyes were mournful. His joy over his eggs and inventions seemed to have vanished. Perhaps he shouldn’t have married Charlotte, Tessa thought, her mood as bleak as the weather. Perhaps, like Archimedes, he would have been happier drawing circles in the sand.
“Because women never say what they think,” said Will. His eyes drifted toward the kitchen, where Bridget was clearing up the remains of the meal. Her singing floated lugubriously out into the dining room.
“‘I fear you are poisoned, my own pretty boy,
I fear you are poisoned, my comfort and joy!’
‘O yes, I am poisoned; mother, make my bed soon,
There’s a pain in my heart, and I mean to lie down.’”
“I swear that woman had a previous career as a death-hunter selling tragic ballads down around the Seven Dials,” said Will. “And I do wish she wouldn’t sing about poisoning just after we’ve eaten.” He looked sideways at Tessa. “Shouldn’t you be off putting on your gear? Haven’t you training with the lunatic Lightwoods today?”
“Yes, this morning, but I needn’t change clothes. We’re just practicing knife throwing,” said Tessa, somewhat amazed that she was able to have this mild and civil a conversation with Will after the events of last night. Cyril’s handkerchief, with Will’s blood on it, was still in her dresser drawer; she remembered the warmth of his lips on her fingers, and darted her eyes away from his.
“How fortunate that I am a crack hand at knife throwing.” Will got to his feet and held out his arm to her. “Come along; it’ll drive Gideon and Gabriel mad if I watch the training, and I could do with a little madness this morning.”
Will was correct. His presence during the training session seemed to madden Gabriel at least, though Gideon, as he seemed to do with everything, took this intrusion in a stolid manner. Will sat on a low wooden bench that ran along one of the walls, and ate an apple, his long legs stretched out before him, occasionally calling out bits of advice that Gideon ignored and that Gabriel took like blows to the chest.
“Must he be here?” Gabriel growled to Tessa the second time he had nearly dropped a knife while handing it to her. He put a hand on her shoulder, showing her the sight line for the target she was aiming at—a black circle drawn on the wall. She knew how much he would rather she were aiming at Will. “Can’t you tell him to go away?”