She saw Gideon’s expression—shock mixed with discomfort—and dropped her hand. “I did not know that was how you had been scarred,” he said.
She looked away. “Now you will say that it is not so ugly, or that you do not even see it, or something like that.”
“I see it,” Gideon said in a low voice. “I am not blind, and we are a people of many scars. I see it, but it is not ugly. It is just another beautiful part of the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.”
Now Sophie did blush—she could feel her cheeks burn—and as Gideon leaned forward across the table, his eyes an intense, storm-washed green, she took a deep breath of resolution. He was not like her former employer. He was Gideon. She would not push him away this time.
The door of the library flew open. Charlotte stood on the threshold, looking exhausted; there were damp splotches on her pale blue dress, and her eyes were shadowed. Sophie sprang to her feet instantly. “Mrs. Branwell?”
“Oh, Sophie,” Charlotte sighed. “I was hoping you could sit with Jem for a bit. He hasn’t woken up yet, but Bridget needs to make supper, and I think her dreadful singing is giving him nightmares in his sleep.”
“Of course.” Sophie hurried to the door, not looking at Gideon as she did so—although as the door closed behind her, she was fairly sure that she heard him swearing softly and with great frustration in Spanish.
“You know,” Cecily said, “you really didn’t have to throw that man through the window.”
“He wasn’t a man,” Gideon said, scowling down at the heap of objects in his arms. He had taken the parcel of Magnus’s ingredients that Sallows had made up for them, and a few more useful-looking objects off the shelves besides. He had pointedly left all the papers his father had ordered on the counter where Sallows had put them—after Gabriel had tossed the satyr through one of the grimed-up windows. It had been very satisfying, with shattered glass everywhere. The force of it had even dislodged the hanging skeleton, which had come apart in a clatter of messy bones. “He was an Unseelie Court faerie. One of the nasty ones.”
“Is that why you chased him down the street?”
“He had no business showing images like that to a lady,” Gabriel muttered, though it had to be admitted that the lady in question had hardly turned a hair, and seemed more annoyed with Gabriel for his reaction than impressed by his chivalry.
“And I do think it was excessive to hurl him into the canal.”
“He’ll float.”
The corners of Cecily’s mouth twitched. “It was very wrong.”
“You’re laughing,” Gabriel said in surprise.
“I am not.” Cecily raised her chin, turning her face away, but not before Gabriel saw the grin that spread over her face. Gabriel was baffled. After her displayed disdain for him, her cheek and back talk, he had been quite sure that this latest outburst of his would prompt her to tell tales to Charlotte as soon as they returned to the Institute, but instead she seemed amused. He shook his head as they turned onto Garnet Street. He would never understand the Herondales.
“Hand over that vial there on the shelf, would you, Mr. Bane?” asked Henry.
Magnus did so. He was standing in the center of Henry’s laboratory, looking around at the gleaming shapes on tables around him. “What are all these contraptions, if I might ask?”
Henry, who was wearing two pairs of goggles at the same time—one on his head and one over his eyes—looked both pleased and nervous to be asked. (Magnus presumed the two pairs of goggles was a fit of absentmindedness, but in case it was in pursuit of fashion, he decided not to ask.) Henry picked up a square brass object with multiple buttons. “Well, over here, this is a Sensor. It senses when demons are near.” He moved toward Magnus, and the Sensor made a loud wailing noise.
“Impressive!” Magnus exclaimed, pleased. He lifted a construction of fabric with a large dead bird perched atop it. “And what is this?”
“The Lethal Bonnet,” Henry declared.
“Ah,” said Magnus. “In times of need a lady can produce weapons from it with which to slay her enemies.”
“Well, no,” Henry admitted. “That does sound like a rather better idea. I do wish you had been on the spot when I had the notion. Unfortunately this bonnet wraps about the head of one’s enemy and suffocates them, provided that they are wearing it at the time.”
“I imagine that it will not be easy to persuade Mortmain into a bonnet,” Magnus observed. “Though the color would be fetching on him.”
Henry burst into laughter. “Very droll, Mr. Bane.”
“Please, call me Magnus.”
“I shall!” Henry tossed the bonnet over his shoulder and picked up a round glass jar of a sparkling substance. “This is a powder that when applied to the air causes ghosts to become visible,” Henry said.
Magnus tilted the jar of shining grains up to the lamp admiringly, and when Henry beamed in an encouraging fashion, Magnus removed the cork. “It seems very fine to me,” he said, and on a whim he poured it upon his hand. It coated his brown skin, gloving one hand in shimmering luminescence. “And in addition to its practical uses, it would seem to work for cosmetic purposes. This powder would make my very skin glimmer for eternity.”
Henry frowned. “Not eternity,” he said, but then he brightened. “But I could make you up another batch whenever you please!”
“I could shine at will!” Magnus grinned at Henry. “These are fascinating items, Mr. Branwell. You think differently about the world than any other Nephilim I have ever encountered. I confess I thought your people somewhat lacking in imagination, though high on personal drama, but you have given me a completely different opinion! Surely the Shadowhunter community must honor you and hold you in high esteem as a gentleman who has truly advanced their race.”
“No,” Henry said sadly. “Mostly they wish that I would stop suggesting new inventions and cease setting fire to things.”
“But all invention comes with risk!” cried Magnus. “I have seen the transformation wrought on the world by the invention of the steam engine, and the proliferation of printed materials, the factories and mills which have changed the face of England. Mundanes have taken the world into their hands and made of it a marvelous thing. Warlocks throughout the ages have dreamed up and perfected different spells to make themselves a different world. Would the Shadowhunters be the only ones to remain stagnant and changeless, and therefore doomed? How can they turn up their noses at the genius that you have displayed? It is like turning toward shadows and away from light.”
Henry blushed a scarlet color. It was clear that no one had ever complimented his inventing before, except perhaps Charlotte. “You humble me, Mr. Bane.”
“Magnus,” the warlock reminded him. “Now may I see your work upon this portal you were describing? The invention that transports a living being from one spot to another?”
“Of course.” Henry drew a heavy pile of notepaper from one corner of his cluttered table, and pushed it toward Magnus. The warlock took it and flicked through the pages with interest. Each page was covered with crabbed, spidery handwriting, and dozens and dozens of equations, blending mathematics and runes in a startling harmony. Magnus felt his heart beating faster as he flipped through the pages—this was genius, real genius. There was only one problem.