“He’s not dead, either.”
“Certainly not.” Jessamine gave him a lingering look. “He’s far too handsome to die. Is he married, Tessa? Or is there a girl back in New York who has a claim on him?”
“On Nate?” Tessa stared. There had always been girls, all sorts of girls, who’d been interested in Nate, but he had the attention span of a butterfly. “Jessamine, he isn’t even conscious. Now is hardly the time—”
“He’ll get better,” Jessamine announced. “And when he does, he’ll know I’m the one who nursed him back to health. Men always fall in love with the woman who nurses them back to health. ‘When pain and anguish wring the brow, / A ministering angel thou!’” she finished, with a self-satisfied smirk. Seeing Tessa’s horrified look, she scowled. “What’s wrong? Am I not good enough for your precious brother?”
“He doesn’t have any money, Jessie—”
“I have enough money for both of us. I just need someone to take me away from this place. I told you that.”
“In fact, you asked me if I’d be the one to do it.”
“Is that what’s putting you out of countenance?” Jessamine asked. “Really, Tessa, we can still be the best of friends once we’re sisters-in-law, but a man is always better than a woman for this sort of thing, don’t you think?”
Tessa could think of nothing to say in reply.
Jessamine shrugged. “Charlotte wishes to see you, by the way. In the drawing room. She wanted me to tell you. You don’t need to worry about Nathaniel. I’ve been checking his temperature every quarter hour and putting cold compresses on his forehead besides.”
Tessa wasn’t sure she believed any of this, but as Jessamine was patently uninterested in giving up her place by Nathaniel’s side, and it hardly seemed worth a battle, she turned with a disgusted sigh and left the room.
The door to the drawing room, when she reached it, was slightly ajar; she could hear raised voices from the other side. She hesitated, her hand half-lifted to knock—then she heard the sound of her own name and she froze.
“This isn’t the London Hospital. Tessa’s brother shouldn’t be here!” It was Will’s voice, raised to a shout. “He’s not a Downworlder, just a stupid, venal mundane who found himself mixed up in something he couldn’t manage—”
Charlotte replied, “He can’t be treated by mundane doctors. Not for what’s wrong with him. Be reasonable, Will.”
“He already knows about Downworld.” The voice was Jem’s: calm, logical. “In fact, he may know quite a bit of important information that we don’t know. Mortmain claimed Nathaniel was working for de Quincey; he might have information about de Quincey’s plans, the automatons, the whole Magister business—all of it. De Quincey wanted him dead, after all. Perhaps it was because he knew something he shouldn’t.”
There was a long silence. Then, “We can call in the Silent Brothers again, then,” said Will. “They can claw through his mind, see what they find. We needn’t wait for him to wake up.”
“You know that sort of process is delicate with mundanes,” protested Charlotte. “Brother Enoch has already said that the fever has driven Mr. Gray into hallucinations. It’s impossible for him to sort through what in the boy’s mind is the truth and what is feverish delirium. Not without damaging his mind, possibly permanently.”
“I doubt it was that much of a mind to begin with.” Tessa heard Will’s tone of disgust even through the door and felt her stomach tighten with rage.
“You know nothing about the man.” Jem spoke more coldly than Tessa had ever heard him speak before. “I can’t imagine what’s driving this mood of yours, Will, but it does you no credit.”
“I know what it is,” Charlotte said.
“You do?” Will sounded appalled.
“You’re as upset as I am about how last night went. We had only two fatalities, true, but de Quincey’s escape doesn’t reflect well on us. It was my plan. I pushed it on the Enclave, and now they will blame me for anything that went wrong. Not to mention that Camille has had to go into hiding since we’ve no idea where de Quincey is, and by now he probably has a blood price on her head. And Magnus Bane, of course, is furious with us that Camille has vanished. So our best informant and our best warlock are lost to us at the moment.”
“But we did stop de Quincey from murdering Tessa’s brother and who knows how many more mundanes,” Jem said. “That should count for something. Benedict Lightwood didn’t want to believe in de Quincey’s betrayal at first; now he has no choice. He knows you were right.”
“That,” said Charlotte, “is likely only going to make him angrier.”
“Perhaps,” said Will. “And perhaps if you hadn’t insisted on tying the success of my plan to the functionality of one of Henry’s ridiculous inventions, we wouldn’t be having this conversation now. You can dance around it all you like, but the reason everything went wrong last night is because the Phosphor didn’t work. Nothing Henry invents ever works. If you’d just admit your husband’s a useless fool, we’d all be a lot better off.”
“Will.” Jem’s voice held cold fury.
“No. James, don’t.” Charlotte’s voice shook; there was a sort of thump, as if she’d sat herself down very suddenly in a chair. “Will,” she said, “Henry is a good, kind man and he loves you.”
“Don’t be maudlin, Charlotte.” Will’s voice held only scorn.
“He’s known you since you were a boy. He cares for you like you were his own younger brother. As do I. All I’ve ever done is love you, Will—”
“Yes,” said Will, “and I wish you wouldn’t.”
Charlotte made a pained noise, like a kicked puppy. “I know you don’t mean that.”
“I mean everything I say,” said Will. “Especially when I tell you that we’re better off sifting through Nathaniel Gray’s mind now rather than later. If you’re too sentimental to do it—”
Charlotte began to interrupt, but it didn’t matter. This was too much for Tessa. She hurled the door open and stalked inside. The inside of the room was lit by a roaring fire, in contrast to the squares of dark gray glass that let in what there was of the cloudy twilight. Charlotte sat behind the large desk, Jem in a chair beside her. Will, on the other hand, was leaning against the fireplace mantel; he was flushed with obvious anger, his eyes blazing, his shirt collar askew. His eyes met Tessa’s for a moment of pure astonishment. Any hope she had entertained that he might have magically forgotten what had happened in the attic the night before vanished. He flushed at the sight of her, his fathomless blue eyes darkening—and looked away, as if he couldn’t stand to hold her gaze.
“I suppose you’ve been eavesdropping, then?” he asked. “And now you’re here to give me a piece of your mind about your precious brother?”
“At least I have a mind to give you a piece of, which Nathaniel won’t, if you have your way.” Tessa turned to Charlotte. “I won’t let Brother Enoch go pawing through Nate’s mind. He’s sick enough already; it would probably kill him.”