Still, it was awfully peculiar behavior for a host, to be so insistent that they join him for supper and then not to appear. A servant just as frail and ancient as the one who’d ladled out the stew had led Tessa to her room earlier, a great dim cavern full of heavy carved furniture. It too was dimly lit, as if Starkweather were trying to save money on oil or tapers, though as far as Tessa knew, witchlight cost nothing. Perhaps he simply liked the dark.
She had found her room chilly, dark, and more than slightly ominous. The low fire burning in the grate had done little to warm the room. On either side of the hearth was carved a jagged lightning bolt. The same symbol was on the white pitcher full of chilly water that Tessa had used to wash her hands and face. She had dried off quickly, wondering why she couldn’t remember the symbol from the Codex. It must mean something important. The whole of the London Institute was decorated with Clave symbols like the Angel rising from the lake, or the interlocked Cs of Council, Covenant, Clave, and Consul.
Heavy old portraits were everywhere as well—in her bedroom, in the corridors, lining the staircase. After changing into evening dress and hearing the dinner bell ring, Tessa had made her way down the staircase, a great carved Jacobean monstrosity, only to pause on the landing to gaze at the portrait of a very young girl with long, fair hair, dressed in an old-fashioned child’s dress, a great ribbon surmounting her small head. Her face was thin and pale and sickly, but her eyes were bright—the only bright thing in this dark place, Tessa had thought.
“Adele Starkweather,” had come a voice at her elbow, reading off the placard on the portrait’s frame. “1842.”
She had turned to look at Will, who’d stood with his feet apart, his hands behind his back, gazing at the portrait and frowning.
“What is it? You look as if you don’t like her, but I rather do. She must be Starkweather’s daughter—no, granddaughter, I think.”
Will had shaken his head, looking from the portrait to Tessa. “No doubt. This place is decorated like a family home. It is clear there have been Starkweathers in the York Institute for generations. You’ve seen the lightning bolts everywhere?”
Tessa had nodded.
“That is the Starkweather family symbol. There is as much of the Starkweathers here as there is of the Clave. It is bad form to behave as if one owns a place like this. One cannot inherit an Institute. The guardian of an Institute is appointed by the Consul. The place itself belongs to the Clave.”
“Charlotte’s parents ran the London Institute before she did.”
“Part of the reason old Lightwood is so tinder-tempered about the whole business,” Will had replied. “Institutes aren’t necessarily meant to stay in families. But the Consul wouldn’t have given Charlotte the post if he hadn’t thought she was the right person for it. And it’s only one generation. This—” He swept his arm about as if to encompass the portraits, the landing, and odd, lonely Aloysius Starkweather, all in one gesture. “Well, no wonder the old man thinks he has the right to throw us out of the place.”
“Mad as hops, my aunt would have said. Shall we go down to dinner?”
In a rare show of gentility, Will had offered his arm. Tessa hadn’t looked at him as she’d taken it. Will dressed for dinner was handsome enough to take away her breath, and she’d had the feeling she’d need her wits about her.
Jem had already been waiting in the dining room when they’d arrived, and Tessa had settled herself beside him to await their host. His place had been set, his plate filled with stew, even his wineglass filled with dark red wine, but there had been no sign of him. It was Will who had shrugged first and begun to eat, though he’d soon looked as if he wished he hadn’t.
“What is this?” he went on now, spearing an unfortunate object on a fork and raising it to eye level. “This . . . this . . . thing?”
“A parsnip?” Jem suggested.
“A parsnip planted in Satan’s own garden,” said Will. He glanced about. “I don’t suppose there’s a dog I could feed it to.”
“There don’t seem to be any pets about,” Jem—who loved all animals, even the inglorious and ill-tempered Church—observed.
“Probably all poisoned by parsnips,” said Will.
“Oh, dear,” Tessa said sadly, laying her fork down. “And I was so hungry too.”
“There’s always the dinner rolls,” said Will, pointing to a covered basket. “Though I warn you, they’re as hard as stones. You could use them to kill black beetles, if any beetles bother you in the middle of the night.”
Tessa made a face and took a swig of her wine. It was as sour as vinegar.
Will set his fork down and began cheerfully, in the manner of Edward Lear’s Book of Nonsense:
“There once was a lass from New York
Who found herself hungry in York.
But the bread was like rocks,
The parsnips shaped like—”
“You can’t rhyme ‘York’ with ‘York,’” interrupted Tessa. “It’s cheating.”
“She’s right, you know,” said Jem, his delicate fingers playing with the stem of his wineglass. “Especially with ‘fork’ being so obviously the correct choice—”
“Good evening.” The hulking shadow of Aloysius Stark-weather loomed up suddenly in the doorway; Tessa wondered with a flush of embarrassment how long he’d been standing there. “Mr. Herondale, Mr. Carstairs, Miss, ah—”
“Gray,” Tessa said. “Theresa Gray.”
“Indeed.” Starkweather made no apologies, just settled himself heavily at the head of the table. He was carrying a square, flat box, the sort bankers used to keep their papers in, which he set down beside his plate. With a flash of excitement Tessa saw that there was a year marked on it—1825—and even better, three sets of initials. JTS, AES, AHM.
“No doubt your young miss will be pleased to know I’ve buckled to her demands and searched the archives all day and half last night besides,” Starkweather began in an aggrieved tone. It took Tessa a moment to realize that in this case, “young miss” meant Charlotte. “It’s lucky, she is, that my father never threw anything out. And the moment I saw the papers, I remembered.” He tapped his temple. “Eighty-nine years, and I never forget a thing. You tell old Wayland that when he talks about replacing me.”
“We surely will, sir,” said Jem, his eyes dancing.
Starkweather took a hearty gulp of his wine and made a face. “By the Angel, this stuff’s disgusting.” He set the glass down and began pulling papers from the box. “What we have here is an application for Reparations on behalf of two warlocks. John and Anne Shade. A married couple.
“Now, here’s the odd bit,” the old man went on. “The filing was done by their son, Axel Hollingworth Mortmain, twenty-two years old. Now, of course warlocks are barren—”
Will shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his eyes slanting away from Tessa’s.
“This son was adopted,” said Jem.
“Shouldn’t be allowed, that,” said Starkweather, taking another slug of the wine he had pronounced disgusting. His cheeks were beginning to redden. “Like giving a human child to wolves to raise. Before the Accords—”