sleepy green eyes at Gideon.
Gideon threw a scone at him.
“Henry.” Charlotte moved across the floor of the crypt. The witchlight torches were burning so brightly it looked almost as if it were day, though she knew it was closer to midnight. Henry was hunched over the largest of the great wooden tables scattered about the center of the room. Something or other odious was burning in a beaker on another table, giving off great puffs of lavender smoke. A massive piece of paper, the sort butchers used to wrap their wares in, was spread across Henry’s table, and he was covering it with all sorts of mysterious ciphers and calculations, muttering to himself under his breath as he scribbled. “Henry, darling, aren’t you exhausted? You’ve been down here for hours.”
Henry started and looked up, pushing the spectacles he wore when he worked up into his gingery hair. “Charlotte!” He seemed astonished, if thrilled, to see her; only Henry, Charlotte thought dryly, would be astonished to see his own wife in their own home. “My angel. What are you doing down here? It’s freezing cold. It can’t be good for the baby.”
Charlotte laughed, but she didn’t object when Henry hurried over to her and gave her a gentle hug. Ever since he had found out they were going to have a child, he had been treating her like fine china. He pressed a kiss into the top of her hair now and drew back to study her face. “In fact, you look a little peaked. Perhaps rather than supper you should have Sophie bring you some strengthening beef tea in your room? I shall go and—”
“Henry. We decided not to have supper hours ago—everyone was brought sandwiches in their rooms. Jem is still too ill to eat, and the Lightwood boys too shaken up. And you know how Will is when Jem is unwell. And Tessa, too, of course. Really, the whole house is going all to pieces.”
“Sandwiches?” said Henry, who seemed to have seized on this as the substantive part of Charlotte’s speech, and was looking wistful.
Charlotte smiled. “There are some for you upstairs, Henry, if you can tear yourself away. I suppose I shouldn’t scold you—I’ve been going through Benedict’s journals, and quite fascinating they are—but what
are
you working on?”
“A portal,” said Henry eagerly. “A form of transport. Something that might conceivably whisk a Shadowhunter from one point of the globe to another in a matter of seconds. It was Mortmain’s rings that gave me the idea.”
Charlotte’s eyes were wide. “But Mortmain’s rings are assuredly dark magic… .”
“But this is not. Oh, and there is something else. Come. It is for Buford.”
Charlotte allowed her husband to take her wrist and draw her across the room. “I have told you a hundred times, Henry, no son of mine will ever be named Buford— By the Angel, is that a
cradle
?”
Henry beamed. “It is better than a cradle!” he announced, flinging his arm out to indicate the sturdy-looking wooden baby’s bed, hung between two poles that it might rock from side to side. Charlotte had to admit to herself it was quite a nice-looking piece of furniture. “It is a self-rocking cradle!”
“A what?” Charlotte asked faintly.
“Watch.” Proudly Henry stepped forward and pressed some sort of invisible button. The cradle began to rock gently from side to side.
Charlotte expelled a breath. “That’s lovely, darling.”
“Don’t you like it?” Henry beamed. “There, it’s rocking a bit faster now.” It was, with a slight jerkiness to the motion that gave Charlotte the feeling that she had been cast adrift on a choppy sea.
“Hm,” she said. “Henry, I do have something I wish to speak to you about. Something important.”
“More important than our child being rocked gently to sleep each night?”
“The Clave has decided to release Jessamine,” Charlotte said. “She is returning to the Institute. In two days.”
Henry turned to her with an incredulous look. Behind him the
Gideon threw a scone at him.
“Henry.” Charlotte moved across the floor of the crypt. The witchlight torches were burning so brightly it looked almost as if it were day, though she knew it was closer to midnight. Henry was hunched over the largest of the great wooden tables scattered about the center of the room. Something or other odious was burning in a beaker on another table, giving off great puffs of lavender smoke. A massive piece of paper, the sort butchers used to wrap their wares in, was spread across Henry’s table, and he was covering it with all sorts of mysterious ciphers and calculations, muttering to himself under his breath as he scribbled. “Henry, darling, aren’t you exhausted? You’ve been down here for hours.”
Henry started and looked up, pushing the spectacles he wore when he worked up into his gingery hair. “Charlotte!” He seemed astonished, if thrilled, to see her; only Henry, Charlotte thought dryly, would be astonished to see his own wife in their own home. “My angel. What are you doing down here? It’s freezing cold. It can’t be good for the baby.”
Charlotte laughed, but she didn’t object when Henry hurried over to her and gave her a gentle hug. Ever since he had found out they were going to have a child, he had been treating her like fine china. He pressed a kiss into the top of her hair now and drew back to study her face. “In fact, you look a little peaked. Perhaps rather than supper you should have Sophie bring you some strengthening beef tea in your room? I shall go and—”
“Henry. We decided not to have supper hours ago—everyone was brought sandwiches in their rooms. Jem is still too ill to eat, and the Lightwood boys too shaken up. And you know how Will is when Jem is unwell. And Tessa, too, of course. Really, the whole house is going all to pieces.”
“Sandwiches?” said Henry, who seemed to have seized on this as the substantive part of Charlotte’s speech, and was looking wistful.
Charlotte smiled. “There are some for you upstairs, Henry, if you can tear yourself away. I suppose I shouldn’t scold you—I’ve been going through Benedict’s journals, and quite fascinating they are—but what
are
you working on?”
“A portal,” said Henry eagerly. “A form of transport. Something that might conceivably whisk a Shadowhunter from one point of the globe to another in a matter of seconds. It was Mortmain’s rings that gave me the idea.”
Charlotte’s eyes were wide. “But Mortmain’s rings are assuredly dark magic… .”
“But this is not. Oh, and there is something else. Come. It is for Buford.”
Charlotte allowed her husband to take her wrist and draw her across the room. “I have told you a hundred times, Henry, no son of mine will ever be named Buford— By the Angel, is that a
cradle
?”
Henry beamed. “It is better than a cradle!” he announced, flinging his arm out to indicate the sturdy-looking wooden baby’s bed, hung between two poles that it might rock from side to side. Charlotte had to admit to herself it was quite a nice-looking piece of furniture. “It is a self-rocking cradle!”
“A what?” Charlotte asked faintly.
“Watch.” Proudly Henry stepped forward and pressed some sort of invisible button. The cradle began to rock gently from side to side.
Charlotte expelled a breath. “That’s lovely, darling.”
“Don’t you like it?” Henry beamed. “There, it’s rocking a bit faster now.” It was, with a slight jerkiness to the motion that gave Charlotte the feeling that she had been cast adrift on a choppy sea.
“Hm,” she said. “Henry, I do have something I wish to speak to you about. Something important.”
“More important than our child being rocked gently to sleep each night?”
“The Clave has decided to release Jessamine,” Charlotte said. “She is returning to the Institute. In two days.”
Henry turned to her with an incredulous look. Behind him the
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