Free Clockwork Prince by Cassandra Clare Page B

and find your recommendations elsewhere, Mr. Herondale.” She bit her tongue almost as soon as the words were out of her mouth. That had been too much, she knew.
    And indeed Will was on it, like a spider leaping onto a particularly tasty fly. “Mr. Herondale?” he demanded. “Tessa, I thought . . . ?”
    “You thought what?” Her tone was glacial.
    “That we could at least talk about books.”
    “We did,” she said. “You insulted my taste. And you should know, The Wide, Wide World is not my favorite book. It is simply a story I enjoyed, like The Hidden Hand , or—You know, perhaps you should suggest something to me, so I can judge your taste. It’s hardly fair otherwise.”
    Will hopped up onto the nearest table and sat, swinging his legs, obviously giving the question some thought. “ The Castle of Otranto— ”
    “Isn’t that the book in which the hero’s son is crushed to death by a gigantic helmet that falls from the sky? And you said A Tale of Two Cities was silly!” said Tessa, who would have died rather than admit she had read Otranto and loved it.
    “ A Tale of Two Cities ,” echoed Will. “I read it again, you know, because we had talked about it. You were right. It isn’t silly at all.”
    “No?”
    “No,” he said. “There is too much of despair in it.”
    She met his gaze. His eyes were as blue as lakes; she felt as if she were falling into them. “Despair?”
    Steadily he said, “There is no future for Sydney, is there, with or without love? He knows he cannot save himself without Lucie, but to let her near him would be to degrade her.”
    She shook her head. “That is not how I recall it. His sacrifice is noble—”
    “It is what is left to him,” said Will. “Do you not recall what he says to Lucie? ‘If it had been possible . . . that you could have returned the love of the man you see before yourself—flung away, wasted, drunken, poor creature of misuse as you know him to be—he would have been conscious this day and hour, in spite of his happiness, that he would bring you to misery, bring you to sorrow and repentance, blight you, disgrace you, pull you down with him—’”
    A log fell in the fireplace, sending up a shower of sparks and startling them both and silencing Will; Tessa’s heart leaped, and she tore her eyes away from Will. Stupid, she told herself angrily. So stupid. She remembered how he had treated her, the things he had said, and now she was letting her knees turn to jelly at the drop of a line from Dickens.
    “Well,” she said. “You have certainly memorized a great deal of it. That was impressive.”
    Will pulled aside the neck of his shirt, revealing the graceful curve of his collarbone. It took her a moment to realize he was showing her a Mark a few inches above his heart. “Mnemosyne,” he said. “The Memory rune. It’s permanent.”
    Tessa looked away quickly. “It is late. I must retire—I am exhausted.” She stepped past him, and moved toward the door. She wondered if he looked hurt, then pushed the thought from her mind. This was Will; however mercurial and passing his moods, however charming he was when he was in a good one, he was poison for her, for anyone.
    “Vathek,” he said, sliding off the table.
    She paused in the doorway, realizing she was still clutching the Coleridge book, but then decided she might as well take it. It would be a pleasant diversion from the Codex. “What was that?”
    “Vathek,” he said again. “By William Beckford. If you found Otranto to your liking”—though, she thought, she had not admitted she did—“I think you will enjoy it.”
    “Oh,” she said. “Well. Thank you. I will remember that.”
    He did not answer; he was still standing where she had left him, near the table. He was looking at the ground, his dark hair hiding his face. A little bit of her heart softened, and before she could stop herself, she said, “And good night, Will.”
    He looked up. “Good night, Tessa.” He sounded