Clockwork Prince by Cassandra Clare Page B

Thames, but I know I wouldn’t like it.”
    “But think how entertaining for sightseers,” said Tessa, and she saw Jem duck his head to hide the quick flash of his grin. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I wish to go, and I shall. When do we leave?”
    Will rolled his eyes, but Jem was still grinning. “Tomorrow morning. That way we’ll arrive well before dark.”
    “I’ll have to send Aloysius a message saying to expect you,” said Charlotte, picking up her pen. She paused, and looked up at them all. “Is this a dreadful idea? I—I feel as if I cannot be sure.”
    Tessa looked at her worriedly—seeing Charlotte like this, doubting her own instincts, made her hate Benedict Lightwood and his cohorts even more than she already did.
    It was Henry who stepped up and put a gentle hand on his wife’s shoulder. “The only alternative seems to be doing nothing, dearest Charlotte,” he said. “And doing nothing, I find, rarely accomplishes anything. Besides, what could go wrong?”
    “Oh, by the Angel, I wish you hadn’t asked that,” replied Charlotte with fervor, but she bent over the paper and began to write.
    That afternoon was Tessa’s and Sophie’s second training session with the Lightwoods. Having changed into her gear, Tessa left her room to find Sophie waiting for her in the corridor. She was dressed to train as well, her hair knotted up expertly behind her head, and a dark expression on her face.
    “Sophie, what is it?” Tessa inquired, falling into step beside the other girl. “You look quite out of countenance.”
    “Well, if you must know . . .” Sophie dropped her voice. “It’s Bridget.”
    “Bridget?” The Irish girl had been nearly invisible in the kitchen since she’d arrived, unlike Cyril, who had been here and there about the house, doing errands like Sophie. The last memory Tessa had of Bridget involved her sitting atop Gabriel Lightwood with a knife. She let herself dwell on it pleasantly for a moment. “What’s she done?”
    “She just . . .” Sophie let out a gusty sigh. “She isn’t very amiable. Agatha was my friend, but Bridget—well, we have a way of talking, among us servants, you know, usually, but Bridget just won’t. Cyril’s friendly enough, but Bridget just keeps to herself in the kitchen, singing those awful Irish ballads of hers. I’d wager she’s singing one now.”
    They were passing not far from the scullery door; Sophie gestured for Tessa to follow her, and together they crept close and peered inside. The scullery was quite large, with doors leading off to the kitchen and pantry. The sideboard was piled with food meant for dinner—fish and vegetables, lately cleaned and prepared. Bridget stood at the sink, her hair standing out around her head in wild red curls, made frizzy by the humidity of the water. She was singing too; Sophie had been quite right about that. Her voice drifting over the sound of the water was high and sweet.
    “Oh, her father led her down the stair,
    Her mother combed her yellow hair.
    Her sister Ann led her to the cross,
    And her brother John set her on her horse.
    ‘Now you are high and I am low,
    Give me a kiss before ye go.’
    She leaned down to give him a kiss,
    He gave her a deep wound and did not miss.
    And with a knife as sharp as a dart,
    Her brother stabbed her to the heart.”
     
    Nate’s face flashed in front of Tessa’s eyes, and she shuddered. Sophie, looking past her, didn’t seem to notice. “That’s all she sings about,” she whispered. “Murder and betrayal. Blood and pain. It’s horrid.”
    Mercifully Sophie’s voice covered the end of the song. Bridget had begun drying dishes and started up with a new ballad, the tune even more melancholy than the first.
    “Why does your sword so drip with blood,
    Edward, Edward?
    Why does your sword so drip with blood?
    And why so sad are ye?”
     
    “Enough of this.” Sophie turned and began hurrying down the hall; Tessa followed. “You do see what I meant,