Fragile Hearts (TID - Will Herondale fanfic)

Chapter 28: To Yorkshire

ELEANORA'S POV
  "Did you bring anything to read on the journey?" asks Will, settling into the seat opposite Tessa; Jem is beside her, his cane leaning up against the wall. I am sitting next to Will.

  "No," Tessa says. "I haven't come across anything I particularly wanted to read lately."

  Will's jaw sets, but he says nothing.

  "There is always something so exciting about the start of a journey, don't you think?" Tessa goes on, nose to the window, even though London is so boring and all you can see is its greyness.

  "No," says Will as he sits back and pulls his hat down over his eyes.

  I shake my head mutely, fingering the ring at my collar. Anxiousness fills me.

  I tune out everything, focusing on keeping my breathing steady and calming my nerves.

  The chances are low. There's no way.

  I tune in when Tessa say, "Do you miss Wales?"

  I hide the colour of my ring as I see flashes of white in my eyes. Pain. Emotional pain. It doesn't hurt any less. It actually hurts more.

  Will shrugs lightly. "What's to miss? Sheep and singing," he said. "And the ridiculous language. Fe hoffwn i fod mor feddw, fyddai ddim yn cofio fy enw."

"What does that mean?"

  "It means 'I wish to get so drunk I no longer remember my own name,'" I speak up.

  "That doesn't sound very patriotic," observes Tessa. "Weren't you just reminiscing about the mountains?"

  "Patriotic?" Will looks smug. "I'll tell you what's patriotic," he says. "In honor of my birthplace, I've the dragon of Wales tattooed on my—"

  "You're in a charming temper, aren't you, William?" interrupts Jem, though there's no edge to his voice. "Remember, Starkweather can't stand Charlotte, so if this is the mood you're in—"

"I promise to charm the dickens out of him," says Will, sitting up and readjusting his crushed hat. "I shall charm him with such force that when I am done, he will be left lying limply on the ground, trying to remember his own name."

  "The man's eighty-nine," mutters Jem. "He may well have that problem anyway."

  "I suppose you're storing up all that charm now?" Tessa inquires. "Wouldn't want to waste any of it on us?"

  "That's it exactly." Will sounds pleased. "And it isn't Charlotte the Starkweathers can't stand, Jem. It's her father."

  "Sins of the fathers," says Jem. "They're not inclined to like any Fairchild, or anyone associated with one. Charlotte wouldn't even let Henry come up—"

  "That is because every time one lets Henry out of the house on his own, one risks an international incident," says Will. "But yes, to answer your unasked question, I do understand the trust Charlotte has placed in us, and I do intend to behave myself. I don't want to see that squinty-eyed Benedict Lightwood and his hideous sons in charge of the Institute any more than anyone else does."

  "They're not hideous," says Tessa.

  Will blinks at her. "What?"

  "Gideon and Gabriel," says Tessa. "They're really quite good-looking, not hideous at all."

  "I agree," I say, half paying attention, the other half worrying once more.

  "I spoke," says Will in a sepulchral tone, "of the pitch-black inner depths of their souls."

  Tessa snorts. "And what colour do you suppose the inner depths of your soul are, Will Herondale?"

  "Mauve," says Will. Then he turns to me. "You speak Welsh?"

  "I speak many languages," I say, hiding my ring as I keep feeling Caspian's nightmares. "My Father made sure of that."

  "Perhaps we should discuss strategy," Jem breaks the silence that had settled upon us. "Starkweather hates Charlotte but knows that she sent us. So how to worm our way into his good graces?"

  "Tessa and Nora can utilize their feminine wiles," says Will. "Charlotte said he enjoys a pretty face. We have two."

"I am not utilizing any feminine wiles," I scowl, and Will snickers.

  "How did Charlotte explain my presence?" Tessa inquires.

  "She didn't really; she just gave our names. She was quite curt," Will says, shrugging. "I think it falls to us to concoct a plausible story."

  "We can't say I'm a Shadowhunter; he'll know immediately that I'm not. No Marks."

  "And no warlock mark. He'll think she's a mundane, says Jem. "She could Change, but . . ."

  Will eyes her speculatively. "Perhaps we could say she's a mad maiden aunt who insists on chaperoning us everywhere."

  "My aunt or yours?" Jem inquires.

  "Yes, she doesn't really look like either of us, does she? Perhaps she's a girl who's fallen madly in love with me and persists in following me wherever I go."

  "My talent is shape-shifting, Will, not acting," says Tessa, and I burst out laughing with Jem. Will glares at us—me especially.

  "She had the better of you there, Will," Jem says, and I grin. "It does happen sometimes, doesn't it? Perhaps I should introduce Tessa as my fiancee. We can tell mad old Aloysius that her Ascension is underway."

  "Ascension?" Tessa asks.

  I tune out.

  Then, "Gideon Lightwood said he was at the Institute in Madrid. What on earth was he doing there?" Tessa asks.

  "Faffing about, most likely," Will says.

  "He was encouraged to travel. And he wanted to. He's been away for about six months," I say, scowling at Will.

  Will looks at me, rolling his eyes.

  "Once we finish our training, at eighteen," says Jem, elaborating further, "we're encouraged to travel, to spend time at other Institutes, to experience something of Shadowhunter culture in new places. There are always different techniques, local tricks to be learned. As Ella said, Gideon was away for only a few months. If Benedict called him back so soon, he must think that his acquisition of the Institute is assured." Jem looks troubled.

  "But he's wrong," Tessa says. After a moment, she says, "Where is the Institute in New York?"

  "We haven't memorized all their addresses, Tessa." There is something in Will's voice, a dangerous undercurrent.

  Jem looks at him narrowly, and says: "Is everything all right?"

  A minute of silence passes. Then Will finally says, "Too much to drink last night."

  I lightly lay a hand on Will's. He seems to relax slightly.