Page 4 of Better in Black
Will said nothing. He barely seemed aware the little warlock was there.
“Now,” Tessa said, desperately, “is really not the best time—”
“Keep the card,” said Dupin. “Just between the two of us, I’ve been looking into this Madame Dorothea. It’s my opinion she’s a fraud.” He lowered his voice. “I plan to bring her to justice.”
Numbly, Tessa slipped the card into her jacket pocket. “We really must go.”
“Of course.” The warlock stepped out of their way. “Just don’t take anything she said too much to heart, all right?”
Tessa murmured some kind of assent, and hurried through the doors, pulling Will after her. As they emerged into the bright lights of the lobby, Tessa felt the claustrophobic pressure of thereading room fall away from her, as if she’d escaped some sort of awful prison pit.
She turned to look up at Will, and her heart fell. Perhaps she had escaped, she thought, but he had not: From the look in his eyes, she could tell he was still in the reading room, still listening to his sister call out for him from the dark.
—
That night was the first unhappy night Tessa had spent since she had married Will.
When they first returned to their rooms, Tessa intended to put her arms around Will, to whisper that Madame Dorothea was surely a fraud, that she must have discovered details from his life somehow, that he was quite famous among Shadowhunters and no doubt the medium had picked up some kind of gossip in Downworld.
But Will gave her no chance. The moment the door shut behind them, Will was kissing her—urgently, desperately, as he had that night on the Lightwoods’ balcony, when it had seemed to both of them that any future together was impossible. He tore his jacket away, walking her backward across the room until they struck the bed and collapsed upon it.
Will stretched his long body over Tessa’s, bracing himself on one hand as, with the other, he tore at her clothes, kissing the bare skin he uncovered as the fabric fell away. There was something wild about him, something feral that made her think of the boy he’d been once, who had walked from Wales to London, driven by guilt and grief.
Tessa’s hands went to the fall of his trousers, the buttons of his shirt. She needed to feel Will’s skin against hers, and she knew he needed the same. She stroked a hand through his wild hair, gasping as their bodies joined together, and he pressed his face against her neck, shuddering with pleasure.
A moment later he had drawn away, just enough to stare down into her face. His pupils were wide and black, surrounded by a thin rim of blue. Hoarsely, he whispered, “Tessa, are you—”
“I’m fine.” She caught at his shoulders, not sure how to show him what she wanted. Proper young ladies weren’t taught that sort of thing. “Will—don’t stop—”
She saw the relief flash across his face and then he was kissing her, his hesitation swallowed up by desire, by a desperate need she doubted he could put a name to. And she urged him on, urged him to lose himself in her, in the strange, dark, incredible whirlwind of what they were doing together. For the first time, the pleasure she felt was like lightning, sharp and forked; for the first time, she dug her fingernails into his back and heard him moan against her mouth with the pleasure-pain of it; for the first time, she thought she would be sore in the morning, and that she would like it.
And when she finally lost control and fell, for the first time she felt as if she could not hold on to Will through it all. For the first time, when the storm had passed and they tumbled apart, both gasping and half-dressed, Will was silent, though he reached to stroke a hand gently down her cheek.
“Will,” she said, softly, but he had closed his eyes. He drew her against him, holding her in the circle of his arms, her head against his chest, his heart beating so hard she could hear it. Tessa lay still, willing him to sleep, to rest, even as the rain that had been predicted that morning finally broke and poured down over Paris: pattering against their windows, filling the room with the sound of tears.
—
The next day, they had planned to follow a tour of Paris themed around locations fromA Tale of Two Cities,which would take them to places mentioned in the book: the Rue Saint-Antoine where the Defarges had their wine shop; the Palais de Justice where Darnayhad been imprisoned. The Place de la Concorde, where the guillotine had done its bloody work, and Saint-Germain-des-Prés, where Lucie Manette had lived.
Tessa, exhausted from having barely slept, was no longer sure she wished to do the tour. From the moment she had woken up, groggy and slightly horrified that she had slept in her dress—which was ripped to bits and entirely ruined—she had only wanted to talk to Will.
But Will would not talk. He was no longer silent, nor was he wild and desperate as he had been in the dead of night. He was withdrawn and melancholy, as if the flaw in the diamond had grown to swallow up the whole gem.
As they made their way through the city, Tessa making conversation and Will responding only with distracted yeses, nos, and murmurs of vague interest, Tessa could not help but feel that this was a Will she’d never known before. There was the Will she’d first met, who wore his sharp wit like armor, and liked to argue; and there was the Will she’d gradually come to know as clever and passionate and kind. This Will was closest to the Will he’d been when he first lost Jem, plunged into mourning, missing a part of himself. But even then, he had not felt so far away.
Tessa felt almost bewildered. How had it all gone so wrong, so quickly? She wanted to find Madame Dorothea and pull her head off. She wanted to crawl to Charlotte and Sophie and cry. But she could do none of those things, so instead, she turned them both around and marched back to the hotel.
Will did not mention their sudden abandonment of their tour, or ask a single question about Tessa’s plans. He remained distracted until they had reached their rooms, at which point Tessa locked the door, took hold of Will by the arms, and steered him into one ofthe gilded chairs that flanked the fireplace. Having sat him down, she took two steps back, crossed her arms over her chest, fixed him with a piercing glare, and said, “Talk.”
Will looked up at her, his dark blue eyes thoughtful. His black hair had been tousled by the wind, which had also whipped color into his cheeks. He looked so beautiful it hurt, but Tessa was feeling merciless.
“I mean it,” she said. “You cannot go lumbering around Paris like some sort of statue brought to life, staring blankly at things. I won’t have it.”
Something bright showed briefly in his eyes. “What would you like me to do?”
“Tell me what you are thinking,” Tessa said. “You are sunk in melancholy, Will, and I know it is because of last night, which was awful—”
“Notallof last night was awful,” said Will, with a flash of his old self.
