Better in Black

The Good Storm

Everything would have gone perfectly splendidly on Will and Tessa Herondale’s honeymoon, if it hadn’t been for Ragnor Fell’s wedding present.

It wasn’t as if they hadn’t been given other odd presents. Henry had given them a squarish object with a button on top that he promised would allow them to walk through walls, but it hadn’t worked yet. Gabriel had given them a lovely silver serving platter whose border was etched with a design of horrifying ducks. Ernie, the proprietor of the Devil Tavern, had given them a bottle of his homemade wine, which they hadn’t gotten up the nerve to try since Will had spilled some and burned a hole in the carpet.

But it was Ragnor’s gift that, when unwrapped, had puzzled them the most. It was a beautiful crystal globe, delicate as a soap bubble, with what looked like green smoke swirling inside it. “Very nice,” Tessa had said, a bit bemused, and Ragnor—­who had come by a day after the wedding expressly to deliver the present—­had explained that it was an encapsulated wish. “Smash the glass and make a wish, and the wish will come true,” he said, sounding pleased with himself.

“Any wish?” Will had asked, his dark eyebrows sharpening into peaks above his eyes.

“Well, not any wish,” Ragnor had said grumpily. “A wish that is within reason. Do not make wishes that meddle with life and death. That never goes well.”

“What if it wasn’t life and death?” Will persisted. “What if it was—­”

“Turning a Silent Brother back into a Shadowhunter?” Ragnor had rubbed wearily at his left horn. He was beginning to look as if he regretted the whole idea of giving them a wedding present in the first place. “No. That is immutable magic. Only Raziel or the powers of Heaven could do such a thing. Really, William, stick to small things. Wish for a new hat.”

Will had seemed disappointed, but not—­as Tessa had feared—­crushed. He was beginning to accept that certain things could not be changed. She recalled the Will she had met at first, who had seemed at war with everyone and everything in his life, and was glad he had learned to sometimes put down his arms—­though he would always battle against injustice and unfairness, and for that, Tessa loved him all the more.

On the train to Paris, they had talked over what they might wish for. Riches? They were already comfortable and did not need anything more. For someone they loved to be happy? But everyone was happy. Will said they should wish for a wonderful honeymoon, and Tessa thought they should save the wish in case of emergency, so they arrived in Paris without having used the globe at all.

Will had booked them a large suite at the Hôtel Meurice on Rue de Rivoli. It was the sort of place that catered to British tourists who wished to have “all the comforts of home,” meaning English breakfasts, a smoking room, and discreet servants. Tessa was assigned a maid, a pleasant girl from Brittany, to help with her clothing and hair; she protested initially, but it was true enough that she could not do up her own dresses without help, and while Will offered to assist, dressing her inevitably distracted him in ways that were very pleasant but not conducive to clothing oneself.

The bedroom itself was otherwise lovely, all dark and light blues, with velvet curtains and a gilded four-­poster bed. Tessa was not yet used to sleeping in the same bed as Will, and every night, when they curled up together, she felt as if she were getting away with something, some act of blissful naughtiness that would certainly land them in trouble if they were found out. “We are married, Tessa,” Will would laugh, nuzzling at her unbound hair. “The Angel Raziel himself approves of our union.”

But Tessa still blushed and hid her face, especially when Will did certain things—­not that she wanted him to stop doing those things. She was very enthusiastic about them. Which was fortunate, since Will would have spent all their time in bed if left to his own devices. Tessa, however, was determined to see Paris properly. No matter how late into the night they had been sleepless, she would rise in the morning and, giggling, shake a groggy Will awake, forcing coffee on him until he was ready to follow her—­clutching her maps and Baedeker guide to Paris—­out into the sunlit streets.

Whereupon Will would usually declaim something dramatic. “Let me be taken, let me be put to death; I am content, so thou wilt have it so!” he would announce, throwing up his arms.

“You can quote Romeo and Juliet all you want,” Tessa would say, taking his arm and tucking her own through it. “We’re still going to the Louvre.”

And Will would kiss her, heedless of passersby, which was the sort of thing you could get away with in Paris, and they would set off on another adventure. The days were long and joyful, full of sightseeing—­they went to Notre-­Dame, of course, and to see Les Invalides, the Louvre, and the Arc de Triomphe; they went to the see the Siege of Paris cyclorama (which Will declared to be simply an image of a thousand Frenchmen and thus not worth seeing) and to the bustling market of Les Halles, which reminded Tessa of Covent Garden.

It was all delightful, but what Tessa enjoyed the most was simply spending time with Will. At home in London there was always Shadowhunter business to attend to, but here in Paris they were away from all that. They had resolved to avoid the Paris Institute and all things related to the Nephilim, so that they could have an actual holiday and enjoy themselves without being called upon to fight demons or chase away unruly ghosts.

The one place they did not go was the great opera house, the Garnier, because Jem had always wanted to visit it. By unspoken agreement, they avoided it; though Will might have accepted the change in Jem, it did not mean he no longer missed him, just as Tessa missed him too. The loss was one Will would always carry, Tessa knew, a tiny flaw in the heart of his happiness, like a cloudy spot in a diamond. It made Will more precious to her, even as she grieved for his grief, and for her own.

One night, Tessa teased Will that he had never carried her over the threshold, as was the mundane tradition with new brides. “Perhaps,” she said, smiling up at him, “the exertion seems tiresome?”

“I am a Shadowhunter,” Will pointed out. “I could carry six of you over the threshold. Though if I had six brides, it would certainly be the talk of the Clave.”

To demonstrate, he lifted Tessa up and carried her back and forth over the threshold to their suite, after which he kicked the door closed and collapsed with her, laughing, onto their bed. Being on the bed together led to what it usually did, as their giggles softened into kisses and murmurs, and Will drew Tessa close. He reached behind her back, undoing the row of tiny buttons that fastened her dress, and she caught her breath as his hand slipped beneath her camisole to caress her bare skin, the wings of her shoulder blades. His lips were at her throat, her fingers locked in the soft dark curls of his hair. She wrapped her legs around him as they began to move together, their gazes fixed on each other, neither able to look away.

It had hurt the first time they’d made love, a little bit; now there was nothing but pleasure, a feeling so intense that Tessa imagined sometimes that she might tumble off the edge of the world; she needed Will there with her, needed to watch him as his eyes darkened and his face changed, needed to know he was falling with her when she fell, needed to know that when she came back from the far places that he brought her to, they would be together again. Together as they collapsed against the sheets, breaths slowing, bodies tangled, washed up on the shores of their marital bed like sailors after a storm.

“La bonne tempête,” Will said, as they rested together, facing each other across an expanse of pillow.

Tessa made a face at him. “You know I don’t speak French.”

He grinned, a little wickedly. “It means the good storm. What you and I just experienced, according to the poet Verlaine, who is very talented.”

“Perhaps,” Tessa said. She bent to kiss his throat, brushing her lips across his skin. “But does the poet Verlaine do this for you?”

“I should forbid him if he tried,” said Will. “I should send him away with great disdain. ‘I am a married man, Monsieur Verlaine,’ I would say. ‘How dare you insult me in this way.’ ”

Tessa giggled and drew back. When she did, she saw that Will was watching her, his eyes soft. She could read adoration in them, the depth of which never failed to humble her. But beyond and beneath that, she could see melancholy. The flaw in the diamond.

“Oh, Will.” She caressed the white star mark on his shoulder, lightly. “What’s wrong?”

Will knew better than to say nothing. He met her eyes and sighed. “I was thinking about our wedding—­”

“A ghastly topic,” Tessa mocked gently.

“Enough, woman. I’m trying to tell you something.” He wrapped a curl of her hair around his finger. “Our wedding was the pinnacle of my life, my darling, as you well know. A decision I shall never regret. As to why you married me, of course, opinions vary. Some say it was a moment of weakness, or the result of a fever—­”

“Will.”

He sighed again. “It was only a moment, at the ceremony,” he said. “But I found that I missed, not my mother and father, but—­Ella. I wished she had been there.”

Ella. Will’s older sister. Will had cast the blame on himself for her death, for many years; he knew better now, but the grief and guilt had left a wound. Tessa’s heart ached for him.