✓ | Hushed Whispers ⋆ Will Herondale [2]

CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN: SURPRISING

◤I think this is your fourth time mentioning my appearance, Will. Don't you think that's the opposite of what we agreed on?◢

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CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN: SURPRISING

A hushed murmur roamed through the Council chamber, bearing signs of a certain desperation.

It had always been like that, Marie supposed. No matter how much the respectful members of the London Enclave claimed they were reserved and uninterested in the ongoing matters that were of personal level, none could oppose that they liked juicy gossip, when offered. Their eyes lingered around, searching for the candidates worthy of analyzing, as if they were the hunters and others were the prey.

It bothered Marie, considering that - more often than not - she found those very same whispers taking in her own name, passing it from lip to lip like it had been another line of a long poem.

She felt Will's hand reaching out for her own, midnight blue eyes staring at her in adoration and comfort. His dark hair was out of place, but Marie supposed it always was. His obsidian locks had a mind of their own, almost like it was their intention to tempt her to reach her hand out and smooth them.

Charlotte, Henry and Gideon were seated on Marie's left. Jem and Tessa right behind them.

All of their gazes were focused on the center of the room, observing the sharp features of Benedict Lightwood. Seated on a bench, jaw clenched tight and palms curled into fists, the man faced Consul Wayland.

Gabriel stood nearby and, although he was dressed expensively, his eyes spoke a primeval tale of exhaustion. His emerald eyes appeared hollow, the very hue of life slipping out with each word his ears registered.

He had glanced at Marie and Gideon when he entered the Council chamber, offering them a comforting smile. As if they needed support more than he did.

"We are here," Josiah was seated next to the Inquisitor, shoulders held with pride and power, "to determine to what extent Charlotte and Henry Branwell have been of assistance to the Clave during the past fortnight in the matter of Axel Mortmain, and whether, as Benedict Lightwood has put in a claim, the London Institute would be better off in other hands."

"Charlotte Branwell, please come up to the lectern," the Inquisitor instructed, Mortal Sword glimmering in hand.

The woman obeyed, erasing the distance and gently wrapping her tiny palms around the silver sword. Surely and with a chin held up, Charlotte Branwell unfolded the story of the past events. Her tongue was sharp, speaking of everything: from the beginning of their search for Mortmain, to Nathaniel's death and all the other events that took place in between.

Every now and then, the crowd broke into whispers. Their eyes went wide and mouths agape, especially when they learned of the betrayal carried out by one Jessamine Lovelace.

"And the girl is where now?" Inquisitor demanded.

"She is in the cells of the Silent City," Charlotte spoke, "awaiting punishment for her crime. I informed the Consul of her whereabouts."

The Inquisitor stopped in his tracks. "You say this girl was like a daughter to you," he said, "and yet you handed her over to the Brothers willingly? Why would you do something like that?"