Clockwork Heart | ✓

duodecim.

London, 1903

James was still going on about how great the raging sociopath line was two days after the Enclave meeting. Brooklyn had apologized profusely for the comments as soon as Tatiana and Grace left, but the Shadowhunters had laughed it off, assuring her that someone would have said something at some point. It had done very little to ease her guilt, and James's approval wasn't very helpful either. He kept grinning at her and then would begin to laugh, and Tessa would roll her eyes at her son and she would say, "Not again, James. You can't possibly still be on that."

After dinner, she and James were sitting in the library. He looked up from his book--an old copy of Vathek that had been his father's--and grinned at her. "I just recalled--"

"James," she said, shutting Sense and Sensibility. "It would be a pity if those adorable reading glasses of yours were snapped in half, wouldn't it?"

He reached up, fingers brushing over his glasses, and he narrowed his eyes at her. "You wouldn't."

"Oh, but I would." She grinned like the Cheshire Cat, and James thought of that as he looked at the lovely girl beside him. "Now, may I return to my reading?"

"Wouldn't you rather hear my father quote Tennyson? He's quite good at that. Also, he does this splendid impression of Sydney Carton that I think--"

"James." She said, cutting him off. "Are you really that excited about your father's excellent memory and knack for quoting works of literature, or are you simply trying to start a conversation?"

He grinned, this time sheepishly, and rubbed the back of his neck. He hadn't been expecting her to actually figure out what he was doing. "The latter."

"Then you might want to begin the conversation with something a little more interesting and longer lasting than how many different authors and characters your father can accurately quote." James had to glance at the look on her face twice--was she smirking at him?

"Technically, Tennyson is a poet. Not an author."

She had set her book aside and turned to face him. "You want to talk? Okay. What things have you read that aren't books or poetry? Mundane things. Name some."

It took him a long while to consider that. "None," he said. "I can't seem to recall a thing."

"Have you ever heard of Machiavelli's The Prince or Thomas More's Utopia?"

"Utopia, yes." He said. "But never The Prince."

She made a face. "I had to read those during the summer to get into an advanced history class in my sophomore year. Both of those, three chapters in my textbook, then a packet for Chemistry, then I had to read To Kill a Mockingbird for English--"

"To Kill a Mockingbird? I've never heard of that."

"Oh, you wouldn't have." She waved him off. "It came out in--what was it? 1950? 1960? Somewhere around there. Many years from now. It's considered a classic in my time, like Tennyson and Dickens and Frankenstein and Dracula."

"I feel as though I know nothing about where you come from." James had shut Vathek and turned to face her. He had read the novel several times and would probably read it several more. But he could only hear her stories once, and he would rather listen to her silvery voice than he would read a book any day. "Tell me about it, please."

Brooklyn smiled, and James knew that he chose the right thing to say. Her smile, like her, was something he fell in love with a little more each day--he wasn't yet sure how he would live without seeing it each day once she was gone. "It's much different from London," she said. "It's generally warm--warm enough that you can wear shorts and still sweat." At his confused look, she added, "Most people wear pants in my time, even girls. Shorts are short pants that we wear in warm weather. We aren't so modest in my time. You'd probably find my usual wardrobe scandalous." She blushed at that.