The Infernal Devices Reimagined

A Change of Heart

Though even at the best times the London Enclave caused misery in his soul, Will still found himself amazed by the new lows they reached for everyday. New reports of the carnage left in the Demonic Automaton's wake came in everyday, and they were ghastly detailed. At times, the author seemed close enough to the creature to count its individual wires. It all begged a question: why were they not intervening? The Nephilim might stammer out an answer blaming 'nerves cold with fear' or 'the risk of exposing the Shadow World' or some other rubbish when Charlotte directly questioned them, but the real reason was very clear.

Lightwood was chuffed to bits when Will and Greta relayed the story of how the automaton escaped during the council meeting. He was even more delighted to hear that one of Henry's inventions was responsible for them being there. No matter how much Greta tried to explain that the Sensor worked exactly as it was meant to, and that the cause of the problem was human error and a fault of communication, Lightwood could not be stopped in his degradation of Henry and his brilliant mind. Apparently, in the wonderful world of Benedict Lightwood's creation, a man inventing a functioning device which would aid Nephilim in their work was a thing to be deplored. The poor eldest Lightwood, cursed by the Angel to have to be seated next to him, looked splotchier every minute his father spoke. It was a pity the Íñiguez family of Madrid did not take him as his ward when he lived with them, or he would never have to bear the chagrin of sitting next to that wretched man ever again.

As much as he despised Lightwood, Will knew that he was a wealthy man, and of the power and influence held by wealthy men. Those below them would do anything in their power to gain his favor. If one of those things meant standing idly aside as a nightmare-like amalgamation of machine and demon caused terror through the land, then so be it. Combating the automaton would mean removing another situation that made Charlotte appear weak, and that was unacceptable. Any innocent mundane lives lost in the process were simply collateral damage.

Bright and early on a dull and ashen morning, a Nephilim handed Will another report of an automaton attack in the East End. Try as he might to read it, the grey sunlight that forced its way through those clouds above was not sufficient for him to make out the words. The hand it was written in was clumsy and uneven, but he couldn't ask for expert penmanship when taking into consideration what was actually written. Will tucked the report in his waistcoat and thanked the man for it, who in return made a grim expression and turned away from him.

Inside the Institute, Charlotte was disregarding her breakfast in favor of her own troubling document. One hand on her temple, she read through it many times over. Will took his place next to Jem and handed him the report. He hadn't the stomach to read it.

"Lottie, dear," said Henry, placing a hand on Charlotte's arm, "Are you quite alright? Is something the matter?"

With a considerable sigh, Charlotte set down the document and massaged her temples. "This," She said, tapping the paper, "is a letter from Aloysius Starkweather."

Henry blanched. The friendship between Aloysius Starkweather and Granville Fairchild - Charlotte's father - and it's subsequent collapse was a subject well known by those of the London Enclave. Starkweather, being the exceedingly reasonable individual that he was, had decided that his grudge against father should carry on to daughter, too. Inter-Institute communication was strained by this.

"What does it say?" asked Jem.

Charlotte glanced down the letter once more. Another sigh. She shook her head. The words 'I don't understand' could be faintly heard. She started anew: