"You want to go for a picnic?"
Clary nodded. "I've got it here," and she pointed to her duffel bag.
"Of course," replied Jace, an edge of sarcasm to his voice. "There's an inch of snow on the ground, it's freezing, and there's a cold wind. But apart from that, perfect picnicking weather."
"I brought hot soup." She paused for a moment. "I thought we could go back to the Herondale house. If you didn't mind."
He looked at her, closely. He couldn't figure out what the look on her face meant, but obviously she had a plan. He shrugged. "Okay. If you want to, I guess why not?"
/
Wayfarer cantered smoothly along the road, Clary tucked behind Jace, her arms warm around him under his cloak. Although there was a little snow on the trees and in the fields, sparkling in the winter sunshine, the track was obviously used enough to stay clear.
Clary had been right, Jace thought; to get out of Alicante, away from mourning, from rebuilding, into the quiet of the countryside. He'd be pleased to get back to New York, and to some semblance of normality, but it was good to make the most of Idris while they were here.
As they pulled off the main route towards the Herondale manor, there was more snow on the path, and he reined Wayfarer in, slowing to a walk, taking his time to look down at the house as they approached.
They stopped in the gravel drive, next to the fountain. Jace swung down, Clary following.
"What now?" he asked. "Shall we picnic here, or go round and see what the gardens are like?"
She shook her head. "We're going to break in," she said, pulling out her stele.
"Of course. Why didn't I realise that," he answered, "Clary Fray, cat burglar extraordinaire."
"I'm not sure it counts as burglary if you don't take anything. Besides, it's your house now, isn't it?"
"I'm not exactly sure, to be honest." He grinned. "But I'm always up for a bit of breaking and entering. I'd best find somewhere sheltered for Wayfarer, though, so he doesn't get cold. There'll be stables somewhere, for sure."
He led the horse round the end of the house, and as he'd expected, there was a low stable building, of the same golden stone. The doors were rotted away, but there were iron rings set in the walls, and he looped the reins through them.
When he came back to the front door, it was standing open. Clary was waiting for him, excitement sparkling in her eyes.
"You first," she said. "Your house, you should lead."
"You're just worried there'll be some stray demons hanging around."
"More like stray mice," she answered. "Go on, or I'll give up waiting for you."
Jace's heart beat fast – he wasn't sure why, really – as he went in through the door. The hallway was light and airy, the low winter sun shining through the open door, and through the leaded windows set on either side of it.
There was a long oak dresser in the hall, dust thick on top of it. He ran his finger along it, the wood smooth and warm beneath his hand.
"I would have grown up here," he said. "If it wasn't for Valentine." He tried to imagine what it would have been like; to have lived here, with two parents who loved him. Then he shook his head, breaking the spell. "But then I wouldn't have existed, I suppose."
"How do you mean?" asked Clary.
He shrugged. "My parents were only together because Valentine told my father to divorce Amatis. So if it weren't for Valentine, I wouldn't have been born."
"Neither of us would have been who we are, if it weren't for Valentine," said Clary. "I mean, obviously I wouldn't have existed either, given that he was my father. But if he hadn't been – mad, I suppose – " and she paused, "Without the angel blood, we don't know who we would have been."
She pushed a door open, and went through it, Jace following. They were in a large room, obviously a sitting room, though all the furniture here was draped in dust sheets. The walls were covered in a heavy damask wallpaper, and there was a tapestry hanging behind the door. Jace went over to it; although the colours had faded, the picture of the Angel, Mortal sword in hand, was still visible.
"It's kind of grand, isn't it," said Clary, a little uncertainly.
Jace laughed. "Just imagine the housework, too."
She grinned. "Maybe you shouldn't take on the Herondale name. You'll be condemned to a life of dusting and polishing."
"Shadowhunters don't dust, Fray."
"Someone must, otherwise all those books in the Institute library would be covered in dust," she replied, practically. She put her duffel bag down, and opened it. "Anyway, do you want to explore more, or shall we have our picnic?"
"Picnic first," he answered.
Clary pulled a soft blanket out of the top of the bag, and shook it out.
"I wasn't sure what it'd be like in here," she said, as Jace looked at her, curiously. "I thought it'd be nice to be comfortable."
After the rug, she pulled out a large glass jar filled with soup, bread, and cold chicken wrapped in paper.
"I think we should have eaten sooner," said Jace, looking at the jar. "I was kind of expecting a flask? That soup may have been hot when we were in Idris, but I'm not convinced it is now."
Clary wiggled her eyebrows. "Just wait and see." She pulled her stele out from her jeans pocket, and drew a rune on the side of the jar. "Thermis," she said, as it started to steam.
"You know, I'm not sure the Angel was thinking of picnics, when he handed down the runes in the Gray Book," said Jace.
/
After they'd eaten, Clary went and stood by the big French windows, looking out at the hills and forests of Idris.
Jace stretched out on the rug, leaning back on his hands, "It's good to get away," he said. "Just to be quiet for a while."
She turned to watch him for a moment, not saying anything. They'd taken off their heavy cloaks, and despite the cold, he was just wearing a thin t-shirt, stretched across his broad shoulders. The hair on his arms shone gold, standing up slightly.
"Did you want to explore more?" he asked.
She shook her head. Coming across to sit next to him, she pulled him towards her, into a kiss. He responded, as he always did, leaning into her, biting gently at her lower lip, tasting of soup and chicken and Jace.
She slid her hands up under his t-shirt, feeling the muscles in his back. Then she moved her hand round, deliberately, and pinched one of his nipples, not quite hard enough to hurt. His eyes widened, and the look of desire in them, and his indrawn breath, made Clary's insides turn liquid.
"That's why we're here," he said, laying back on the rug, the ghost of a laugh in his voice.
Clary nodded. "There's too many people in Idris," she said, pushing his t-shirt up, and running a finger down the golden line of hair on his stomach. "I've been waiting for you to turn up in my room one night, but you haven't."
Jace looked at her seriously. "I didn't want to assume . . . I didn't know if you – if it was just because of where we were, the fact that we might die the next day . . ." He paused, for once not sure what to say.
"So we only get to have sex if we're in imminent mortal danger?" Clary asked. "No wonder there's a shortage of Shadowhunters."
"You could always have turned up in my room," he said, defensively.
"I don't like climbing. Besides," she said practically, "this is much less stressful than wondering if Izzy or Alec is about to wander in for a late night chat."
Jace didn't answer, pulling her back down on top of him, and kissing her fiercely, his hands curling into her hair, holding her. She could feel him, all the way along her body. His hands slid round, undoing her shirt, stroking her breasts, and she moaned, arching up against him.
She put her hands down to his jeans, fumbling at the buttons, shaking with desire, feeling how hard he was. He helped her, wriggling out of them, as she pulled her own clothes off, heedless of the cold.
The feel of Jace's skin against hers was overwhelming; she wanted to touch him everywhere; feel every inch of his body. He stroked along her thighs, gently, insistently, and suddenly she couldn't wait, pulling his hand up higher, rubbing against him.
"Clary," Jace's voice broke, as her mouth slid down, licking his nipples, biting gently, "I didn't bring . . ."
"I did," she answered. "In my jeans pocket." She slid her mouth down further, wanting to touch all of him, taste him. "Izzy's," she said, sensing his unasked question.
This time he did laugh. "You've been discussing this?"
"No. I mean, I would, but it seemed . . . insensitive. I know she always keeps some in her bag." She reached across to where her jeans had fallen, found the foil square.
"There's no rush," Jace stroked her breasts with one finger, making her gasp.
"I think there might be," she answered. "Please . . ."
This time there was no uncertainty, no hesitation, her belly and thighs dissolving in pleasure as he slid inside her. As he moved, she pleaded with him, wanting more, harder, each stroke making her gasp. Then, suddenly, he flipped her on top of him, so she could pull herself onto him, desperate in a way she had never imagined she could be, until she tipped over the edge, the world breaking apart around her.
Afterwards, Jace pulled one of the heavy travelling cloaks over them, and they lay curled together for a long time, not needing to speak.
Eventually, he put his hand to her cheek. "I know it's selfish, given the other terrible things he did, but I'm glad Valentine was – what he was. Otherwise I wouldn't have you."
/
They rode back slowly, unhurried, the sun low in the sky.
"You should learn to ride, you know," Jace said, as they rubbed Wayfarer down together in the stables back in Alicante.
"Tricky to learn in New York," answered Clary. "I'd like to, though," she added, leaning her face against Wayfarer's warm neck, breathing in the soft smell of stables and straw.
Jace came round behind her, wrapping his arms around her. "We could go for another picnic tomorrow," he said. "And the day after, perhaps."
She laughed. "At some point, people might guess, don't you think?"
"Who cares," said Jace, with a shrug.
"You might, if it's my mom who's doing the guessing."
He laughed, as they walked out of the stables back into the city, arms around each other.
"I'll take the risk."