The once clear, blue sky began to darken over the crowded city landscape. The glow of offices, apartments and streetlamps were the only thing to brighten the frosted New York streets at this time of night.
Margaret stood waiting outside of a grand building, covered in intricate carvings and beautiful statues of angels. The New York Institute. To any mundane passerby, it would have simply looked like an abandoned church, decorated instead with layers upon layers of graffiti and sporting multiple broken windows.
With her feet pressed against the tip of the crumbling, cement steps, Margaret stood starring at what would be her new home. A light, black leather bag hung firmly in her grasp, containing the few possessions she could rightfully call her own: A book of photographs of her and her Grandfather, Granville Fairchild. A ring containing her family emblem, formerly belonging to her father. And a few extra crossbow arrows that she had gotten while at the Institute in Idris.
It had been nearly 20 minutes since Brother Enoch had dropped her off, and she still hadn't had the nerve to walk up those steps herself. Too many thoughts were going through her young head, too many worries.
Finally, though, with her black bag on her back, she heaved her way up the stairs slowly, one step at a time -as if her feet were made out of lead. A giant, ornate set of doors, that looked like they belonged in a gothic cathedral, sat under the entrance archway. A brass plate was also fixed onto a pillar just right of the entrance, it must have been glamoured for etched in the plate read The New York Institute.
Margaret placed her porcelain hand gently upon the rusted metal of the door, letting the cold sink into the palm of her hand before requesting admittance.
"I am Margaret Fairchild and in the name of the Clave and the angel Raziel I request sanctuary." Her hand jolted back as the hinges of the doors began to shake, sending loose powder and dust everywhere. The right door suddenly swung inwards, releasing a slender beam of light onto the cement porch. A long red carpet could be seen lining the thin hallway that the entrance opened in to.
"Hello?" she called, peering through the doorway, the sudden warmth of the institute contrasted so much with the winter air outside that it turned her cheeks pink almost instantly.
A low chatter could be heard over a dominating crackling that, given the temperature, was most certainly a fire.
Margaret tiptoed onto the soft carpeting, "Hello?" she called once more just as the door to the institute slammed shut behind her. Certainly someone must have heard that? She thought, her body still tense from the surprise. But no, not a soul seemed to have heard, and the chatter hadn't faltered.
The long, black coat that Alice, the head of the Idris Institute, had given her seemed highly unnecessary at this point. Already beginning to sweat, Margaret unbuttoned the front and peeled it off of herself, slinging her bag temporarily on the ground while she got a handle on her coat. Now, bag and coat in hand, she continued down the seemingly endless corridor and found herself in a large room filled with couches and chairs in which six people sat.
"Excuse me," Margaret half whispered, her face burning as six sets of eyes raised to meet her own. Each filled with a look of surprise, confusion or suspicion-or even a mix of the three.
She quickly looked down and began to stare intensely at a piece of string on the floor, never before had string appeared so interesting to her as it had at that moment.
"I was wondering if I could stay here. I mean, I know I can stay here, I am a Shadowhunter after all. Well, I need to be trained more, and so I was just wondering who to talk to about my stay."
Stop rambling, she scolded, get to the point and tell them why you are here, you are making such a fool of yourself.
She looked up from the wooden floor then, taking in the grand space before her. The room was set up almost as if it were a library, hundreds of books adorned the shelves of which covered most of the walls. A fire was ablaze illuminating the faces of those before her and she searched for at least one friendly face. To her surprise, she got four.
However, what surprised Margaret more than their reaction to her terribly embarrassing entrance, was who each of the six faces belonged to. She couldn't help but list them off one by one. Pointing to them as she went,
"Isabelle Lightwood, Simon Lewis," her gaze continued moving as her finger flew over each face. "Jace Herondale, Alec Lightwood, Magnus Bane and," she took a sharp breath in, "Clary? Is it really you?" Each of their heads turned quickly in Clary's direction, leaving a long pause that no one quite knew how to fill.
"Do we know each other?" Clary asked politely, clearly racking her brain for any connection between the two of them other than their obvious similarities in appearance.
"Well, not exactly. But..." she took a deep breath "I am your cousin, I just found out myself actually. I was sent from Idris to live here...were you not told of my transfer?" A loud cough echoed through the room, Margaret whipped her head around just in time to see Alec thumping Jace hard on the back as he choked on his tea.