This chapter leaves off from where the last ended. It is actually part of one, larger chapter; but I split them because together they were nearing 4,500 words :/ The second part will be the next chapter. Hope you like it! :)

Jonathan stopped running. He looked around the corridor and thought, if she has escaped, and you are too late...why does it matter?

He shook his head to clear himself of the thought, and ran. Heaving open the massive oak door, he saw her there – in the alcove, against the stone wall. She had tied back her staggeringly long hair into a loose braid but some shorter locks had come free, falling dishevelled around her neck. The coat he'd lent her still mantled her shoulders, but she was still dressed in the same crumpled, sodden shift. He skirted round: she was busy frantically scanning the dark courtyard, and muttering Latin tremulously under her breath as if it were an incantation – but then he spotted the glossy opal string of rosary beads clutched in her hands. Her breath ghosted in the air for a few seconds, before her eyes snatched at him in her periphery – and she jumped back, nearly dropping her beads with a gasp.

He modulated his voice carefully. It sounded gentle, but croaked ominously as he said in German, "If you go out there...you will die." He paused, letting the word punctuate itself in the silence. "You know this." Jonathan looked up at the sky, only partially visible through the driving snow. The grounds of his mansion had all but vanished under the whiteness, piercing against the dark, that had settled throughout the day, erasing every outline. "And if you do, we will be lucky to find your corpse tomorrow morning."

The girl winced. He was not sorry for it. She addressed the ground as she replied uncertainly,"Yes. I know. But I must go. I cannot stay here. You are a stranger...you are not human. Please," She turned her head, supplicating his knees, "Have mercy. Let me go."

Jonathan stepped closer to her. She was tall for a girl. (Woman? Girl? He wondered whether he really wanted to know). But Jonathan was taller, and twice as broad still, and, dressed in his dark gear, a seraph blade strapped at his side; he sincerely hoped he intimidated her. "We saved your life, and yet you are frightened of us? You distrust us?"

Still, she would not look up. "No, sir, of course, I am grateful, I owe you my life, but...I must return to..."

"Return to where? To what? Your home is destroyed." He was about to say, "Your family is dead," but he stopped himself. "Everything there is gone."

Finally – she looked up. The darkness made her look haggard - ill with anguish. It accentuated her pallid skin; he could see the thin, light veins beneath curling around temple and down her throat...She turned her face downward as her expression turned lachrymose, her heavy-lidded, cool grey eyes sparkling with fresh tears. The rims of her eyes were red raw from the repeated tearful flaying they'd no doubt endured since the terrible events of that morning. "I...lied. When I said—I had no parents—I do—" She dissolved into tears. Inhaling a horrid gasp, a few stray hairs stuck to the inner rim of her mouth, and he yearned to move them away, but she put a shaking hand over her mouth, stifling a quiet, desperate noise. Her fingernails were long, but jagged and dirty; her knuckles were scuffed with cuts and grazes, and there was an angry red burn running down the back of her right hand, to her wrist.

His first instinct, despite his confusion, was to comfort her. He found himself stepping forward again, with no awareness of what he was going to do until he was doing it: taking her arms in his hands. What was he intending to do? Embrace her? Caress her? Restrain her?

She gawked at the invading hands in bewilderment, and jerked away from him.

"I'm sorry," he said, stepping back. "I forget myself." Fiercely embarrassed, he added, "But you are right. You do owe me. And it would be a very poor way to repay me by stepping out there and trying to find your way out of Idris. I can guarantee you, you will fail. Only Shadowhunters can enter and leave Idris. You will simply wander in circles, all night long, until the cold overwhelms you." He was not entirely sure this was true – after all, no mundane had ever attempted to leave Idris before.

She met his eye, her mouth open in horror. There was something alarming in her gaze, he thought, something penetratingly direct about it that unnerved him; he realised that her ethereally grey eyes were also tinged with blue, and white—"So, I am imprisoned here, then?!"

Uncomfortable, he looked away, and scratched at his jaw. He needed to shave, he thought, feeling the thick, unkempt whiskers across his cheeks; he also needed a haircut. It was so long now, nearing shoulder-length, that he could feel the ends beginning to curl. He tried to imagine what he looked like – and was disconcerted to remember that he couldn't recall the last time he'd seen his reflection. Small wonder the girl looked so afraid when probably looked like a savage. Staring at the door, he said reflectively, "No. Not if I escort you out – back to your home, tomorrow morning? Does that sound fair?"

When he looked back at her, she raised her pale eyebrows. "You mean it?"

Frowning, he replied, "Of course."

She exhaled heavily. "Thank you, thank you so much."

There was a pause. He said, "If you don't mind me asking...Why is it you want to go back? Where will you stay?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. But my father—he is still alive—at least I think he is—and I have to explain...I can't let him return to—" Breaking off, she looked again into the courtyard, as if seeing something very far in the distance.

"Of course..." It was another while before he worked up the nerve to ask her, "How is your father...still alive?"

She glanced at him, and then away. "Most of the time...he is away from home. On...'business'."

"Ah. I see."

She glared pointedly at him. He met her challenging, steely gaze, puzzled as to how he'd apparently occasioned insult.

"And your mother?" He wondered at his own courage.

"She died when I was thirteen years old."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she said. "It was her fault." She stood up straight, lifted her shoulders, and balled up the beads into a fist. With an edge of frustration, she declared, "Are you ever going to ask me my name?"

Jonathan was stunned. "I'm sorry?"

"You saved my life but you won't tell me what to call you. And yet I cannot ask you, as that would be improper; but I'm beginning to wonder if you ever will ask me."

Jonathan felt an unwilling, smile curling his mouth up, impressed at her impetuosity, despite himself. "I think you have just asked. My name is Jonathan."

She nodded. "Jonathan what?"

He frowned. "I don't understand."

Sighing dramatically, she gestured to herself, "My name is Brunhilde Morgenstern. Call me Hilde, if you like. And what is yours?"

Oh, she meant his surname. "My name is Jonathan," He broke off, feeling unsure, his mouth shaping a letter...and then a different one, "Shadowhunter."

A crease appeared between her eyebrows. Doubtful, she repeated, "Your name is Jonathan Shadowhunter? But I thought that was what you were?"

"Yes, it is."

"Then, how is it also your surname? That seems very convenient—"

"It was not always my surname, of course—"

"So, what is your true name?"

He did not want to admit why he was evading the question. But, he thought, No, it is right: to rename, reinvent myself...Before, my father used to forget my name. I was irrelevant; even Abigail was of more importance than I. The seventh son...The best service I could have done for my family was to ride off on crusade and die, so my brothers could fight over the pittance I stood to inherit. Had I done more, I might out-shone them; and they would have hated me. But now that, my old life, is irrelevant. Now, I have put that behind me. He sighed heavily, "Oh, by the angel-does it matter? Just call me Jonathan."

She stepped back. "Alright." Her eyes darted away warily, and back again. "I'm sorry if I've upset you."

"No, no—"He sighed again, not knowing what to say. "We have been standing out here too long – it's cold, and I have business to attend to," Which meant a large glass of wine, and a warm fire.

She looked at the ground, diffident. "Yes. I am sorry for keeping you."

"Not at all." But his tone was far from polite. He heaved open the door, and gestured before him. "After you."

Grudgingly, she stepped in before him. Just as he was locking the door behind him, he saw the servant appear from behind one of the doors, out of breath. He gestured to Hilde and him hopelessly.

Switching to English, Jonathan said, "Yes, she was outside, but it's alright now. If you could prepare the bed in her chamber, fetch some dry clothes from Abigail's closet, and bring her wine and bread," The servant nodded. "Thank you,"

Hilde gawped at him. "I'm staying—here?"

He frowned, saying suspiciously in German, "You can understand English?"

"Yes, of course," She replied. "My father has been teaching it to me ever since I was child."

"Wh—" Jonathan's mouth felt numb: whether from annoyance, embarrassment or the cold, he did not know. "You can understand English, and you never told me?"

In clear English, with a smug curve of her mouth, she said with a heavy German accent, "You never asked."

He felt his nostrils flare and his jaw clench tight. Just then, one of the doors closed down the corridor. Looking up, he saw his sister with Albert Penhallow and Ciarán Fairchild, exiting one of the drawing rooms, in the midst of a heated discussion. Albert held a glass of wine – he'd helped himself to his wine—and Abigail and Ciaran did not even turn their heads until Albert announced, "Ah, it's our absentee leader, with...the girl. I suppose I oughtn't be surprised." He shook his head, looking Hilde up and down virulently. "I knew you'd go back on your word."

"And was what that? I don't remember making any promises."

Ciarán said, "We agreed, Jonathan, that we'd have no more dealings with her until you let us ascertain whether or not she is dangerous."

Abigail, unhelpfully, nodded. "Yes. We were discussing it and we were thinking whether or not her strange ability might be attributed to some..." She gestured with her hand, "latent faerie blood. It would certainly account for her...striking appearance,"

To everyone's surprise, Hilde squared her shoulders to them and said in English, "I assure you, I am not dangerous. I don't know how I can see you, but I am most definitely, thoroughly, human. Unlike you."

"You can speak English?" Albert exclaimed in shock.

"Yes." She replied smugly. "Disappointed that I'm not the uneducated peasant you thought I was?"

Albert sniggered disdainfully. "Are you certain of that? You don't look like much else," He looked her up and down contemptuously.

"Albert!" Jonathan shouted. "I never made any promises about when we'd investigate Hilde's ability. And at present, there are more pressing concerns—"

"Like what?"

"Like Hilde's safety—"

Ciarán objected, "How is she in danger?" At the same time, Albert shouted, "Her comfort, you mean!"

"Albert!" Rage was boiling in Jonathan and fantasised about striding over to him and burying his fist into his face. "You have said enough. Apologise. Now!"

"To whom?" Albert enquired. "Hilde—as you so call the girl—or you, your grace?" He bowed mockingly.

Fury reared in him. You bastard. "Both of us! This is your last chance," he bellowed. In his periphery, he saw Hilde, Abigail and Ciarán swallow and step back, cowed. Albert, however, just smirked slightly.

"Or what, Jonathan? You're not my king, or my lord. We're not mundanes, now. There's nothing you can do to me."

Suddenly, Jonathan was in front of him, and there were a scarce few inches separating him. Albert might have been older, his sharp face lined with cunning experience, but Jonathan had the pleasure of looking down on him. "Oh, but there is." He said quietly, snarling. His voice rose in volume, "I made you a Shadowhunter, and believe me, I can unmake you just as easily. If you EVER question me so disgustingly again, I won't hesitate to do it—do I make myself clear?!"

A smile tilted Albert's mouth. "You're bluffing."

Perhaps he was. "You think so? I'll have David explain to you how it's done. And how only can do it." He was not so certain about the last point.

"Indeed?" He looked nearly amused. "Then, I think you should do that."

"I will. In future, remember your place. And I'd also kindly request for you to get out." He snatched the wine glass out of Albert's hands, smashed the goblet onto the floor, the wine rolling across the flags. Jonathan stormed up the stairs.

He heard Abigail, the traitor, mutter apologetically: "You must excuse him, Hilde, he has always had something of our father's temper."