Hey guys! I can't tell you how lovely it is to be writing again!

I've been completely wrapped up in Pretty Little Liars lately – WHAT THE HECK WAS THAT SEASON SIX FINALE?! I was so pissed off at season 6B – how could they break up Haleb and Ezria?! I mean, Spencer and Caleb? Seriously?!

Sorry for that mini PLL rant. If anyone wants to vent about PLL, PM me anytime. I'm full of feels.

I've been spending a lot of time lately wrapping up this story in my head – so many new ideas and scenarios just keep popping into my head that the story has changed so much from how I first envisioned it. I can promise you that there's a lot of funny moments, reveals, drama, and of course, romance, coming up ahead ;)

Happy reading!

Disclaimer: I do not own The Mortal Instruments or Infernal Devices.

"And just like that, all I breathe, all I feel, you are all for me, I'm in. And just like that, all I breathe, all I feel, you are all for me. No one can lift me, catch me, the way that you do. I'm still falling for you..."

- Still Falling For You, Ellie Goulding

Chapter Ten

Jace hated art.

He hated this stupid class, he hated Mrs Fairchild, he hated the blank canvas that seemed to be mocking him, but most of all he hated Clary Morgenstern and her damned perfect art skills.

"Oh dear, is Jace Herondale having trouble at something?"

He also hated her damned perfect full mouth and the fact that she could never keep it shut.

Eyeing the palette of paint beside him, he contemplated for a second what Clary would do if he dumped it on that fire-engine red hair of hers but then decided that he would rather keep his balls.

He was rather attached to them.

Jace sighed and stared moodily at the pristine canvas in front of him. They were working on the same assignment that Mrs Fairchild had given them last lesson, and in one week and three days all he'd managed to achieve was a tiny stickman.

And not even a good stickman, as Clary loved to point out.

Obviously, he'd chucked it in the trash two seconds after drawing it.

Jace sighed in frustration, turning to his side to find Clary already painting. Splashes of red and gold began dotting the canvas, although for the life of him he couldn't figure out what she was drawing. "Yes," he admitted grumpily, throwing down his paintbrush. "We can't all be art geniuses unlike some people."

Clary laughed, turning to look at him fully now. "You act as if art is rocket science or something. I told you, Jace. It's just a form of expression. You don't need to think so hard. Just start, and you'll find that the picture draws itself."

Jace leaned forward. "So you think that anyone can draw anything? Even if they don't have a shred of artistic ability?"

Clary shook her head, red curls flying. "Art isn't about how well you do it. It's about what matters to you, what you want to show the world. That's why different artists have different styles of drawing. You don't see the world the same way someone else does, do you? How can you expect to draw or paint like they do?"

Clary hadn't stopped painting while she talked. Her hand moved deftly across the canvas, tracing red and gold and pink in short strokes and he realized that she had been painting a sunset. Her green eyes were focused, concentrated, her lips slightly parted as she paused to survey her work. There was a small splatter of paint on the edge of her shirt, but she didn't seem to notice.

For a split second, Jace wondered what that would feel like – to have something you loved that much. He'd forgotten what it felt like to care so deeply about something that you could lose yourself in it.

"What about you?" he asked again, and he didn't know why he was so inquisitive but something about the way she spoke kept drawing him in. "What do you like to draw?"

Clary set down the paintbrush, evidently satisfied with her art, and swivelled on her chair to look at him. She paused, clearly trying to see if he was serious, and then said "People".

Jace frowned. "People? Like models?"

She scoffed. "God, no. I don't know how people draw models. They're just posing. There's nothing...well, real, there. That's what I feel anyway." She added the last part in a rush, her tone almost defensive.

"What do you mean, real?"

Clary tilted her head thoughtfully. "I like to draw people when they aren't aware of it. When they're just being themselves. That's when you get to see them for who they are, not who they think they need to be."

For some reason he couldn't fathom, Jace had become fascinated. "Who do you draw?"

She shrugged. "I don't have any criteria. It's normally people I know, like Tessa or Isabelle, but I draw strangers too. Not usually though."

"Have you ever drawn me?" Jace teased, half-curious.

Clary rolled her eyes. "Don't flatter yourself, Herondale. There's nothing that interesting about you."

"Oh, come on!" He protested. "Look, I know it's hard to contain all this magnificence on paper – "

"Excuse me – "

"But I'm really very easy to draw," Jace finished. "Come on, Clary. I know you want to."

"Keep dreaming," Clary rolled her eyes, moving to slap his arm and accidentally jostled her bag, which she'd left on the side of the table. It tipped over, and her sketchbook slid out.

Clary reached for it, but Jace got there first. He snatched it off the table, and started flipping through it, ignoring Clary's protests.

"Give that back!" She almost toppled over herself trying to reach for it, but he held it out of her reach, grateful that Clary was so short.

"I will, if you draw me," he bargained, still holding it away from her. "Mrs Fairchild will kill me!" she argued, almost ripping his shirt as she tried to get her sketchbook back. "We're supposed to be doing an assignment!"

"Which you've already finished," Jace pointed out.

She sighed in frustration and looked from her sketchbook to his face, evidently deliberating. She must have decided that her precious sketchbook was more important than not giving in to him because she folded her arms and huffed. "Fine. Now give it back."

"With pleasure," he smiled, handing her the sketchbook. "I knew you were low but I never thought you'd resort to blackmail," Clary yanked it to her chest, shooting him death glares.

"Like you did?" Jace raised an eyebrow, remembering the day she'd threatened to tell Jonathan on him. Jace was very rarely scared of anything, but Jon's anger – well, he'd be an idiot if he didn't fear that.

"Oh shut up," Clary snapped, and he grinned. Getting under Clary's skin, he thought, was really the best sort of entertainment.

"So, how do you want me?" he winked, and saw her pale cheeks flush as she opened up the sketchbook and flipped to a new page.

"Just do your damn assignment," Clary instructed, tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear. "You know you only have twenty minutes, right?"

Jace grinned. "Don't worry about me. I think you have the harder job, short stuff."

Clary met his gaze briefly, the edges of her lips quirking upwards, and then she set her pencil to the pristine white paper and began to draw.

Was Sydney Carton a tragic hero?

Mr Wayland finished off the last word with a flourish, set down the black marker, and perched himself on the edge of his desk, looking around at the expectant faces turned towards him. "Can anyone define a tragic hero? James?"

"A great or virtuous character," Jem answered, in his usual calm tone, "destined for downfall or defeat because of a fatal flaw he possesses."

"Very good," Mr Wayland nodded. "As stated, a tragic hero must be a virtuous person. Do you think this describes Sydney?" His gaze landed on Tessa. "Tessa?"

His discussions were something that Tessa greatly liked and admired about Mr Wayland. He never pushed himself forward, never tried to impose his opinions on them and call it the right answer. He always invited their ideas and thoughts first, made them question and discover answers for themselves while he helped from the sidelines.

"I think it does," Tessa agreed. "While he was not a very pleasant person at first he ultimately redeems himself. When he sacrifices himself, it's not even for Lucie – it's for Charles Darnay, a person he doesn't really like but who he knows is important to Lucie. He wants her to be happy. Isn't it a mark of a good person that they sacrifice their own life and happiness for someone else?"

"But is it just for Lucie that he died?" A familiar voice interjected, and Tessa turned her head in surprise to look at Will just as whispers and murmurs broke out across the classroom. Even Mr Wayland looked taken aback by the interruption.

Will actually bothering to speak up in class? That was an occurrence Tessa could never recall happening in living memory.

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

Will leaned back in his seat, dark eyes fixed intensely on her. "I am a disappointed drudge, sir," he quoted. "I care for no man on earth and no man on earth cares for me."

Tessa almost fell over in shock, the same shock she was sure her fellow classmates were feeling at the moment. Will had actually bothered to read A Tale of Two Cities? And not just read it, but know it so well that he could quote full sentences verbatim?

"Those words don't seem like those of someone who cares very much about his own life," Will continued. "Sacrifice means you give up something that means a lot to you for someone else. Clearly, Sydney doesn't give a damn about himself, so why would it matter to him to die in Darnay's place? That wasn't sacrifice. Sydney died for himself, more than he died for Lucie."

"If he just wanted to die," Tessa countered, "he could've done it in any number of ways. Why only then? Sydney's sacrifice wasn't just his death. It was giving up Lucie's love to Charles. He knew that she didn't love him, that she would never love him, but he didn't become bitter or vengeful towards her because of that. His last act was to make sure that she was happy, even if that happiness wasn't with him. Doesn't that make him a good person?"

Will drummed his long fingers lightly on the table. "But even if he had a chance at her love, he would not have taken it. He thinks himself that he is undeserving of Lucie's love. Like you said, he knows he will never win her heart. He died so that she could be happy, but that isn't the only reason. He died so that he wouldn't have to continue living the life he's led so far, and the one he would be forced to continue living. He had nothing to live for."

Tessa was stunned. She had never heard Will sound like that before, never heard him speak with such conviction, as if nothing at all could change his mind. His tone was serious, honest – almost as if, she thought, he was Sydney Carton himself, as if he knew the fictional character's heart and soul as well as he knew his own.

"So you believe, Will," Mr Wayland cut in, "that Sydney wasn't a hero?"

"Not in the way that everyone considers him to be," Will replied smoothly, and although it was Mr Wayland who had asked him the question it was to Tessa that his words were directed, and on Tessa that his gaze remained. "He was enough of a good man to know that Lucie was better off without him, to let her go and be happy. But he wasn't a hero just because he died for Darnay to live. He was just a man who had no reason and no purpose in his life. His only redeeming quality was that he was wise enough to know his own worthlessness."

"His love for Lucie was his redeeming quality," Tessa countered, and some part of her was aware that the whole class was watching them volley back and forth open-mouthed, but she didn't care. She didn't know why this debate was so important, only that there was something about Will's tone, about the bitter amusement on his face that she couldn't stand. "You say that he had no reason and no purpose in his life, but Lucie gave him that purpose. His actions throughout the book are motivated by his love for Lucie. I don't believe he's a tragic hero, but I think he was a hero. Heroes change the lives of those around them for the better, and that's what Sydney did."

"Even if he believed himself to be worthless, he didn't have to die the way that he did. Even if he didn't want to live, he could have killed himself in a less painful, less humiliating way. He knew his death was the only way that the person he loved could be happy, and that's why he took Darnay's place. That means he was a good person, after all," Tessa finished, breathless. "Even if he didn't think he was."

The class had fallen utterly silent, even Mr Wayland watching wide-eyed as Tessa finished her speech. Tessa realized that somewhere in their debate, she and Will had subconsciously moved towards each other, his arms planted on the desk leaning towards her, and her body swung sideways out of her chair towards him.

She exhaled softly, waiting for his response, but he didn't speak. His eyes seemed bluer than ever as they fixed intensely on her own gray ones, and there was an oddly compelling look on his face – as if what she had said was both infinitely funny and infinitely tragic at the same time, as if he was thinking of a private joke he had not shared with her.

"Excuse me?"

The sudden voice broke the spell that seemed to have enchanted the whole class. Feeling as though she had just woken from a strange dream, Tessa leaned away from Will and looked towards the door, trying to calm her racing heart. She couldn't shake the feeling that their conversation had gone, somehow, far deeper than just a literary discussion but surely that was ridiculous. She had just been defending her favourite fictional character. It was perfectly normal to be passionate, and she was just being silly.

Who else could they have been talking about?

"Am I in the right place?"

A tall, brown-haired boy stepped into the classroom, a frown on his face as he looked around the curious class. No one answered him for a split second before Mr Wayland tore his gaze away from Will and Tessa and moved towards the new arrival. "Can I help you?"

The boy looked puzzled. "This is first period English Literature, right? I'm a new student – I'm sorry I'm late but I got lost – "

Mr Wayland nodded, giving the boy a friendly smile. "That's right. I apologize, it must have slipped my mind that you were joining us today. I'm Mr Wayland. Do you have your transfer papers?"

The boy's shoulders slumped, clearly relieved as he handed Mr Wayland a sheaf of papers he'd held in his hand. "I'm sorry Mr Wayland but I was only told today that we'd have to read A Tale of Two Cities. I don't have the book yet – "

"That's no problem," Mr Wayland waved him off jovially. "You can share with one of your classmates for the time being." He looked around the classroom, frowning, and then his eyes fell on Tessa. "Tessa? Would you mind showing our new student the ropes?"

"Of course not, Mr Wayland," Tessa acquiesced as the boy turned to look at her. He had piercingly gray eyes, almost the colour of her own, and he gave her a friendly smile. She could already tell that he was taller than her – not something many accomplished – and his cheekbones looked sharp enough to slice salami. She had to admit, he was rather hot.

Not as hot as Will.

Tessa knew her cheeks were turning red as she thanked her lucky stars that Will couldn't read minds. She could just imagine his ego swelling up if he knew that thought had crossed her mind. Where had that even come from?!

Mr Wayland gestured to the class. "I don't remember your name, I'm afraid. Would you like to introduce yourself?"

The boy nodded politely, and took a step forward.

"I'm Axel Mortmain."

Jace had managed to come up with something that could be called a painting and set his paintbrush down just as the clock struck five minutes to the end of the period.

He let out a relieved sigh, wrinkling his nose at the paint covering his fingertips, and then turned to look at Clary. She was still sketching, her bright hair falling over her forehead like a curtain between her and the world outside. He couldn't see her eyes through the veil of hair, but her fingers continued moving, quick and nimble, almost flying across the page.

She hadn't said a word for the past fifteen minutes, only sat with her sketchbook perched on her knees and her head bent over the page, sketching and erasing alternately. He had just wondered how much longer she would take when she drew back, throwing her hair back over her shoulders. "Finished," she said with satisfaction, setting her pencil down on the table and brushing stray pieces of dust from the page.

"Well, finally," Jace drawled, leaning in her direction. "I was wondering if you'd died sitting up. Can I see it now?"

Clary hesitated, looking up at him, and to his surprise, there was something very open and vulnerable in her eyes. Jace realized it was the first time he had ever openly asked to see her artwork, without any sort of malice or teasing. "Don't I get to see?" he needled her. "I need to make sure you've done justice to my perfection."

That did it – all the vulnerability vanished from her eyes, and she lightly smacked his shoulder with the book before giving it to him. He flipped it open, and felt his breath catch in his chest.

Clary had drawn him slumped over the table, almost asleep out of pure boredom. His eyes were half-lidded, as if he was interested in something but couldn't be bothered to properly see what it was, mouth slightly open. She had captured everything perfectly, from the curve of his shoulder to the messy strands of his hair. It felt like he was looking into a mirror, like she'd somehow given life to the black and white Jace on the page.

He'd always known she was a good artist but this – good didn't even cover it. He didn't know how long he had stayed like that staring at her work before she tugged it away from him, lips slightly downturned.

"I know you're in love with yourself, but that's enough admiration Herondale," Clary teased lightly. "You know it's harmful to –"

"That was amazing," Jace blurted out. "Seriously, Morgenstern. I didn't know you could draw like that."

She looked at him doubtfully, scanning his face for any sign of insincerity or dishonesty. "Are you making fun of me?"

"No," Jace said honestly. "That was – I knew you were good but that wasn't just drawing. You have a gift, Clary."

Her lips curved into a small smile – a real, true smile – and he realized that was the first time he had ever seen her smile at him like that, as if she truly liked him. It also struck him suddenly that Clary, with her shortness and her graphic T-shirts and unruly red hair, was seriously beautiful when she smiled.

"I take it that meets your standards then?" she asked as the bell rang and they stood up to pack their bags.

"Definitely," he confirmed, and handed her the sketchbook back. "I've only known one other person who draws like you." The words left his mouth before he could think them through, and he immediately tensed, hoping she wouldn't ask but of course –

"Who?" Clary gave him a curious sideways look.

He could always lie of course, like the thousands of times he had before. But for some reason, he couldn't lie to Clary about this, not when she looked at him with those green eyes, not when her art brought back memories from a time he'd rather forget.

Jace averted his eyes from hers, focusing on tipping the dirty water out of his palette into the sink as he spoke. "My mother."

He was aware that Clary was looking at him in surprise, probably dying to ask more questions, but he knew he couldn't – shouldn't – answer any of them. He'd spent years forcing those memories down, locking them away into places where they couldn't torment him again. He hadn't thought about his mother for so long, but now she seemed almost like a living ghost, brought to life by Clary Morgenstern and her impassioned art speeches and damned perfect drawing skills.

Because for a second it had felt like he was eight years old again, back in time in another art studio, with another canvas and another artist who spoke about her art as if she loved it more than life itself.

"Jace?" Clary's voice was tentative, and the light touch of her hand on his shoulder brought him back to reality with a bump. He forced the images back into that dark corner of his mind, the place they should never have left. She's gone. She's gone and memories won't bring her back.

"I'm fine, short stuff," Jace replied, purposely keeping his tone light. He didn't meet her eyes until they were both outside the classroom, pulling his backpack over his shoulder. He needed to change the subject before she could ask anything else.

"I'll pick you up at five tonight," he smirked as he saw her face blanch, horror replacing the curiosity as she remembered the date that she'd promised him. Then she crossed her arms and gave him one of her famous death glares. "Are you still not going to tell me where we're going?"

"But that would take all the fun out of it, wouldn't it?" He mused, already seeing her mouth open to argue.

He didn't let her get the words out before he leaned down, so close that he could see his own reflection in her irises, and gently pressed his lips to her cheek. Her eyes were wide when he pulled away, clear as glass and full of surprise and amazement.

"I'll see you tonight, Clary."

Then Jace stepped away and turned to walk down the crowded corridor, trying not to think of how soft and smooth her skin had felt under his lips and ignoring the sneaking suspicion that Clary was occupying his thoughts far more than she should have been.

I'm...alive?

*ducks to avoid flying seraph blades thrown by readers*

I am so sorry guys, I had no idea it would take so long to get this chapter out. For the past four months I've been through intensive studying and revision for my O Levels – which I'm pretty sure I screwed up anyway – but good news, it's over now so I'm free!

Anyway quick updates on what's been going on for the past six months: I've sold another part of my soul to Sarah J Maas, I am now obsessed with both her series, I became a year older, and I have become more of a crazed fangirl if that's even possible.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I really enjoyed Wessa's debate in this one and Clace is just getting progressively cuter ohmygawd. I love them, my babies. Super excited for Shadowhunters Season Two! (And we're going to see Sebastian guys. I'm so excited, you don't even know how hard I screamed when I found out)

Tell me how your lives have been for the past six months (to all my American readers, I am so, so sorry about what happened on 8 November. Stay strong guys, I love you all. You don't deserve Donald Trump as President) and of course, tell me your thoughts on Wessa, Clace, and a certain new character... *wink wink*

Till next time!