She waited until Robert had busied himself in a conversation with the Inquisitor before slipping from the room.
She needed air, she needed space.
Imogene had asked how it felt to be home.
Maryse found herself maneuvering down a familiar corridor; her eyes scanning each door as she passed it. The familiar letters etched into the dark wood was of little comfort.
A.
J.
I.
She paused at the last door.
C.
Idris was not home.
Lightwood Manor was not home.
She could never again call another place home.
Not without her.
It had taken her to agree to allow her children to reside in the same hallway. As toddlers in the nursery, they had been nuisance enough, constantly interrupting one another's slumber, staying up later than any child should, playing intricate games that only the four of them could understand. It had taken much deliberation, but she had finally relented, giving them the hallway furthest from her own,
Things had only gotten worse as they grew.
Alec and Jace trained throughout the night, the sound of their seraph blades clanking against the other nearly deafening, while the girls stayed awake talking, giggling, trading secrets. They had made no attempts to quiet themselves. Often, all four would stay up, sneaking into Clarissa's room after saying goodnight to herself and Robert. Perhaps they tried to be quiet, but almost every night, she would find herself storming into the fifteen-year-old's dwelling to shout at them, to threaten extra chores, to escort each teen back to their own bedroom, only for them to return after she left.
Once, she had told Robert that having four adolescents under one roof was a punishment she would not wish upon her worst enemy. Now, she would have given anything to hear the four laughing until three o'clock in the morning, knowing they would have to be up in just a few hours, but not caring enough to retire for the evening.
Instinctively, she reached for the key, the one she always kept close to her, and pulled it out.
Her room had been forbidden territory for so long. With a shaking hand, Maryse pushed the door open.
Her clothes still hung in the closet; photographs of the family still rested on the mantel. Her arm supplies, gathering dust, were on the desk. A picture frame had been placed on the bed, two familiar chains strewn across it.
The necklaces her daughters had worn until that fateful day.
She allowed a tear to fall.
She still thought of Clarissa every day; it was like someone had emptied her lungs of air, and she would catch at her heart, afraid she too, was dying.