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When Clary walked in to the ballroom, it never failed to elicit a gasp from her. The high vaulted ceiling was decked in velvet draperies embellished with a heron - the royal family's crest - and, more peculiarly, a star. She frowned slightly, then smoothed her face before Isabelle tutted at her for wrinkling her face, even if it was covered by a mask. She knew that the Morgenstern's symbol was a falling star - 'like Lucifer' as she had heard the King sneer - but why would their symbol be here?

She looked around the rest of the hall. A long table full of sweetmeats was stretched out along the back wall, next to a band comprising of a violinist, pianist, and some others holding instruments she couldn't name. The polished dance floor was swirling with dancing couples. She spotted several unmarried girls shamelessly flirting with their dance partners. Elaborate, cushioned benches were dotted at small intervals against the walls, and the floor was raised slightly into a dais where the thrones for the royal family sat, with glorified chairs to the left where visiting royals would sit. In the centre, on the grandest throne, sat King Stephen. His heavy crown - one he only wore to entertain foreign diplomats or royals as a way of intimidation - sat upon his neatly brushed blonde hair, and his face was plastered with a gracious smile.

He caught her gaze and his blue eyes flashed with warning, though his face never moved. She knew what the look meant. Keep your head down. She always did.

On his right sat Queen Celine. Unlike him, her smile didn't seem faked. Her aureate eyes were warm and bright as she smiled at seemingly random people. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a simple yet elegant bun and she bore her slightly smaller crown with surprising ease.

On the King's left sat the Crown Prince.

His sharp, beautiful face was a precise replica of his father's, but his eyes were his mothers. He was sprawled inelegantly across his throne like it wasn't a honour to be there. When he looked up to see who had come in, he caught sight of Clary. Her red hair was recognisable anywhere. The bored look on his face dropped, replaced by something undecipherable as their eyes locked.

Her stomach flipped and she broke the contact hastily, blushing. But not before Isabelle saw and grinned knowingly. Clary scowled.

As the song came to an end, the King cleared his throat. He beamed a broad smile - though Clary thought it seemed like he was baring his teeth - and threw his arms wide. "Welcome," he intoned, "to the masked ball I and my Queen have thrown to honour our noble guests-" Clary cringed inwardly; he clearly was not fond of them, "the Morgensterns."

That explained a lot.

The doors next to the dais flew open, and three people walked in. The front two were clearly King Valentine and Queen Jocelyn Morgenstern. Valentine was a broad-shouldered man, with a stately, aloof air, who looked out at the assembled like they were beneath his notice. However, Clary noticed the abundance of grey in his white hair, and the faint wrinkles and shadows that surrounded his black eyes. Clary felt hers was the only sympathetic glance, though, the rest being filled with awe and fear. His eyes scanned the crowd and despite her sympathy, Clary felt glad Isabelle had dressed her in a colour closer to dull bronze than bright gold, as he scrutinised with force anyone who stood out.

Queen Jocelyn, on the other hand, was a different story. Clary heard the breaking waves of whispers carrying across the hall. She empathised with the Queen. More times than she could count she had heard the mutterings "red as the fires of Hell" or "only demon spawn have hair the colour of blood". The glares sent the Queen's way were heavy with hatred, though if Jocelyn noticed them she didn't show it, instead viewing the room with green eyes as cool and sharp as ice. Her tall, willowy figure was graceful as she slowly took the seat beside her husband.

The final Morgenstern was obviously Prince Jonathan. His skin was pale as snow, the same colour as the white hair he had inherited from his father. He walked with a lazy arrogance that spoke volumes about his character to the watching nobles. Where his parents had settled graciously into their allocated seats, he evaluated his with a glance brimming with disdain before grudgingly lowering himself onto it, sitting stiffly. His eyes flicked around the room before landing on something. He smiled warmly.

Clary followed his gaze to see a young man - about seventeen; the same age as the princes - smiling back. He had black hair that fell in curls, clear, pale skin, and had a similar frame to Jonathan Morgenstern - tall and narrow-shouldered. When he shifted she saw he had eyes a dark, dark brown behind a mask that was a lighter brown. It was a moment before she realised he was looking back at her, with an expression on his face he didn't like. She glanced down, wishing she had gone with a full face mask rather than the one she wore, so it would hide her violent blush.

Keep your head down. She would do it gladly.

Jace had felt his breath catch when he first saw Clary Fray enter the room. His gaze had first landed on her adoptive sister, Isabelle Lightwood, (whose wouldn't; she looked stunning) but then it shifted to the short redhead next to her and suddenly there was no air in his lungs.

Lots of glances would probably skip right over her. Her gold dress wasn't the most elaborate, the boldest, or even the widest. It was very inconspicuous, and blended into the masses well, despite the colour.

But then again, that was what Clary had always been good at.

He couldn't remember the first time he actually noticed her in a room full of other people, or thought about her other than to wonder what it was about that girl that people gossiped about. All he knew was that one day he realised he hadn't so much as glanced at anyone other than her even though she hadn't spoken to him or even acknowledged his presence. After that, he had striven to ensure he found out what it was about her that made her so captivating.

He had heard rumours that her red hair was a sign that she was a witch, sent by the Devil. Sometimes Jace wondered if what he was feeling was a product of witchcraft, but he had always dismissed the idea and dedicated himself to getting to the bottom of the mystery that was her.

At balls and celebrations he noticed her attending, he made sure to dance with her at least once, thoroughly interrogating her throughout. She hadn't responded well. She had told him, in the politest way possible that befit a prince, to go away and had answered few of his questions. Those that she did answer were with such vague answers they were hardly answers at all.

This only made the feeling grow stronger. He had kept trying.

This only led to his father pulling him aside and telling him to stay away from her. When Jace had replied that it didn't matter, that she was ignoring him anyway, his father had always responded in the same way.

"At least one of you has some sense."

But none of this had put Jace of. Eventually, he begun to notice that whilst there were exceptions, the majority of the events she attended ended with someone being swiftly and cleanly murdered by a clearly highly trained assassin.

And then Jace had overheard Stephen having a conversation with Robert Lightwood, Clary's adoptive father, about an assassin apparently working for the King, who killed off people who the King had discovered to be conspiring against him. They had referred to the assassin as "she".

Clary Fray's secret was much darker than being a witch.

But, he had to admit, it was genius. No one ever expects an angel to burn down the world.

Now, watching the blush flood to her cheeks as she broke eye contact with him, he still only half believed it. How could a girl made of porcelain wield weapons of steel?

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