Chapter Five

Valentine

His hand on Jace's lower back offered enough pressure to move the boy forward, enough so that is seemed pointless to keep up the constant mental command of WALK. However, there was also the stream of commands SMILE, BE POLITE, BE RESPECTFUL, BE LOVING. The last one Valentine knew was going to put Jace through his paces; it wasn't that the boy couldn't feel, no that was Jonathan's illness, it was that forcing him to feel for someone who wasn't his blood. Even as Valentine forced his will on the boy, he could feel Jace fighting back; he had to hand it to Jace, he was a fighter.

No more fighting, Valentine thought, looking down on Jace. It's time you took up the place I've been grooming you for since you were born.

They reached the edge of the stairs and Jace hesitated, staring down the steep slope. Valentine smirked and rubbed Jace's back in a fatherly gesture. "Don't worry, Jace, I'm not going to push you down; though I must impress upon you that dinner is in an hour and I have work I must attend to before that. Please, hurry."

Jace glared up at Valentine, and he smiled back, admiring the gold that was so rare an eye color. "I don't want to meet Jocelyn," he snapped back insolently.

YES YOU DO. "I think you will find that you do," Valentine smirked and pointed Jace down the stairs. The boy put up the usual resistance, but he wasn't so much a fool; Valentine had trained Jace to choose his battles, this one wasn't worth fighting. "I don't know why you find the idea of being my step son so distasteful. There are children who would kill to be in your position, and here you are, making a mess of it all."

"I'm not making a mess," Jace growled back, his head still banging with the most recent command. He carefully took a few of the steps, Valentine prowling behind him.

"But you do find it distasteful," Valentine said evenly. "But, why? You have no problem being my son before, when you thought me Michael Wayland, and that includes the rather stern upbringing. What has changed?"

"You're not Michael Wayland," Jace pointed out sourly. "You're Valentine Morgenstern, and I don't want to be a Morgenstern."

Foolish boy. "Is that because of Clarissa?"

Jace paled as Valentine expected, and he enjoyed the sight of Jace looking so ill. "This has nothing to do with her."

"I suspect it has everything to do with her," Valentine replied swiftly, pressing his advantaged. They were passing through a long hall toward the sitting room where Jocelyn was reading. Valentine snatched Jace back as they reached the door. "Do as I say, Jace, and perhaps I will allow you to see her soon."

Jace was staring at his feet, grinding his teeth together. "And what is it you want me to do?"

"Be the son Jocelyn's always wanted."

Valentine felt Jace's will almost as a physical thing. What it must have cost him to concede to Valentine's will! Slowly, like an uncoiling snake, Jace allowed Valentine's commands to wash over him and wrap him up. He wasn't going to fight when Clarissa's life was on the line.

"As long as she doesn't pinch my cheeks," Jace grunted, and Valentine reached around him to open the door to the sitting room.

Jace

The sitting room where Jocelyn had sequestered herself was large, open, and painted pleasant buttermilk yellow with floral patterns stenciled in the boarder. A window was open to the still warm day, and from it, the sound of horse hooves and carriages was heard. Jace noticed first the grand piano, dominating one corner of the room near an arch that gave way to the dining room. The walls were lined with bookshelves that stretched to the ceiling. There was a table with a chess set waiting. Opposite the entrance, surrounded by many chairs and couches, was an ornate fireplace and mantle. Seated before this fireplace was Jocelyn.

She stirred when the door opened, and when she saw Valentine there, stood and smiled, warm and welcoming. "Valentine, I didn't expect you so early…And who is this?" She had just spotted Jace, and she glanced at him, wide and full of polite curiosity.

"Jocelyn," said Valentine, and Jace felt him push him in the direction of the woman. "I told you I would give you back your son, and, while I can't heal Jonathan-" here, something in Jocelyn seemed to flinch "-I can give you the son you would have had. Perhaps Clarissa mentioned a young man named Jace to you?"

"Jace," Jocelyn said softly, and the sound of his name on her lips made Jace relax just a little. "His name was in passing, yes; why have you brought him?"

Jace felt Valentine shove him forward, as if presenting a new pet to the owner. "I raised him, Jocelyn, since he was a small child, and I raised him for you. I knew I could never give you back Jonathan, but Jace is everything Jonathan is, just softer."

Softer? Jace thought indignantly. He opened his mouth to argue, but he felt something clap down on him like a vice. BE SILENT. It was Valentine, and his command shook through Jace, locking his jaw. Jace lowered his gaze before Jocelyn saw his fury.

"Oh, Valentine, I don't know…" her voice wavered off and Jace wondered what might happen if Jocelyn didn't want him. "He's certainly a handsome boy, and no doubt a gifted fighter, but I just don't know if I could ever-"

"Love him?" Valentine asked sharply. When he saw Jocelyn's eyes soften, he looked down. Jace had never seen Valentine so contrite. "I don't deny that he is not Jonathan-I know this. But Jace can still be a good son, the son you should have had. He's well-read, well trained, polite, and he knows how to play the piano-something I thought you might appreciate."

Jocelyn looked uncertain, but she didn't miss the way Valentine was holding onto Jace, or the way Jace refused to meet her gaze. There was something more at work here. "Well, he certainly does have the face of an angel, and Clary spoke highly of him." Jocelyn reached out for Jace and Valentine forced him to move forward into her arms. Jocelyn drew him into a careful embrace and finally lifted his chin so his eyes met hers. "Why don't you play the piano for me, Jace? I would love to hear it." She looked over his head at Valentine. "Thank you."

Valentine leaned forward and brushed a kiss against her lips. "I'll see you two for dinner shortly."

As soon as Valentine was gone Jace felt the pressure of his presence vanish. He lifted his head and studied the woman before him. Jocelyn had drawn him against her side and was leading him to the piano. She was tall, much taller than he thought Clary's mother would be. But, she did have the same delicate bone structure, the same beautiful eyes, and a mess of red hair. Her hand on Jace's side was warm and constant, and he had to admit, it felt good to have it there, like someone was watching out for him.

"Are you hurt?" Jocelyn asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Jace paused, wondering if he had heard her correctly. "Did he hurt you?"

Jace brew a breath. "I'm fine." He wanted that to be it, he wanted to be strong and silent and impress Jocelyn, but for some reason, the thought of Alec and Isabelle came to his mind. "He took the Lightwoods."

Jocelyn nodded, considering. "Alec is your parabatai?"

"Was," Jace croaked, and that was all he could manage.

"Is he dead?" she asked immediately.

"No, but he-he split us," Jace said. "I'm bound to Jonathan now."

Jocelyn sucked in a breath and drew him to a stop. "He severed the connection between you two? Are you alright?" When Jace failed to answer, Jocelyn made him look at her. "Jace, are you okay?"

"I will be," he finally said.

To his surprise, Jocelyn kissed his hair and gave him a very gentle hug; it was something very different from what Maryse would have done had she been there. Don't think about Maryse, not now, not after what just happened. Jace turned his face away, but he sank against Jocelyn's side all the same.

"Sit here, on the bench, and play for me," Jocelyn ordered, pointing to the chair. As Jace sat down, she joined him; he stared at her a little confused. She pointed to the keys and Jace's uncertain hands began to play idly. "He watches me always, Jace, checking to see that I'm happy; if for even a moment he thinks I'm not, he'll hurt Clary."

Jace's hand slipped over the keys. "What's he done with Clary?"

Jocelyn reached over and placed Jace's hands back on the piano. "I don't know, but her life depends on how happy I am being a mother, so forgive me, but it's not in my control to act as I like."

Jace checked her eyes and saw how sad she looked. Yes, Valentine had certainly gotten to her. "Not that I don't want to be your son, but…well, I've got a family."

"I know that," said Jocelyn, "but you'll have to play along. Please, for Clary's sake."

Jace nodded, and his thoughts raced to Clary; he had tried to put her from his mind for the last few days. Those last moments he had seen her had not been encouraging in the least. "I haven't seen her since…"

"Neither have I," Jocelyn said, and her eyes lowered painfully. "I'm scared for her, and I don't know what Valentine might do to her if driven to it. As long as he's happy, though, as long as he thinks that I love him, he'll let Clary go. I've been pleading with him for days, and I think he's finally slipping; I just don't know how much longer Clary can go."

Jace hated Valentine, really hated Valentine, but the thought of him holding Clary hostage was too much for him. "Then I guess I'll have to play along."

Jocelyn offered Jace a warm, sincere smile. "You're a good boy, Jace; I'm glad my daughter found you before something horrible happened to her. You took good care of her, I heard. You'll take good care of her."

Jace didn't know whether he quiet agreed with Jocelyn there. Take good care of her? I couldn't even stop Valentine from taking my brother and sister away. How could I protect Clary from her father?

"What does he want with us?" Jace began playing the keys again, picking up a thoughtless tune.

"He wants his family back," Jocelyn mused sadly, and her eyes glittered. "We're going to have to give it to him."

Jace bowed his head to the inevitable and continued playing. They stayed like that a while, Jace playing and Jocelyn sitting, her hand around him protectively, and her eyes darting from the door where Valentine would come from and Jace. When dinner was almost ready, the door opened again and Valentine stood there. His eyes alighted on Jace and Jocelyn together, and he smiled triumphantly.

"Shall we take dinner?" he asked, cutting Jace's music off midway.

Jocelyn rose from the bench, pulling Jace up with her; he could feel her arms about him, but unlike Valentine, it was warm and comforting. At first, Jace was confused by Jocelyn's constant presence, but when he saw Valentine come forward, as if to push him away and leave him open to another mental attack, and then check on the spot of Jocelyn holding him, Jace understood. Jocelyn was protecting him as best she could; so long as he was with Jocelyn he was safe from Valentine.

"He's an accomplished pianist," Valentine commented simply. "Would you two care to join me and Jonathan for dinner?"

In his side, Jocelyn's finger nails sunk into his skin against her will. Jace smirked. As if we have a choice.

They passed into the dining hall, and seated before them, was Jonathan; he rose up respectfully, but there was a sardonic smile on his face. Jace felt an unusual anger bubble up in his throat at the sight of Jonathan looking so perfectly at home, and he had the urge to lunge at him and throttle the life out of him. It was so real Jace swore he could feel heat burning through his blood. Just as suddenly as it came, though, it was gone, only to be replaced with shock and disgust.

What's wrong with you? he demanded of himself. Calm down, don't lose it over some boy's smile.

Isabelle

"This is your room, miss," said the housekeeper, throwing open the door and revealing a pleasant sized room with few furnishings. "Dinner is at six-thirty sharp, a half hour from now, so please wash and get dressed quickly. I'll be back a few minutes before to check you over."

Isabelle turned to say thank you, caught herself before showing any kindness to the enemy, and entered the room. It was nice, clean, and conservative. The bed was made, the floor swept and polished until the wood shone, and the desk was well organized and waiting for study. Warily, she crossed the room and tested to see if the window would open; it did and she felt the wind rush through, blowing her hair off her face and neck. She looked down and saw the back lawn and garden beneath her, and beyond that, trees.

It wouldn't be too hard to escape. You could use the treacle and climb down the side of the house, and then it's only a couple hundred yards to the woods. It would only take five minutes and you'd be free, free to escape back to-back to New York and…

And what? sneereda voice, and her heart sank. What can you do in New York? You're only family is here, your friends are here, your home is here. Besides, Alec can't run away, not in the condition he's in.

Isabelle's head dropped and she slouched back to her bed. Idly, her fingers plucked at the strings of the knit blanket on her bed, and she wondered already what life could have been life had she stayed with her parents, or had they never lost the war to Valentine, or…had they never met Clary in the first place. She knew she couldn't blame Clary for what had happened, but she wondered if she wouldn't be here right now, or if Jace might be here with her.

"No, Valentine wanted him from the start," Isabelle said to herself. "He couldn't have escaped that any better than I could have escaped this." Isabelle sank a little deeper on the bed, almost weighted down by her despair; she felt small tears prickling at her eyes. It didn't seem fair that in one fell sweep, Valentine had taken her parents and her brother from her, as well as leaving her trapped with the traitor who had betrayed them all to him. "But you still have Alec, and he needs you now more than he ever did. Remember that."

The thought of Alec did stir Isabelle on, and she rose from her bed and began to inspect the wardrobe that had been left for her. It was an unpleasant mixture of modern day and Victorian style clothing; there were dresses with voluptuous layers and corseted tops, slinky dresses made of colored silk, gowns for formal occasions, work dresses, riding dresses, dresses, dresses, dresses! Isabelle began throwing them haphazardly across the room, many of them landing on the floor and setting to wrinkle. Furious, Isabelle threw open the drawers on the bottom of the wardrobe and found tights and stockings in one and a number of shoes, some sensible, some high-heeled, in the other.

"You've got to be kidding," Isabelle snarled. She liked dresses, she likes heels, she liked dressing up, but she didn't think she could handle wearing a dress all day, every day for the rest of her life. "Can't I have one pair of jeans, just one? I'll even settle for sweats!"

Regardless of what Isabelle would have settled for, though, Malachi had only provided one thing, and that was dresses. Isabelle sighed, forced herself to remember Alec, and chose a simple black number. As she held it up to herself in the mirror, she noticed just how dirty she was. A bit more exploration of the room revealed a small, private bathroom with fresh towels; Isabelle quickly wet a towel and scrubbed her face, neck and shoulders.

Ten minutes later, Isabelle was seated on her bed amid the ruins of her closet, staring out the window, and waiting for the housekeeper to return and take her back to Malachi. She heard the lock on the door click and the door opened; Isabelle didn't turn, didn't acknowledge the woman, didn't even move.

"Miss," the woman said, watching Isabelle for a sign. "Miss, have you dressed and readied yourself for dinner?"

Isabelle raised an eyebrow, smirking. No, I've just been sitting here for the last half hour. By the Angel, you are unbearable!

"Please turn around, miss, and let me see you; I have to make sure you're presentable for the master of the house," the woman said, and tapped Isabelle on the shoulder. Isabelle stood and faced the woman with a blank face. Her eyes raked Isabelle from head to foot, pausing on her messy, dirty hair, her bare legs, and her shoeless feet. "We'll have to fix that hair, miss."

I can do my own hair you horrible woman, Isabelle thought, but nodded her consent all the same. The housekeeper took her to the bathroom, sat her down on the rim of her tub, and set to work pinning her hair up off her neck. She clicked her tongue at the length of Isabelle's hair. "Only young women wear their hair so long and down; I'll cut your hair tomorrow: a nice, mature cut about your shoulders. You'll look so nice." Isabelle squirmed a bit then against her will. She liked her hair long, it flattered her face and reminded her of her mother when she had been this young. When the woman finished her hair, she gently helped Isabelle up. "How about some nice black shoes, and then it's down to dinner."

The housekeeper chose a pair of black heels, not too high, but clearly meant for formal occasions. She led Isabelle back down the hall and stairs, and down to the bottom floor; they passed by a library, study, the stairs that led to the kitchen, and finally arrived at a set of double doors which the housekeeper opened and bowed her through to a dining hall.

"Ah, Isabelle, my dear, you look stunning." Isabelle bit back a sharp reply at Malachi's comment, and instead, she crossed the room and sat down, keeping her eyes anywhere but on Malachi. "Have you found your room to your liking?"

"It's plenty spacious enough," Isabelle sniffed, picking at the fork by her plate. "Where's Alec's room?"

A dark look passed over Malachi's face at the mention of Alec. "He's in the attic room."

"He's in the attic?" Isabelle asked sharply, frowning blatantly. "You put my injured, sick brother in the attic?"

"It's a very large room, plenty of spare space for your brother to study and practice," Malachi said indifferently. "Now, please, if you would-"

"Where is he?" Isabelle demanded. "Why isn't he eating dinner with us? He needs food and water to heal, not to be locked in some attic"

"I feel differently on the matter," Malachi said evenly. "Your brother must earn his right to join us at the table. He's hardly a fit warrior, and, given his predilections, I'm not very interested in having him around me. No, he needs to heal himself and then get back to his lessons."

Isabelle's eyes flashed dangerously and she slammed her open palm down. "And how's he supposed to do that when he's starving to death up in some cold attic?"

Malachi raised an eyebrow. "I think you can take care of him. After this meal, I'll have Myra show you to the kitchens. I trust you can tend to your brother until he's up and about again?"

And if I don't? Isabelle thought viciously. "Of course."

The housekeeper-Myra-served them dinner in due course, and Isabelle felt her stomach lurch at the sight of roast chicken, butter and herb potatoes, and fresh bread. It had been so long since she had eaten anything that for a few minutes, Isabelle did nothing but eat. The thought of Alec, however, drew Isabelle up short and she realized that he had been starving just as long as she had. The food turned to ash in her mouth.

"Now, I've done some thinking of your daily schedule, and I believe I've come up with a list of chores and lessons to fill your time," Malachi said, sipping his wine and smiling at Isabelle with an empty look. "I trust you have some skill beside killing? An instrument? Dance? Painting? Singing" When Isabelle continued to stare at him, he sighed. "Isabelle, you ought to have some talent beside the deadly arts; pick two things you'd like to learn and I'll have arraignments made for an instructor to come here. I would like for you dedicate at least three hours a day to each task you choose to pursue."

Isabelle nodded stiffly, holding back a very rude comment; she didn't have any desire to be artistic. "Anything else?"

"After your three hours, you will have lessons in running a household from Myra. She will teach you how to order the kitchen, keep track of the chores and the servants performing them, how to keep financial books, and a number of other small tasks." He gauged Isabelle's reaction, and she looked appalled. "I think working in the gardens will be useful, as well. There will be a short hour or two dedicated to rune study-purely theoretical. You'll work in the kitchen in the evening with the staff, learning how to cook and prepare food, as well."

You'll work in the kitchen…It was those words that broke though Isabelle's impassive silence. All those years her mother had kept her out of the kitchen in their house, fearing that she would be relegated to kitchen duty. Now, after seventeen years, she was being sent there. All her mother's hard work, dashed to pieces by a man masquerading as her father…

"I can't cook," Isabelle said breathlessly.

Malachi's eyes ran over her again. "You'll learn how. Now, how about we have dessert and then discuss your interests; I really do need to know what you want to learn if I want to hire tutors soon."

Chocolate mousse was served and Isabelle stared down at it, thinking…thinking of her life spiraling out of her control. She might has well have been stripped of her runes and gone with her parents for all the freedom she would have here. There was no more training, no more fighting, no more exhilaration as she ran headlong into battle with a demon, whip at the ready. She was going to be locked in a house, spending her hours cleaning and cooking and looking after servants. She would have to spend the rest of her life as a housewife.

It's not fair, it's not fair, it's not fair! she thought to herself desperately. Why couldn't I have gone with my parents, why couldn't I have gone with Jace?

The answer, though, was clear in her thoughts. I stayed because of Alec.

"So, Isabelle, have you given a bit of thought of as to what you would like to study?" Malachi leaned forward, and there was something particularly cruel in his eyes. "You certainly have the body for a dancer, and the fingers for an instrument. Have you ever played?"

Isabelle's eyes dropped to her hands and her long fingers. Jace had long fingers, Jace could play the piano with them… "I don't play."

"Then should learn, yes? How about you learn to play the harp?" Malachi nodded to himself. "I think that will be a perfectly acceptable instrument, yes, perfect."

"The harp?" Isabelle asked, scrunching her nose. "I've never played a…" It didn't matter, Malachi had long since made up his mind. "Alright, I'll play the harp and I'll…dance."

"How quaint," he chuckled, and Isabelle knew he was laughing at her. "I'll see to it. For now, it's a bit late, don't you think? You should go see to your brother for the rest of the evening; I'll be in my study-" He rose and towered over her, his dark eyes resting a long while on her small, pale face "-don't disturb me."

I wasn't planning on it, Isabelle thought angrily. "Okay."

Malachi left Isabelle and she watched him go, eyes burning; when the door closed, Isabelle turned her attention back to her half eaten dessert and drove her fork into it viciously. After a few minutes, the door to the kitchens opened and Myra appeared. She offered Isabelle the bravest smile she could.

"Malachi told me you should come to the kitchen and fix a meal for your brother." When Isabelle stood and faced her with a blank, even face, Myra cupped her face gently. "Come with me, miss, there's plenty of food for him. I have stew I can heat up."

Isabelle shook her head numbly and let Myra lead her away. The kitchen of the grand house was in the basement, and Myra led Isabelle down a tight, wooden staircase that opened up to a wide, low-ceilinged flagged-stone room. A wave of intoxicating smells hit Isabelle the moment she was in the kitchen. Myra took Isabelle around the room, almost like a tour, and brought her to a counter near a stove. A pot was on the stove, something bubbling inside it.

"Ah, Archer's been a good boy, warmed the stew up early for you." Myra found a ladle and a bowl and began pouring spicy beef stew. "This should bring a bit of color to your brother's face; hand me that loaf of bread behind you, dear. Nothing better for the sick than warm stew and fresh baked bread. I'll get you a tray."

Isabelle's eyes flicked about the kitchen; it was large enough to feed twenty grown men. "Do you work down here alone?"

"No," Myra said. "This house is fully staffed-there's about ten of us, plus two gardeners, and a horse master- but I'm the only one who lives here. Just me and Archer."

"Archer?" asked Isabelle, turning around and taking the tray of food and soup Myra offered her.

"My son," she said, and her eyes were shadowed. "Here, take this to you brother and make sure he eats it all; he'll need his strength soon. I'll come by your room wake you tomorrow morning."

"Thank you, Myra" Isabelle said, and she meant it.

"Take the servants' stair straight up to the attic," she said, pointing back to the stairs they had used. "I took water and tea up there an hour ago, and he was still asleep. Come for me if you need something; I live off the kitchens."

Isabelle balanced the tray in one hand, shook Myra's with the other, and then took the stairs two at a time. It was time she saw Alec.