Chapter Nine

Isabelle

"Miss, miss you have to get up."

Isabelle slapped a hand to her face, rubbing the sleeping from her eyes. "…W-w-what?" she asked around a yawn.

A small pair of hands grasped at Isabelle's shoulders and pushed. "Please, get up. Mother says you need to get up and be ready before the Master comes from breakfast. You need to look presentable for your lessons, miss."

My lessons, Isabelle thought grimly. All that useless nonsense I'm learning to make me a proper lady. "I'm up, I'm up."

"Hurry, miss," the voice pressed and Isabelle sat up, trying to brush the tangles out of her hair with her fingers. She looked about, first to Alec, who was sleeping fitfully, and then in the direction of the noise. She beheld a small boy with big green eyes and a head full of dark , thick curls. He blinked his big eyes uncertainly. "Please, miss."

Isabelle felt a sharp pang of loss; the boy was the same size as Max, with the same big eyes. "Who are you?"

"I'm Archer, miss," the boy said with a quick, nervous smile. "My mother sent me to wake you."

"You mean Myra? She's your mother?" Isabelle asked, watching him closely.

"Yes, miss, she's my mother." Archer glanced back like he expected her to appear behind him. "You need to come with me and get ready or the Master will be furious."

"I can't-what about Alec?" she asked suddenly. "He needs someone to look after him, to get him food, to help him."

"I can do that, miss," Archer said at once and then he gestured to the table at his side. There was a tray of food on the table, a plate with some eggs and toast and a steaming mug of tea. "I brought him breakfast and I can watch him for you! I don't do anything around the house, I just stay in the kitchen normally."

Isabelle glanced back at her brother, but he was fast asleep and she knew that for him to remain that way, she would have to go. "Alec's very ill but he's not…contagious. He might have a fit or something, just hold him down to make sure he doesn't hurt himself while he seizes. You understand?"

Archer raised an eyebrow. "I know, miss, that he's sick. Mother says that he was injured by Valentine, and that he isn't himself right now."

"Yes, yes, he's rather ill," said Isabelle, grateful that the boy wasn't terrified, grateful that he was understanding. "But there's nothing…permanently wrong with him."

"Alright, miss," Archer said, and then offered her a hand and pulled her up.

Isabelle looked down at herself. She was still in the nice black dress from the other night, but it was crumpled now, wrinkles pressed in. "I should go change before I see Malachi."

"My mother is waiting for you in your room," Archer said, and then pulled himself up onto the bed. He sat and looked carefully over Alec, every now and then, swiping back the boy's hair; Isabelle smiled a little.

"I'll be back this evening." Isabelle lifted her chin proudly. "Thank you," she said as she went down.

Down the servants' stair Isabelle went, coming to a careful stop on her floor. Cautiously, so as not to make too much noise, she opened the small door in the hall and crept back to her room. From her window, Isabelle saw the sun just peeking up over the trees and she watched it glance off the roofs of other houses. She wondered what it might be like if she could live in one of those other houses.

With my parents, she added to herself. With my parents and Alec and Jace and…Max. No! No…don't think of him. Isabelle squared her shoulders and pushed down the bitterness and despair; she still had a living brother left to care for, and she still had Jace. Still, a small part of her heart was aching and she couldn't seem to make it stop. I won't cry.

"Miss?" It was Myra, waiting in the door; she saw Isabelle and gave her a plaintive smile. "I see Archer came and woke you…good, good, we need to get you ready. You have a long day ahead of you."

Isabelle lifted her eyes to the woman and shrugged. "What is it first?"

"You're to dine with the master of house for breakfast and then have your music lessons." Myra came forward and began picking through the closet. "We need to get you ready, Miss."

Isabelle stared with contempt at the dress that Myra had chosen; it was pretty enough, made of soft, flowing fabric in a pleasant shade of light blue. The dress would cling to her flatteringly where the bodice crisscrossed and then trumpeted out and down just past her knees. When she reached for it, Myra picked her sleeve and nodded to the door.

"You need to bathe first, Miss," Myra said. "Hurry along, Miss."

Isabelle allowed Myra to direct her to a spacious bathroom where she stripped off her old clothing and stepped into a shower. The warm water was a balm on her tried body and soul, and she leaned back a moment and let the water run over her. There was a knock on the door, though, and Isabelle knew she had to move quickly. She quickly soaped her hair, rinsed it out, and then stepped onto a bathmat, waiting for Myra to jump on her.

Jump she did. Myra set upon her with a thick, warm towel and began rubbing her body down. Isabelle made to slap her hand away, but Myra just rolled her eyes and smiled a long-suffering smile. She sat Isabelle down instead and brushed her hair out, drying it off with a towel.

"My little Archer struggles worse than you," Myra clucked as she spread a nice smelling lotion on Isabelle's face, paying particular attention to the cut on her cheek. Isabelle allowed her ministrations, but it was a struggle. "Now, look at you, a pretty little thing. I bet you make all the boys swoon."

Isabelle arched an eyebrow; she was odd, in a motherly sort of way. It made her miss her mother, though Isabelle knew Maryse would never have been quite so gentle or attentive. "I guess…not that I'm looking at boys right now."

"Well," Myra said, and then she picked up Isabelle's chin and held it so their eyes met. "I'm sure you don't need to worry about it much anymore. You're almost a grown woman now, and a grown woman has other responsibilities."

"I suppose I do," said Isabelle, but she didn't like the way Myra spoke.

Myra led Isabelle back to her room and helped her into the dress. "You're beautiful," Myra announced and she rearranged Isabelle's hair. "Now, go downstairs, take your lessons, and smile. The master of the house likes you, Isabelle, but if you put him in a bad mood, he'll take it out on Alec."

Isabelle's eyes flashed. "I won't let him."

"Then be good." Myra warned, and, in her strange maternal way, kissed Isabelle's cheek. "Be a good girl."

Jace

Clary had finally fallen asleep, but Jace kept himself awake, watching her sleep in the moonlight.

It had been a hard time, straightening Clary out. After he had set her arm, what little life Clary seemed to have had left her. She'd lain on the bed, occasionally asking a question, but completely unable to respond. Her eyes followed Jace, though, wherever he moved, and every time she even began to look away, Jace would panic. It was difficult, though, for Jace to keep himself in check when he saw the damage done to Clary. There were bruises everywhere, most of them were on her arms and legs, but her belly was covered in lacerations, too, dark blue and ugly red. Her arms and legs were frail and bony, and Jace almost sure that he could snap them if he wanted. Jace was shaking a bit as he cleaned and bound her wounds, and his land slipped as he moved over her belly. He had started dabbing at the lacerations, and Clary suddenly gasped, arching her back against Jace's hands.

"I'm sorry!" Jace rasped, watching her chest rise and fall in pain. "I-I didn't mean to-"

"Don't stop," Clary moaned. "Just finish the cleaning…"

Jace had quickly finished up, but Clary's strained breathing haunted him. After cleaning her, Jace eyed her sickly frame. "I need to get you some food, Clary. You can eat, can't you?"

Clary smiled a bit. "I'm starving," she croaked.

Then, Jace had snuck out of room, creeping down the halls to the kitchen. He didn't meet Valentine or Jocelyn, which was surprising, and he didn't see Jonathan, which was welcome. He found soup, and he wanted to heat it, but if Jocelyn heard him, she'd ask, and if she asked, Valentine would punish Clary. No, instead he opened the can of soup, cut her many slices of fresh bread and took it back upstairs.

Clary had been waiting with her eyes closed like she was asleep, but the moment the door open her eyes did too. Quietly, Jace locked the door and turned out the lights. He joined Clary on the bed, propping her up a bit. "Sorry, but no one can know you're here; you'll have to eat by moonlight."

Clary smiled faintly. "Like on my birthday, on the roof of the Institute."

Jace's eyes flashed up to meet hers. "I didn't think you'd remember that." He dipped a spoon into the soup and scrunched his nose at the globular meal. "Sorry I couldn't heat it for you, but I didn't want Jocelyn coming down and…well, I got you lots of bread, and it's fresh."

"More than good enough for me," Clary laughed weakly, and then allowed Jace to feed her. She ate quite a lot, more than Jace wanted her too, and she quickly placed a trembling hand on her stomach. "I don't feel good," she murmured.

Jace placed the plate of food on the floor. "You shouldn't have eaten so much so quickly; you might be sick."

Clary groaned and leaned back. "You mean I'll throw up?"

"If you do, I'll clean it up," Jace shrugged, and nestled alongside her. "Just try and focus on breathing for right now, and see if you can't sleep. I'll keep an eye out for Valentine or Jonathan, and I can wake you in the morning."

"Do I really get to see my mom?" Clary asked, sinking down into the pillows.

Jace felt Clary's fingers curl around his legs in a feeble grip; he reached down and placed a comforting hand on back and pulled her in closer. "She's been asking about you every day; I don't think Valentine can keep telling her no. She's bound to throw a fit if she doesn't see you soon."

Clary smiled just a little smugly at that and then her eyes fell shut. As she dozed off, Jace sat awake beside her, thoughtlessly running his hands through her hair and checking her pulse now and then. It didn't matter much to him that he had set all her bones, cleaned all her cuts, iced all her bruises, she still seemed very delicate, very ready to break.

But you know she's not, he reminded himself. She's a shadowhunter, a warrior, she's strong. She's the strongest person you know, and then some. She's isn't quite as breakable as you think.

Still, Jace didn't leave her side the entire night, and when morning dawned he crept from the room, down the hall, into the only empty room left. The bed was made and waiting, the desk tidied, though he saw a number of books piled there that he knew were going to be used for Clary's studies, and even a small art easel. It seemed that Valentine had set about fixing up Clary's room already, getting it ready for his daughter.

Getting it ready for Jocelyn, Jace said to himself. None of this is for Clary, it's all for her; if Valentine could have it his way, Clary would be locked in the basement where I found her.

He threw open the wardrobe, and, just as Valentine has said, there were a number of outfits, but, hung on the inside of the door, was a nice, plain moss green dress. Personally, Jace didn't think it was going to suit Clary, but, then, it wasn't about suiting Clary, it was about making her look presentable and sweet for her mother. He plucked, and a pair of boring green heels from the wardrobe and returned to his room.

"What's that?" Clary demanded, her eyes narrowed in disgust. "I'm not supposed to wear that, am I?"

"Afraid so," Jace sighed, but he smiled a bit at the look on Clary's face. "Valentine's choice. Here, let me help you get into a bath and we really do have to hurry. Breakfast is in two hours."

"Two?" Clary snorted. "It won't take that long to-"

What it would have taken, Jace never found out, because at that moment Clary tried to pick herself up off the bed. Her arms and legs still weak, she fumbled, lost her footing, and crashed to the floor in a heap of painful whines and pale, skinny legs. Jace rushed to her side, muttering under his breath about impossible people, and lifted Clary up. She tried to stand, but Jace hefted her higher and took her to the bathroom where he sat her on the toilet while he ran a bath.

"Can you get the shirt off on your own?" Jace asked without looking at Clary. "I can help if you want but I'd rather not-"

"Yes, just help me over to the tub," Clary sighed. Jace lifted her with a bit of strain from his rib and replaced her on the rim. Clary eyed him playfully. "I had no idea you were such a gentlemen."

"Well, I am when it concerns the daughter of the man who has my family hostage," Jace hedged, realized what he's said, and then snapped his mouth shut. It's not her fault her father did this, don't blame her! The look in Clary's eyes though, were hurt, and Jace rubbed her shoulders. "Don't listen to me, Clary, I'm just tired of this act; I just want to act the way I normally act around you, but as long as Valentine's around…"

"I understand," she said gently, and nodded her head to the door. "I'll be done soon."

Jace left then and returned to his bed where he sat, thinking carefully over the situation. There had to be a way to turn it in their favor, there had to be. What Jace wanted most, of course, was to see his family; he wanted to talk to Isabelle again and hear her say how unfair everything was, and how most of an ass Valentine was, and he wanted to see Alec again, even sit near him, just to feel that familiar brotherhood that had ringed them since they were children. But, what he wanted didn't necessarily mean it was good for Clary. He had to think about what she needed, what was best for her.

To not live with Valentine, was his first, resounding thought. That's not going to happen though. Maybe she could see Simon, that might be good… It was going to be hard to convince Valentine to let his daughter see her vampire best friend, no matter how much Jocelyn cried to him. But Jocelyn got to see Luke, so maybe Clary can see Simon.

"Jace!" It was Clary, and he was up in a second, hand paused over the door knob.

"What is it?"

"I need that stupid dress."

Typical Clary. Jace tossed the green thing over his shoulder and opened the door. Clary was seated on the toilet seat again, this time, wrapped in a towel. When she saw Jace, she smiled defiantly. "Think that's a good idea, do you?" Jace asked. "Getting up when you're in no shape to."

"I'm going to have to walk downstairs, aren't I?" Clary challenged, and then thought about it. "Well, you might have to help me with the stairs."

"Yes, I figured that," Jace said, and offered her the dress.

It was a struggle with the dress, but with a little help from Jace, and much struggle, Clary managed to pull herself into the outfit. Jace caught her in the mirror and thought she looked exactly how Valentine wanted her to: young and innocent. The dress reminded Jace of something from a different era, and if he had known his American History, it might have been the 50's. The dress was a fitted crossover with a romantic ruffled collar that flared out into a skirt that reached a sensible knee-length level. Clary caught Jace looking at her and shrugged.

"I'm certainly no Cinderella."

Jace laughed hollowly. "Because I'm a princes charming?" He gestured down at his black pants, red shirt, and grey sweater. "I feel like a tool."

This elicited a small giggle from Clary, who stumbled over to join him. "We can be tools together then. Now, help me into these shoes and we can head down." Jace steadied Clary while she wobbled about into her shoes, and then placed her had firmly in the crook of his arm. "You won't let me go, will you?"

Jace looked shocked. "Why would I ever let you go?"

"I just don't want to lose you again," she murmured, and Jace felt her pressing her weight down on him. "Last time I watched you go, I thought I'd never see you again."

Very gently, like she was a delicate flower, Jace kissed her on the lips. "I'm not going anywhere, Clary; I'm here for Jocelyn, remember?" There was a lot of bitterness in his voice at this, and he quickly ducked his face before Clary could see it. "Come on, I'll take you to see your mother."

Jace could feel Clary's excitement thrumming through her as he took her down the hall and to the head of the stairs. As he expected, she was a little uncertain on the steps, clutching at his arm in a painful grip, but Jace didn't care much. It was the knowledge that Clary was there that made it all worthwhile. At the foot of the stairs, Jace paused to give Clary a once over, checking that nothing was amiss. He flicked the back of his thumb over her cheek and raised a small smile from her.

"Just take a deep breath, Clary," he said as they approached the doors to the sitting room. He smiled roguishly. "Remember, Valentine expects you to behave like a proper lady, and I know that's hard for you, but give it your best shot, alright?"

Clary smirked up at him and then pushed the door open.

Isabelle

"Long, strokes, long!" sighed the musician in exasperation as Isabelle flicked her fingers over the strings again. She'd been doing it for the better part of an hour, just to get a rise from the small, somber man. "You're going to tear that poor instrument apart if you keep on like that."

"Imagine the horror," Isabelle replied with a polite smile and wide eyes. "Why, I don't know what I'd do if there were to happen. It would probably take weeks to get another harp here, and think of all the training I'd miss I so desperately need." As if to drive home the point, Isabelle hooked her pointer finger around a string, pulled it till it seemed ready to snap, and then released her finger. The string vibrated angrily.

"In my day, girls would have died to have private instruction in the fine arts-especially a harp. Such a perfect instrument, so delicate and gentle, and so beautiful once mastered. You're wasting a gift, young lady."

One man's trash, Isabelle thought viciously just as a bell tolled somewhere. "Yes, well, I do think our time is up, isn't it? I suppose you'll have to go now. It was a pleasure meeting you, wonderful, we'll have to do it again some time. Maybe, next month-"

"I'm speaking to your father," the man replied, tight-lipped.

"He's not my father," said Isabelle blankly.

The short man shrugged. "You're his ward, it's all the same." He stood up and huffed toward the door that might take him to maid or Myra. "I won't have a student of mine wasting away my time when it could be spent on someone worthy."

He's got quite the opinion of himself, doesn't he? Isabelle stood to follow him, buzzing like an angry bee. He'll not go tattling on me, that old, short man! "Malachi is busy."

"He'll listen to me, seeing as he pays me," the man answered smartly. "Myra…Myra!"

Myra appeared a moment later, her eyes alighting on Isabelle's furious face. "Yes, Mr. Grunald?"

"Where is Malachi? I need to speak with him at once about his ward," Mr. Grunald announced loudly, shooting Isabelle a contemptuous look.

Myra shot Isabelle a sharp look. "Isabelle, so get dressed for your next lesson; it's dance on the third floor. There's a small art studio that has been set aside for you."

"But, I want to stay-"

"Now, Isabelle," Myra said firmly.

"Fine!" Isabelle snapped, and tossed her hair back imperiously. "Fine."

Like a storm, Isabelle made her way back to her room, throwing curses and furious words this way and that. She kicked open the wardrobe door and found, to her disgust, a number of tights and leotards. This is Myra's work, she thought, and picked the least offensive, black one. For a while, she sat on her bed, considering just locking the door and refusing to let anyone in, but she knew that wouldn't do. At that very moment, Mr. Grunald was complaining to Malachi about her, and he was already considering her punishment, which would invariably involve Alec.

I'm sorry, Alec, she thought weakly. A harp lesson wasn't worth it.

Resigned, she knotted her hair into a bun and went in search of an art studio. By the time she arrived, music was playing. The art room had been cleared of all decoration and furniture, save a single chair and table, where music was being played from a large record. The windows had been opened and light was streaming in, highlighting the tall, willowy women across the room, holding onto a make shift barre. She was standing still as a statue, but for her leg, which was making sharp, half circles across the floor. Slowly, she began to lift her arm, tracing a pattering up above her head, and then down past her waist, and finally, to her side where she gave a slight flourish and then finished the exercise.

Sorry I'm late, I was running a bit over with the harp and-

"You're late, Miss Isabelle," she said simply, and Isabelle was struck by her accent, something Italian, perhaps. "I usually do not take students who study my art so carelessly."

"Yes, well, see, I had this other lesson-the harp-and I got a little caught up there-"

She waved her hand. "If you are not dedicated to me, I will not be dedicated to you." She crossed the room with a purposeful stride, one that impressed Isabelle, and stood before her. Up close, the woman was much younger than her stern voice belied; she was a little shorter than Isabelle, thin and muscled, with thick, yellow hair, very grey eyes, and full lips. She couldn't have been a day over twenty-five. "How about this: we will respect each other, and so, be respected?"

"Okay," said Isabelle uncertainly. "I am sorry."

She bowed her head. "I know that, but now we are late for class, and you must hurry if you want to learn."

"Yes, alright, Mrs.…?"

"Call me Emma," the woman tossed over her shoulder. "Hurry, hurry, to the barre."

Emma was, as Isabelle soon found out, both demanding and exacting. Her preferred method of teaching was for her to show Isabelle an exercise once, have Isabelle mark it for her, and then with music, repeat it. All the while, she would prowl around Isabelle, making comments here, poking Isabelle with her bony fingers there, snapping at her when she was falling behind in the music. Regardless, though, Isabelle loved the feel of physical exercise and strain, and by the time barre ended, was ready for more work. Emma, though, had other plans.

"You're not strong enough-or trained enough-for an adagio. We will work on your balance and positions," she said. "Now, show me the positions I showed you during warm-up."

For all her grace and strength as a shadowhunter, Isabelle was no ballerina. She could direct her body through the motions well enough, but she didn't have the grace or presence Emma had, and it showed. She had also had no idea as to the terminology Emma used, and would have to continually look to the woman for guidance. Despite it all, Isabelle found she loved the class. It was the perfect physical challenge that could wipe her mind clean and leave her empty of all her worries or cares; all she had to do was focus on the step at hand and she was free. When the time came for the class to end, Isabelle wasn't ready.

"You'll be coming back, I suppose?" she ventured.

"Four days a week, five, before you have a recital," Emma decided.

"Recital?" Isabelle croaked. "I'm not performing for anyone!"

Emma leveled her with a sharp look. "You will, or else how will anyone know the progress you've made; I wouldn't expect something grand, just the household, perhaps, any friends you'd like to bring along."

Isabelle thought at once of Jace. "Do I have to wear a tutu?"

"You have not earned that yet," Emma pronounced just as a very angry cough was heard. "Ah," Emma said, "Malachi."

"I've come for a word with my ward," he said, and his eyes were dark. Isabelle knew she was in trouble then, and she quickly looked for an avenue of escape.

Surprisingly, it came from the most unlooked for places. "I'm not done with her, Malachi," Emma said sternly. "Isabelle has stretching to do before I go, and I won't see her slacking."

"Emma-"

"Absolutely not," she said sharply. "I do not allow my pupils to shirk in their lessons. I will be done in half an hour; you may see her then."

Malachi looked quite ready to have it out with the woman, but she had a glint in her eyes that reminded Isabelle of her mother. She watched his gaze flick to her considering, and then he smiled openly, though it didn't fool Isabelle. "Well, I certainly don't want to encourage young Isabelle to slack; by all means, finish your lesson."

Emma watched him with her shiny eyes until he was gone and huffing down the stairs. She listened a moment longer than turned and shot a look over her shoulder and Isabelle. Slowly, her lips turned up in the barest of smiles. "You look quite stretched to me."

Thank you, Isabelle wanted to say, but she simply bowed her head and walked past her and then made like a shot for the servants' stair and Alec, lying helplessly unaware of the danger he must have been in. As she went, a small voice in the back of Isabelle's mind was saying, I can make this work, I'm not completely alone.