Chapter 3: Sparks
The smile had been etched on Clary's face for so long that her cheeks hurt. She feared that by now it resembled more a scowl. Allowing her eyes a darting circuit of the rows of faces turned up toward the dais, she quickly confirmed the heavy stares of most of the hall's occupants were still fixed on her. Clary maintained the undisputed position of court curiosity.
At her shoulder another serving boy appeared and refilled her wine cup to the brim. Taking a sip, she reminded herself to be careful of the delicious and headily honeyed liquid. Soothing to her frayed nerves as the wine was, getting drunk would be far from a remedy to her woes.
Thankfully, she seemed to have evaded being drawn too deep into a conversation thus far. Those who flocked to her father's throne were content to talk over her. Clary had to volunteer little beyond a smile.
From what she could gather as she drifted in and out of the conversation, her brother was planning some kind of hunting trip while her father heard suggestions for the court's summer progress.
"I'm sure the Princess would love the southern country. The estates around Lake Lyn are especially beautiful in the summer. And from what I hear, Lady Carstairs has recently refurbished Chatton House." The Marquess of Edgehill, George Penhallow recommended. Clary returned his smile gladly. He was one of the few councillors she had taken any sort of a liking to, on account of his kind smile and considerate attempts to include her.
"I'm sure I would like that very much, my lord."
The other lords moved on in their plans, but the Marquess continued talking to her. "How does Your Highness find life at court thus far?"
Clary couldn't restrain a mild giggle, "I fear I've barely begun to experience court life."
"I fear you may be right." He paused for a moment as though considering carefully what to say next. "Madam if I may be quite so bold..." he looked rather warily for consent.
"Pray continue." Clary encouraged past another sip.
"Your Highness must be careful not to be overwhelmed. Take caution where you seek out council, that is the best advice I can give. But do not make yourself too alone, Princess. I believe a royal position is a lonely enough state."
Clary blinked. She never would understand why men could not even manage to give a lady advice without issuing orders. Take care to seek council with you, you mean. She quelled her thoughts and tried to nod appreciatively, "I had not looked for such kindness. I thank you, sir."
He nodded, seeming pleased with himself. "I only speak because I have a daughter your own age, Madam. I know of the many tribulations a young woman must face."
Only because you lords insist we face them Clary reflected wryly, but kept herself outwardly as pleasant as possible.
"Ah yes, the Lady Aline? She is very accomplished, " She managed, trying to hold the picture of the rather dainty, solemn girl whom she was sure was this man's daughter. Lord Penhallow preened at the praise and suddenly Clary found herself fighting the urge to laugh. No one had warned her that the noble men of Idris would be such pompous fools.
"Those earrings. Your mother had a pair just like them."
Clary's mirth instantly disappeared, the laughter drying up in her throat. King Valentine was looking at her, his expression blank as ever. As Clary turned her head to him the candlelight bounced off the sapphires hanging delicately from her ear lobes.
"Yes, these are hers," Clary offered uncertainly, staring into her father's face and desperately trying to decipher the emotion she was sure lurked there somewhere. "She gave them to me before I left the convent" she continued, unable to stop herself babbling to fill the gaping silence between them. "They complement the necklace you sent me."
Valentine merely nodded, "You look just like her, sometimes." The tone was undoubtedly wistful as he contemplated his absent wife. As quickly as his nostalgia came, it went, and the King launched himself back into the courteously meaningless babble of another conversation.
Adrift again, Clary let her attention wander, her eyes skimmed across the steady blue gaze that had watched her so intently all night. Remembering how Lucian Graymark had spoken with her mother Clary stared back, wishing he would speak to her again. He had been amiable enough of their journey here and she could use an ally at court. Knowing how hard it was to win even a scrap of Jocelyn's trust, she had already marked Luke out as her most likely candidate.
Clary wondered, yet again, what it was exactly that had ended her parent's marriage. For ended it had, although as a staunchly Catholic sovereign Valentine would never dream of divorce. But her parents had been living apart for years. Valentine and Jocelyn had married for love, causing quite the scandal at the time. A young king was supposed to marry for political benefit and security but barely had the crown of Idris touched Valentine Morgenstern's head before he announced himself wedded to Jocelyn Fairchild, the daughter of practically no one and whisked her off to the capital to have her crowned queen.
Sitting beside the King now it was difficult to imagine him being moved by any sort of passion; charming and quick as his words were, she got the distinct feeling they were chosen with the utmost care. The union had produced two children before things soured, and Jocelyn decided to shut herself up in a convent with their six-year-old daughter.
Over the years Jocelyn had been frustratingly vague as to why had renounced her royal life and title, expertly evading her daughter's questions; infuriatingly insisting that the less Clary knew the better.
Whatever had happened a decade ago here Clary was, sitting in her mother's place with her mother's jewels circling her throat and weighing down her ears. Being used in Valentine's power games anyway. Whoever it was that had claimed ignorance to be bliss had been too ignorant to realise the stupidity of what they were saying.
"Clarissa."
Clary jumped as her father addressed her again. He brushed his fingertips along his neat beard thoughtfully, eyes sweeping over his only daughter. "Come. The ambassadors have waited long enough to meet you."
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The cool metal edge bit into soft white flesh as Isabelle gripped her wine cup between her fingers. Realising that she could no longer feel them, she forced herself to prise her fingers away from the drink. She hoped that was the only sign she was uneasy. Tipping the cup upwards, Isabelle used the new angle to survey her reflection. Thankfully, her practised courtier's face looked back at her, carefully smooth of any emotions. In fact, she even looked bored.
Jace was off chasing some girl who looked like easy quarry, and Alec likely trying to ingratiate himself with some more important people.
She supposed she could have done the same, but she was loath to leave her spot.
Because the Princess was now seated in front of the huge yawning fireplace, she and her ladies could enjoy the heat while also occupying a prime vantage point, peering through the door that led back into the main hall. From here Isabelle could get a good look at almost everyone.
She could see her brother stuttering his way through a round of pleasantries with Helen Blackthorn's father, the Duke of Lyn, and the Crown Price lounging against a pillar and grinning wolfishly at a dark-haired boy if his own age. Isabelle thought might the Verlac heir.
Prince Jonathan made her curious. There was something about the confident roll of his shrugging shoulders and expression of careful indifference that seemed familiar. Isabelle gaped, realising that she had been watching her brother's best friend don the same affected complacency for years.
With the thought of Jace came the realisation that he was nowhere to be seen. In fact, Isabelle hadn't seen him all evening. The thought was soon accompanied by a dizzy swell of relief.
The Idrisian wine in her mouth suddenly tasted of triumph.
From what Izzy gathered from the snatches of her companion's arguments, Jace had already made the mistake of getting on the wrong side of the King's secretary. That had been a setback, but if Jace failed to make an appearance here very soon it would be fatal.
Watching a shift in the line of ambassadors that did not include Jace as another moved forward to flatter the princess, Isabelle allowed a celebratory smile to herself.
"What's so amusing?" Kaelie Whitewillow demanded from her shoulder. Isabelle glanced at her fellow lady in waiting and widened her grin.
"You want to share the jest? I was just thinking of what a tragedy it will be to have to return to Adamant."
"You're going home already? But you just arrived."
"Yes. Pleasant as my sojourn here has been it seems to have regrettably come to an end." She gave Kaelie another beaming smile. The little blonde threw a glance at the Princess to confirm she was engrossed in her conversation with the Imperial Ambassador before leaning toward Isabelle, "Not the Dauphin?"
"Not without the ambassador, and he's nowhere to be seen. I must admit it'll be a nice change, not to be the family disappointment."
Kaelie's wide blue eyes were confused. "Why are you so eager to leave?"
The square neckline of her green dress swelled outwards while Isabelle forced herself to take a deep breath. "I'd get to go back to Paris, you ninny. Where everyone dresses better and flirts better. France is a cultural centre of Europe while Idris is, well- a kingdom of sheep farmers. In truth, I think it might be best for our dear, delicate mistress if she loses out on a marriage to France's darling prince."
Not that Clarissa Morgenstern was truly delicate, as a glimpse at the way she managed the Spanish Ambassador, Señor Santiago, would attest. Clary might look fragile, but Isabelle was willing to wager that some real steel lurked beneath the seemingly porcelain skin. The rather disappointed way in which the clever and charismatic young Spaniard departed suggested he had not found an easy conversation with the young royal which would leave her firmly enthralled and his victory assured. Isabelle could sympathise, having initially underestimated the little spitfire herself.
However spirited the girl may be, there was still a lot of work required to make her the paragon of womanhood and marriage that her father commanded she be. Her current dressing habits and stiffly awkward posture would have to be the first to go. Not, Isabelle reminded herself quickly, that she would be tarrying at this court long enough to help Clary Morgenstern do so.
The Idrisian court was not at all what Isabelle had imagined; she had helped several ladies of good and royal breeding prepare for marriage before, but she had never seen anything like this. King Valentine was standing over his youngest child, one hand placed firmly on the intricately carved back of her chair and subtly monitoring her every move.
Isabelle wondered why there was so much pressure on the Princess. True enough, she was the King's only daughter, but she was not his only child. The King was behaving as though some great matter of inheritance was hanging on the match. Isabelle had tried to voice her curiosity to Alec, but her brother remained stubbornly unconcerned. He insisted it was normal for the King of Idris to want to make his daughter a dazzling match, given she was the only girl he could use as a bargaining chip in a political alliance.
Beside her, Kaelie turned her head so that the seed pearls in her headdress would catch the light as she smiled at some approaching courtier. She tossed her next sobering words out the side of her mouth carelessly, "Yes, but you won't leave, even if your brother does. Not now you have a position in the Princess's household. You're one of her ladies now, whoever she marries. You cannot go until Her Highness releases you."
Dread plunged to Isabelle's stomach at the realisation. That would not be true. There was no way Alec and Jace would just leave her here. None at all.
But her father would. Robert would happily leave her at this bizarre, dull court until she made a bizarre, dull marriage just to find aught to do and eventually grew old and died here. She added this entire ploy to the list of things she would never forgive her father for.
Isabelle felt an indignant flush warm her cheeks. "To hell with him." She muttered mutinously, swallowing back more alcohol defiantly, before she shot an indecently seductive smile at a passing serving boy.
There were still boys here she could use to call her father's bluff. She could flirt and encourage every nameless knave in Alicante until her father panicked and ordered her home.
Isabelle Lightwood had no intention of settling down like a good, boring girl and relinquishing what little freedom she had.
Following Kaelie's enthusiastic gaze, Izzy caught a familiar golden gaze and realised that Jace had after all decided to do his duty after all. He was trailing in as the last envoy to make himself known.
He even looked disappointingly sober as he lowered himself into a respectful bow. This was a pity. When Jace Herondale set his mind to do something he did it.
It seemed that he had just set his mind to making Clarissa Morgenstern the future Queen of France.
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Jace had ridden in jousts, risking life and limb, with less nerves than this.
As he bowed before the King of Idris and his daughter, he let go of the fleeting hope she wouldn't remember the boy who had flirted shamelessly with her and teased her about a lack of clothing.
"Excellence."
Jace carefully straightened up and met her flat stare. Even her careful greeting could not fully disguise her surprised recognition, which was quickly settling into annoyance.
After his epiphany, Jace had taken himself for a long walk through the palace courtyards to strategize in peace. He now anticipated several possible scenarios. The first, and most unlikely he realised now, was that Clary would immediately turn to her father like the petulant child she had been when he had last known her and tattle on him.
The alternative possibility was that she would fly at him with whatever blunt instrument she could lay her hands on. Jace feared her jewelled goblet could do significant damage. This was his greatest fear; the Lord had seen fit to give him a handsome face. He subsequently felt it was only good manners to try and preserve it from the wrath of insulted Idrisian royalty.
It was not coming to those sorts of blows.
One glance at Clarissa Morgenstern's freezing smile banished whatever minuscule hope Jace had of her having forgiven his blasé flirtation on the basis of his most charming smile. He supposed he'd have to scrape out a pardon one way or another. He'd best start with a reverent kiss on the back of her hand.
"Your Highness I must apologise."
"Pray do so."
Jace could feel Valentine's keen gaze on him.
"I must confess I allowed myself to be convinced that the tales of your beauty had been much exaggerated. My eyes now show me otherwise."
Clary emitted a wry laugh and withdrew her hand, allowing Jace to rise and fully appreciate her expression of contemplation which bore a startling resemblance to her father's.
"I think you go too far, ambassador." A tart little smile accompanied her words.
So that's how you want to dance?
Being fully aware that the sensible thing to do here was to bear the just reprimand in silence, Jace couldn't bring himself to be humbled. That sharp tongue and proud wit demanded an answer.
"My lady I do believe I could go further."
She straightened up in her chair. He recognised this from their previous encounter as her automatic response to such audacious innuendo. The Princess did not blush and baulk, but determinedly squared her shoulders. She was as prepared to surrender as Jace was.
"Your Excellency, I assure you, there is no further you could go." The remark bit in and Jace had to stifle a smile.
Each word the duo exchanged was so weighted with sarcasm he could imagine their discourse falling like stones through the floor.
"Perhaps you underestimate me." Recalling the King's looming presence, Jace hastened to clarify, "In France I developed an inexhaustible supply of ways to compliment a lady. Although, I never did find much use for them prior to this evening."
Clary's nose twitched and an eyebrow raised marginally as she pierced through his shallow flattery. She looked like she blew her nose on empty compliments. Oh, this girl was not what Jace had expected at all.
"I am sure you will find plenty of opportunities to refine your skill at compliments. And a host of other ladies ready to hear them."
Jace had to hide a snort. He kept smiling at her. "Madam, I desire naught but to serve you. I shall exhaust myself singing your praises to anyone who will listen."
Apparently, this was enough to satisfy His Majesty. Valentine wordlessly decided the section of the evening in which he had to deal with foreign diplomats had concluded. He moved away to speak with one of his other courtiers. Leaving Clary and Jace together.
Jace's smile slipped, and they regarded one another with matching stony stares for a long moment.
Clary broke the stare, but only to summon her ladies. "It has grown late. Let us retire." As though the few minutes of Jace's company was as much as she could bear.
The lady rose from her seat, and Jace was thoroughly amused to rediscover that however great a personage she may be, Clary Morgenstern did not even reach his shoulder in stature.
Clearly Isabelle had relished the stand-off from her stance behind her mistress. Izzy was struggling to contain a grin as she passed by Jace. The girl beside her was the one he had been talking to earlier, Jace realised, offering her a belated smile which she received gratefully with a quick curtsey before falling in step behind the princess, who paused only to receive what was surely a fond goodnight from her father before she exited the hall.
The double doors swung promptly shut on the bright blue tail of her gown leaving Jace alone once again to assess the damage.
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Isabelle didn't get far. No sooner had she reached the Princess's chambers than she had run into Lady Penhallow. Being a Marchioness and one of the senior ladies had been sufficient for Valentine to name Lady Penhallow Chief Lady of the Bedchamber. This endowed her with the unfortunate responsibility of having to oversee all the other ladies. This left the Marchioness of Edgehunt the lone voice of reason amongst a crowd of giddy girls.
Isabelle was dispatched to the kitchens for some sobering fruit cordial. It appeared several of the girls had partaken of a tad too much wine.
Isabelle undertook her errand readily. It was always nice to know her years of wild living in France had left her with a useful set of skills, one of the most foremost being her retained ability to disguise a state of intoxication.
She didn't notice that she acquired a shadow until he stepped out from an alcove and blocked her path. The apparition of an unattended Prince Jonathan before her left Isabelle too startled to curtsey.
He removed his cap and gave her an appreciative nod, "My Lady Isabelle."
She wondered how in the name of God the Crown Prince of Idris knew who she was. "Your Highness." She dropped her head too late and sank into a delayed curtsey.
The Prince had already noted her suspicion, "You really think I would feel the eyes of the prettiest girl at court on me and not procure her name?"
Isabelle met his eyes and allowed herself to take in the undoubtedly handsome face. The combination of clear, fair skin, straight nose, and high cheekbones certainly marked him out as an aristocrat. His marble flesh reminded her of the busts of a Roman emperors she'd seen, calmly surveying the world he owned with a proud expression. The pale blond head and stormy dark eyes fell in perfect contrast. Jonathan Morgenstern seemed to be a good recreation of paintings Isabelle had seen of his father in his youth. All in all, he was far from difficult to look at.
"You flatter me." She spoke softly, causing him to lean forward slightly in order to catch her words. Isabelle was more than capable of encouraging the advances of handsome men. Still, she had never attracted the attention of a full-blooded royal before.
The royals of France did not offer much temptation. King Francois was an infamous womaniser, but well over forty and Isabelle was not interested in being another in a long list of discarded mistresses. Then there was the other Francois, his son the Dauphin, who was the right age and certainly fair enough of face. But his experiences as a prisoner of war in Madrid had left him a dourly dressed, solemn young man who wouldn't raise his eyes from a book long enough to notice any girl. Meanwhile his younger brother Henry, despite being just seventeen years old was already inseparable from a mistress twenty years his senior. As far as Isabelle was concerned an attachment to a Valois prince was only slightly preferable to the plague.
Rather unusually, all the Morgenstern matrimonial hopes had been pinned on his younger sister. Isabelle had heard of neither a betrothal nor an affair when it came to Jonathan. So, she let herself to boldly meet his stare and gave him some consideration.
If she was going to sabotage her father's plans, Jonathan could be useful. Isabelle suspected even her father would struggle to find a willing bridegroom for a royal whore, even a suspected one. Rumour was oft more powerful than veracity.
Jonathan flashed his teeth at her in another smile, "Think kindly on me Lady Isabelle." He spoke in a low growl, making it sound like both an invitation and an instruction.
Quickly, Isabelle grasped her skirts and swept off to one side, darting past the Prince and beginning her descent to the lower floors.
She threw him one last glance over her shoulder and saw his smile had vanished though his eyes remained hungry.
"You'll have to be much kinder than that if you expect kindness in return" she informed him loftily and then hurried down the stairs towards the heat of the kitchen.
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The clatter of the pen against the ink pot filled the otherwise still air of the study while Jace raised his pen, considered a moment and then laid the nib against the paper for the third time.
An angry black dot bloomed out from the point of contact like a bruise.
Groaning in frustration, he threw the writing implement down and snatched up the half-finished letter. He had been trying to phrase his thoughts into adequate words for over an hour and still he couldn't seem to finish his letter satisfactorily.
As the evening faded to night proper, the meagre orbs of golden light from the surrounding candles grew. Jace couldn't help but think of his rooms in Adamant, which were larger than those he had been granted to facilitate his studies at court. He tried to make do as much as possible, crowding every available surface including the window ledge with rolls of parchment and books.
They were his secret treasures. While Isabelle spent every spare ounce of gold on fine clothing and jewellery and Alec seemed to hoard his, every penny of Jace's wages and his grants from the Earl went to the Printhouse. They had done ever since he was a boy. The printing press had been mankind's greatest step forward since they'd discovered fire.
The Lightwoods had laughed at him, hauling his precious papers over the border with him and barking out strict orders on how they were to be treated every step of the way. People were dismissive, but Jace knew he was surrounded by a small fortune in print. This was his Alexandria.
And for all that learning he still couldn't manage to finish one damn letter to the King of France.
Jace had left the hall soon after the Princess, like all the other envoys. Yet he expected every other account of the lady had been dispatched long ago.
Tonight Jace was struggling to convey his thoughts in a way he never had before. Perhaps the stress was getting to him. He had never been at the helm of an embassy himself before. This was the defining point in his career.
If Jace Herondale, at twenty-one years old, could successfully negotiate this marriage and bring King Francois the alliance he wanted for his son he would return to France in triumph. He was sure to finally be granted a good position at the French court. And if the marriage went well, he could likely expect even further rewards. As a new bride in a new land, Clary could well lean on him. Royal influence was just a starting point from which Jace could gain lands, possibly even a title. This embassy could change the course of his diplomatic career, but also his life.
He was not like Alec and Isabelle, guaranteed a future through their inheritances; Alec would succeed his father and Isabelle would (eventually) be secured a dowry and a husband. But Jace wasn't legally the Lightwood's son. However much he loved them as family, they could not give him anything.
Jace's father's titles and possessions had all been forfeit to the Crown of Idris once he'd been arraigned for treason. Stephen Herondale had died and left his son with nothing.
By the time he'd turned sixteen Jace had realised his avenue to fortune was royal service.
Contrary to his Idrisian roots, because of them he had chosen to serve the royal family in France. Within the space of a few short years, Jace had come far.
Perhaps he had peaked too soon.
Here he was, supposedly at the pinnacle of his prowess, and already he had let the Morgensterns get under his skin and ruin it. Jace angrily shoved his hand into his hair and tried to swallow past the furious lump in his throat.
Really, he was as much to blame for his own obnoxious behaviour as they were but nonetheless it was exasperating. And dangerous. His father's fate was warning enough of what happened to Herondales who felt their reigning cousins treated them too unjustly.
But Stephen had been a fool. Jace was not. So he refused to react again, no matter how much it pained him to watch Valentine parade around with the family that did not include the little boy he had sent away so long ago.
No more rising to it, no more goading the pert Princess. There was too much at stake. Sparring with her and besting her quick tongue might bring some satisfaction in the moment, but Jace needed to keep his eye on the months and years to come.
Clarissa was supposed to be a malleable innocent fresh out of a convent. Doe-eyed and bleating. That would have Jace's job much easier. But no. Clary couldn't have been further from that.
Did he really hate her? Did he really hate any of them?
Evidently not enough to decline the opportunity to return here when Francois had offered it to him.
Jace tossed his head back and pressed the palms of his hands over his eyes.
Just his luck. Spend years faithfully serving France to escape Valentine and his reward? Getting sent back to Valentine.
All these years spent running away, and he'd only been chasing his own tail.
It suited a life which had always been a huge contradiction. The boy with royal blood and the taint of treason. The man whose only skill was the clever things he could say, while the same mouth forever turning him into trouble. Jace Herondale would forever be his own worst enemy.
Jace forced his thoughts to return to his crumpled and stained attempt at a letter. He tossed it to the edge of the desk to join its predecessors.
There had to be something he could say:
Your Grace,
I am pleased to report that the princess is neither repugnant nor deformed as I had feared.
I also am obligated to warn you that she may find it her pleasure to have me knifed in my sleep.
I wish you luck in your war against the Spanish.
Your faithful servant, Jace Herondale.
He doubted if that would suffice.
His fears took a solid form in a strained and nervous Alec stepping into the room after a rapid knock.
"What the hell did you do?"
"What makes you think I did anything?" Jace tried to look insulted.
"Isabelle looks as though a host of angels have come down and crowned her queen!"
"And so? Are you not pleased your sister is happy with my success?"
"Because she wouldn't be happy with your success" Alec stated slowly, blue eyes cloudy with foreboding. "Christ Jace, I thought I could at least rely on you to do this right? When so much depends-"
"I know!" Jace interrupted tersely. "I am still working!" He gestured to the heaped documents under his hands.
Alec swallowed and removed his cap, twisting it in his hands in his agitation. Finally, he choked out a few garbled, reluctant words, "If you were to tell me what happened…perhaps I could…you know I was called upon by the King…and he raised you, he would be sure to forgive…if I interceded…"
"Alec, Alec you don't need to do that," Jace hastily soothed, seeing how obviously uncomfortable Alec would be to have to address the King on his behalf. "It's not that bad. I have spoken out of turn with the Princess and then been stubborn about it."
He sighed and ran his hands along his jawline before leaning his elbows on the desk. He rested his chin on his hands and emitted a short laugh. " I doubt that it's of any great consequence at any rate. It doesn't look as though she will complain to the King. And he decides who she marries."
Clarissa was just a girl and every girl, no matter how displeased or defiant, would ultimately be governed by her lord.
"Whether she likes me or not her father rules her as surely as he does the country. If Valentine wants her to be queen of France, then that is what she will be."
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Rebecca's careful fingers drew through Clary's hair as she separated the heavy red strands for braiding. Though Clary had several maids and ladies to wait on her now, she still preferred to ask Rebecca for the more intimate duties.
She had known Rebecca all her life. Rebecca and Simon's mother had been Clary's childhood nurse.
When Jocelyn revealed her daughter was permitted, nay expected, to bring a lady's maid to court, Rebecca had been first choice for the position.
After all, Rebecca had years of practise when it came to arranging Clary's unruly locks into something suitable.
Once her hair had been secured in its customary plait, Clary made her way towards the bed. As she approached, she passed Isabelle Lightwood who had finished stowing Clary's gown in the wardrobe chamber.
The French girl had been unusually cheerful all evening and her fair features were still arranged in a smug expression.
"Would you sit with me a while, Lady Isabelle?" Clary requested softly.
"Of course, Your Highness."
Clary was determined to secure her first court supporter. Mayhap even her first friend. She had been surrounded by other women at the convent, but there had been no novices her own age. And of all the ladies in her household, Isabelle was by far the most interesting to her.
A few conversations had revealed a little more about Isabelle, her previous experiences at the Valois court and her intentions at the Morgenstern court. An unconventional arrangement was springing up between the two young ladies. With Isabelle's expertise in such affairs, she could help Clary get a husband that would not turn her stomach. In return, Clary may be able to assist Isabelle in avoiding a husband of any kind.
A girl's powerlessness didn't mean to say there were no ways in which she could manipulate the system. And Clary was a quick learner. Under Isabelle Lightwood's tutelage she was starting to see the wonders that a smile here and a promise there could do.
Together, they pulled their stools over to the huge fireplace opposite the foot of the bed.
Clary stretched her fingers towards the glowing heat of the low flames and tried to arrange her thoughts into a set of coherent questions.
"You survived the presentation," Isabelle noted, an attempt to prompt Clary to do some thinking out loud.
"Just about. I don't think I managed to make a fool of myself."
Isabelle's black eyes reflected the dancing firelight as she surveyed Clary, "Can I ask what happened between you and Jace? I'm at a loss, you know. From what he's told me you were a child the last time he saw you. I doubt anyone could hold a grudge that long. What could he have possibly done, stolen your toys?"
Clary felt her brow crumple into a confused frown, "A grudge? How could I hold a grudge? Who's Jace?"
Isabelle rolled her eyes impatiently, "The French ambassador you were so quick to put in his place? I think the King calls him Jonathan? To us he has always been Jace."
"Oh." Her agitation sparked. "That one," She acknowledged her comprehension reluctantly.
Clary was in no way willing to detail the events that had led to their paths crossing, not when she expected Isabelle would greet her account of a homesick girl creeping around in search of a friend in her nightclothes with a scolding. Sympathy was not in Isabelle's nature.
"We did meet briefly. It was long enough for him to insinuate I was a whore."
"He did that?" Isabelle demanded incredulously. Then understanding dawned, "He had no idea who you were and tried to sweet talk you into bed didn't he?"
"More or less." Clary told her shortly.
To her surprise her companion laughed throatily, "Well he's a man! What do you expect?" Her laughter finally lapsed into silence. She leaned in to catch Clary's wrist, pressing her lips close to her ear. Isabelle whispered as though she was imparting state secrets; "They don't think with what is in their brains, but with what is in their breeches."
Clary jerked away as a hot wave of embarrassment rushed over her, "Isabelle!" she barked out a horrified reprimand.
"You're not in the convent anymore, Clary!" her friend finally managed to speak past another outburst of her laughter which took a moment to pass. "At home it likely would have worked." She concluded drily, moving to pour them both some ale.
Clary sipped in silence for a while, working to replenish the warmth that the alcohol she'd drunk at dinner had lent her. Then her mind snagged on another of Isabelle's comments. "What do you mean I was a child the last time he saw me?"
Isabelle's threw a shocked glance at the girl beside her. "He's Jonathan Herondale." She responded as though it settled the matter, only for her surprise to deepen at Clary's blank stare.
"He grew up here, at court. In the royal nursery. Your nursery."
Clary could only blink, astounded. "But-why?" she demanded.
Isabelle gave a languid shrug of her shoulders, "His father was the last Duke of Broceland. A distant cousin of the King. After the Duke's disgrace and death, Valentine took pity on the orphan left behind." She fixed Clary with a rather penetrating look. "You must remember him! He didn't come to Adamant until he was ten."
"No, I…" Clary stuttered off into silence as a wheel of her jumbled childhood memories came back to her.
She did remember the third boy. The other Jonathan.
She had memories of strong hands pulling her back to her feet when she had fallen, those same hands unclasping to reveal stolen sweetmeats. And a head full of blond curls bobbing before her as she clung to him as though she were a limpet and he a rock, carrying her on his back because her legs were too short for her to keep up.
She had shared her 'magic' lantern with a boy with gold hair.
She had always assumed it had been her brother. But she'd since reunited with her brother Jonathan, and now Clary could separate the memories of him, the boy with hair like silver and eyes like onyx.
The more recent image of that bowed head of tangled bronze curls kneeling before her leapt unbidden to mind. Clary slammed her cup down on the table, relishing the dull thump as metal struck wood. "As a matter of fact, he did steal my toys."
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