Chapter 19: Binding
Late November 1536, Princewater Palace, Alicante
Isabelle loosed a long whistle through her teeth, the kind of whistle the nuns had once told Clary caused Our Lady to weep if uttered by a woman. If any saints were shedding a tear for Isabelle Lightwood, it was not because of her whistling habits. "It must have cost a fortune," she breathed, taking no pains to disguise her begrudging astonishment.
"Princes have been ransomed for less," Clary deadpanned, "Or so I have been told. My father would make a spectacle."
"That he will certainly do," Izzy mused under her breath, skirting toward the bedside as if the shimmering gown splayed across it may take flight. With cautious reverence, she reached out and stroked the golden bodice. It was so embedded with pearls and finery that Clary feared it would feel like a breastplate. Evidently her comfort was not very high on the agenda.
Noting her surliness at last, her friend peeked up at her curiously, "I do not credit myself with being a woman prone to swooning but were I gifted a wedding gown such as this, I might make an exception."
"You are resolved never to marry," Clary reminded her coyly, crossing her arms over the front of her much plainer blue gown.
With tangible reluctance, Isabelle released her hold on the ostentatious garment, "I would have expected you to be beside yourself with joy by now. These past few weeks I have accredited your churlishness to a state of shock. You could not believe your own luck. Now this godsend has arrived," Izzy gestured to the dress as fondly as another woman might a newborn child, "You have proof at last the King means for this wedding to happen. And in this gown, you will be the envy of every girl in Europe."
Clary sighed and shuttered her wearied eyes briefly, "It is much too gaudy. I like it not."
Isabelle gasped theatrically and moved to clap her hands over her ears, "Do not say such a thing of the masterpiece!" When she saw her mistress was not going to surrender to laughter anytime soon she shuffled closer, "Surely even if the wedding dress is not to your liking, the groom is? I cannot fathom what has you so unhappy, Clary."
"I am not unhappy," Clary attempted to amend, rubbing at her velvet clad forearms.
"You must have noticed by now that the other girls are gagging on their jealousy. Not only do you get the grand wedding, you also get the rising star who happens to be the most handsome man at this court for a husband."
Delicately folding the edge of the spreading skirts out of her way, Izzy flopped down and arranged her expression until she gave the impression of a woman about to deliver a stern telling off. "Who I happen to know you to be dizzily in love with." She pinched her face to a frown then, enquiring with exasperation, "Why do you behave like a woman heading to the gallows?"
Clary just sighed, unsure of where to begin or what wording to use. "It is not the prospect of my wedding that has me so on edge. More the manner of it."
Isabelle remained confused.
Clary glanced toward the ajar door to her outer chamber, beyond which the excited cacophony of squeals from the rest of her ladies told her that the arrival of the gown was set to occupy them for quite some time. Long enough for her to confide in Isabelle. "Everything is happening so quickly, yet not quite quickly enough." She moved to Isabelle's side and joined her on the bed, where their shoulders brushed.
Isabelle's eyes widened dramatically, "It is true?" she demanded, aghast.
"What is true?"
Izzy's eyes shot to Clary's stomach and then back to her face, looking rather nauseated. "That you are..." she gestured to Clary's tight stomacher.
The Princess caught her meaning quickly. "God in heaven! No! No." Her friend's relief was palpable, but now the initial shock had worn off, Clary found another thing to concern her, "Are people saying that I am? Who would say such a thing?"
Isabelle shrugged sheepishly, "Everyone gossips of their betters. Makes them seem less high and mighty. More human. Besides, the same would be said of any woman whose wedding was arranged so unexpectedly and with such urgency. "
She broke their line of discourse to pipe loudly, "Pearls would look well with the colour, Highness."
The signal saw Clary turn her head rapidly to where Helen Blackthorn hovered, poking her head around the doorway.
"Aught amiss?" Clary enquired, eager to get rid of the girl as soon as possible.
"No, Your Highness," her lady said awkwardly, fidgeting and drumming her fingers against the doorknob, "I have misplaced my thimble," she offered weakly, "I thought it may be in here."
"You may use mine," Clary offered, baffled by Helen's obvious discomfort.
"Use mine," Isabelle cut in, her command ringing briskly and icily, "It would not be fitting for you to rifle among the Princess's things," She added as an acidic afterthought. Helen paled, but accepted the dismissal without protest and retreated.
Once they were alone again, Izzy pressed on, "The real question Clary is not what is being said. It is: to whom are they saying it? You tell me. You know that you were betrayed that night by someone, now a rather guilty Judas is lingering around your bedchamber and hanging behind after Mass in the hope that she will catch you alone. She wants to confess."
Clary sighed, letting her eyes drift to the windowpane, which was sporadically splattered with raindrops. "It was Helen?"
"It must have been. Few people knew what was going on with Jace and I did not talk to the King."
Despite herself, Clary chuckled a little, "Oh I know you would not succumb."
"Never!" Isabelle asserted grandly, "They would have to wrench out every last one of my fingernails," She added with gruesome delight.
Clary winced and happily returned to one of the many matters at hand, "Well I suppose I shall have to forgive her. There are few enough friends of mine at this court. And I can imagine how compelling my father must have been in extracting the truth."
"Make her squirm a few days more," Isabelle advised, movingly heartless.
"Your cruelty fits in well here."
"You think so? Is this the part where you finally tell me what has you feeling other than perfectly blessed?"
Where to begin? Clary mused again, continuing to stare at the glass panes shuddering delicately in their frames at the pounding gales beyond. She knew she had to articulate herself somehow.
Truly, the one person who would understand her feelings was Jace, but now her every gesture to him really was carefully monitored. She may be on the verge of being bound to him for the rest of her life but the edge of something had never felt so treacherous before. Nor had Jace ever felt further from her.
There would be no more covert meetings, no more private conversations, no acknowledgment of inside jokes. Her father was inclined to make him into the stranger her royal husband ought to have been.
Now he was officially the Duke of Broceland, as the result of a ceremony Clary had not been present at, instead her mother had played the presiding female. At every turn the legality and politics of this move was accentuated. It had nothing to do with the Princess's person, nothing at all.
She tried to tell her friend as much now, "You must know that while this is what I want, it is wholly the King's doing." She toyed with her hands uneasily and her thoughts simultaneously, trying to frame the right words, "He has had this in the works for months now, since I first got here. Longer, I should imagine. This is why I was brought here, why all of us were brought here. "
She chanced a side glance at her friends to find some compassion had softened Isabelle's perplexed expression.
"Clary, your father did not make you fall in love with Jace. Nor he you. That you both managed all on your own. What the two of you have is very real. That is what is fuelling the gossip more than anything, pure envy. You have what every girl longs for; a handsome, devoted lover of whom her father approves."
"Every girl?" She could not resist needling Izzy as the relief expanded in her chest.
"Most girls," Isabelle amended with a playfully warning shove, "As you know I am the exception to almost every rule."
Clary's appreciative laughter faded, "My father can do whatever he pleases with me. He can take away just as easily as he gives."
Sighing with emphatic exasperation, her lady reached over to grip her by the shoulders and play at shaking her, "Clary naught in this life is certain other than death. But you cannot lurch from one day to the next anticipating only the worst."
Clary leaned into Isabelle and laid her head on the taller girl's shoulder, grateful for the contact.
"Come now," Isabelle murmured with the kind of affection she would deny vehemently were she questioned on it. The Lightwoods were rather like that, the Princess considered. In the time she had known them she had come to find that they gave their hearts to very few. Although selective where they laid that love, once they did so, they loved fiercely.
"You shall not be your father's property much longer," Izzy muttered mutinously in her ear. Clary's heart soared at the prospect. It was true. Legally she changed hands like any product once the sale was complete. In a few short weeks she would cease to be her father's. She'd belong to Jace, in the eyes of the law and the eyes of heaven.
A cleared throat made Clary open her eyes and straighten up. Maia was the one who hesitating on the threshold this time, "Pardon, Madam. But Magnus Bane is here."
Much as Clary had been enjoyed her moment of snatched peace, duty always beckoned sooner or later. In this case, it was simply the consequence of her willingness to put the planning of her wedding into Magnus's trusted hands. He was happy to take control of the mammoth and minute details alike. Seeing such public spectacles executed was one of Bane's foremost duties as her father's master of the horse. Clary had no idea where to start in plotting the wedding procession's routes or arranging the garments and entertainments. Magnus had emerged as a godsend.
Of course, while she had gratefully divested herself of the responsibilities and Magnus had gladly accepted them, he still had to defer all final decisions to her. And on more than one occasion, some particularly wild and flamboyant spectacle had to be curtailed.
Drawing to her feet now, Clary tried to shake off all weariness and cobble together the enthusiasm required. "Very well. Come with me, ladies. We have a wedding to plan."
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The Gard, Alicante, 1st December 1536
Jace had hoped that by now his nerves would have settled. The past month had seemed to last an eternity, an eternity where he spent most waking moments pinching himself. He was fully expecting a clerk to arrive at his chambers any day now, telling him that there had been a terrible mistake and he could not marry the Princess after all, or that there had been some error in the contract and this whole matter had been one of Valentine's elaborate jests.
But where his son would delight in such a malicious jape, Valentine did not play with his food. Not on so public a scale anyway.
Exactly what the Crown Prince's thoughts on the betrothal were- and they cannot have been pleasant ones- he had remained eerily silent on the subject.
The only thing that could have made his situation less credible would have been the Prince tripping over himself to offer the happy couple his congratulations. His failure to do so had been a source of comfort to Jace. The world had not entirely turned on its head after all.
Jace had spent a noteworthy amount of time trying to safeguard himself against that anticipated assassination, particularly when he had left Alicante briefly to visit Broceland. Yet not one knife had twitched towards his back on the stay at Chatton House, and he barely encountered a soul on the road there and back again, much less a malevolent one. So Jace waited impatiently for what must be due to come as a very last-ditch attempt at the eleventh hour to halt the nuptials.
In the meantime, he kept busy. Where Clary and her household had the joys of planning the wedding ceremony, Jace had the task of putting the affairs of his estate in order. Fond as Clary's memories were of her convent life, Jace reasoned she would not be thrilled at the prospect of another existence in sacred simplicity. He had suffered visions of whisking his bride off to a draughty castle with a leaking roof. He wondered how well Clary might love him then.
Reluctant as the King had been to part with Chatton House, Valentine had imparted to Jace the crown jewel of his birthright. With thanks to the Earl of Chene's careful tending, Jace would at least have one home fit for habitation to bring his wife to.
Still, with only a few hours until the ceremony, he ought to be feeling some relief that he was within sight of the finishing line. Here he was, sweating under his furs despite the cold of the ancient, gloomy halls of the Gard as he tried to walk at a reasonable pace to where the King awaited him.
Jace struggled to shake the sense that there was some surprise lurking around the corner, some crisis he had not the foresight to counter. Put a sword in his hand and Jace Herondale would give you a good fight, would fight anything, but he could not fight what he could not see.
He did have a personal guard now for his safety, but for the moment they were limited in number and ultimately strangers. Jace would far rather have a man at his back who he knew respected him, or whose loyalty he deserved and could be sure of. He was not completely devoid of trust, everyone who wore his livery had been handpicked by either himself or Alec, but it had been done (like most things of late) hastily. It had not been a task very high on Jace's list of priorities.
He'd held a rather naive conception of what being a duke entailed. Jace's impression was a life of leisure and privilege. The reality proved quite different. Suddenly he was expected to make judgements on which crops his tenants ought to plant in the coming spring and which livestock they might be permitted to graze, as well as ruling on any disputes they might have with one another. Then there was the matter of setting rent prices. Not to mention most of the houses he had been given, mainly Durre Castle, were in dire need of renovation and repair. Moreover, a whole new host of servants would have to be hired, as many of his houses lay empty between the King's visits. Chatton had been manned by the Earl's people who would leave when he did. And those were only the domestic matters. His Council seat now had Jace embroiled in the intricacies of court politics to the neck, and that was before he tackled the greatest of his father's outstanding debts. All of which he was supposed to deal with while outwardly maintaining the impression of a life of indolent comfort.
In time Jace could build a network of trusted stewards and castellans to shoulder some of the workload for him. At the moment, the only aid he could rely in was Alec. His friend had of late made himself more invaluable than ever before. While Jace's adolescence had been free of any duty and thus dedicated to scholarship, Alec had more experience in being groomed for lordship. An expertise Jace was openly in awe of these days, although at the present some vague errand had Alec elsewhere in the city.
Alec spent rather a lot of time in the city, now Jace thought of it. Perhaps he'd met someone. Alec was full of blushes and often seemed stupidly happily these days. But that was just speculation. If there was something significant afoot Jace needed to know of, Alec would tell him. He'd invite the conversation, Jace promised himself, after the wedding. When things settled down a bit.
The court had come to the Gard purely for convenience, so that it would be easier than it would have been from Princewater to get to the Cathedral on the morn.
Jace had become all too familiar with the King's chambers in the past few weeks, but his private parlour still remained the holy of holies. He never felt quite worthy to cross the threshold. It seemed perfectly homely now however, the table laid for dinner with three set places.
The King was already reclining at the head and Clary had taken up her position on the left, leaving Jace the position on His Majesty's right flank. Jace and Clary dared only a darting stare as he drew his chair in. She was gripping the stem of her wine glass a touch too tightly. Her eyes fired back to the mantelpiece as though it were particularly riveting.
Jace did not blame her, this was the way they played it these days. Afraid that the slightest misstep and they would lose it all. Valentine had made himself perfectly clear without being explicit. From him alone good things came.
He did not want to tell her, but Jace knew it was he who was in the dock here. He needed to prove himself a fit match for Valentine's daughter in every respect. Henceforth when Valentine asked him to jump, Jace asked how high.
For Clary it would be worth it, Jace reminded himself, sneaking another glimpse at her profile. All he need do was hold out for the next few hours, then she would be his in the eyes of God and the law.
Once he had a glass of wine in hand Valentine raised his dark eyes. Jace could not escape the image of a magpie surveying the treasure trove he'd painstakingly been building for years. "To tomorrow," He proposed, voice thick with satisfaction, "and all your tomorrows to come."
"Tomorrow," Jace and Clary echoed with solemn brightness and in perfect unison. They took the obligatory sip.
Valentine continued, "And of course, to our family" as he laid his drink to rest on the table. Once that statement might have elated Jace, now it only made him wonder why neither the Queen nor Jonathan were present. Not that he was impatient to call Jonathan "brother." Though Jace would not deny doing so was sure to provide hours of entertainment.
Detecting his perplexity, Valentine donned his favourite knowing smile. "The two of you must be wondering why I asked for you alone."
Clary did not disguise the keen question in the eyes that whipped from her plate to her father at pronouncement, though she did not voice it. Jace was not prepared to either, but studied his monarch mutely as he began to elaborate.
"Your union will serve a purpose. It is time you knew your calling." Valentine helped himself to another spoonful of gravy, signalling in that gesture that all their attendants had melted away. The room was utterly silent too, Jace realised with a jolt. There was not a single reader or musician to entertain them while they ate. "What we are about to speak of must not leave this room until circumstance dictates otherwise."
Clary visibly tensed at the that, bracing herself for whatever grand revelation was to come. Jace also filled with trepidation. Being sworn to secrecy before a conversation was never a good sign.
The King noticed his daughter's discomfort and responded with rare tenderness, "Fear not, my daughter, all of our work is God's will. You have been chosen," He nodded to Jace, "Both of you, for greatness."
If anything, that inflamed the young couple's discomfort. Too often did God's will and Valentine's seemed to coincide.
"Both of you are, by now, more than aware that Jonathan is unfit to inherit."
It took Jace a moment to grasp His Majesty was referring to his son, during which the delicate cuts of meat began to perform somersaults in his stomach.
"It has troubled me for many, many years, since I first glimpsed that demonic streak in him as a boy and it did not fade over the years. I have prayed for guidance and at last the Lord showed me the way. My heir is corrupted. I need is a fresh one. Another boy to be shaped properly, groomed to be the greatest King this world has ever seen. To sit upon a throne of gold and rule the descendants of Jonathan the Great for years and years. A new dynasty for Idris. Stronger than any that has come before. Because it will be born of the two that have come before."
Valentine was entirely enraptured in his vision for a time, pouring forth his own articulation of providence with such fervour Jace wondered if he had gone mad. He dared not peel his attention away from his sovereign for a moment, not even to gauge how Clary was taking all of this in. Had anyone else spouted that vision Jace would undoubtedly have laughed, but the way Valentine painted the picture made it almost tangible. The young duke had forgotten that there was a place in all of this for him.
"God has lit the way for me. My heir shall be great from the very moment of his birth, how could he not when he is born of the most illustrious lines this country has ever known?"
Valentine gazed expectantly at the young couple before him.
Neither could form a word of response. They continued to stare back at him.
That dulled his glorious moment somewhat, for the King elaborated irksomely, "My legacy lies not with my son but with my grandson. Your son."
Now Jace did glance at his bride to be, who looked dumbstruck. Clary was incapable of anything but gawping up at her father, who concluded his performance as the smugly serene angel Gabriel with another pleased smile and raised his wine vessel back to his lips.
Only Valentine Morgenstern, Jace thought, could pin the future of his legacy and a kingdom upon the merit of a child who had yet to be born while looking as though his heroism was already unimpeachable.
This was not a scheme Valentine had devised overnight. All of this truly had been laid out for them. An esteemed destiny not in the stars, but in Valentine's desires.
He would disinherit his own son for a newborn in a heartbeat, Jace believed that. This king may well be a madman, but he was not one Jace was prepared to argue with. And Valentine was right on one count at least, his Jonathan would send Idris to hell and then laugh in the ashes. Surely anything was better than that. Clary was not going to speak, he appreciated now, and it would not matter even if she did. None of this was up for question or debate. None of it ever had been.
Valentine's vision was bigger than them, their lives and happiness. What had begun as a desire to meld his line to the Herondale one had become, in time, the golden solution to all problems. No one could gainsay him and Jace was not stupid enough to try.
Not my will but yours.
All they ever were, all they would ever be to this man, were his pawns.
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For obvious reasons, Alec Lightwood could have done without a wedding.
Really, the last thing he needed was a place of honour in the procession (damn Jace Herondale to hell) with a place at the high table to boot. Above all, he would give anything not to have to contend with his parents. He was touched that Jace considered them family, of course, but that did not mean he wanted to have to face them. He would rather take his chances on the French side at Agincourt than have to look his father in the eye in the next few days.
So miserably strong was his cowardice that he had even contemplated taking to his bed with a mysterious yet profound ailment and avoid the whole event. In the end, his damnable conscience proved too vocal. Alec had to accept that he could not do such a thing to Jace. Besides, he was reluctant to deny Magnus an audience to his proud handiwork.
Delivering the planning almost singlehandedly was a colossal feat of achievement, and one that went largely unappreciated. No one desired to know or care that Magnus had lost many an hour's rest in preparation. He had executed a minor miracle of plenty in covering the expenses of an elaborate public procession, a feast, after dinner entertainers and musicians all without emptying the royal treasury. Of course, the cost of one day had sapped more funds than Alec would ever earn in a lifetime, but that was immaterial. As predicted, Magnus's willingness to fund a sizeable portion of the nuptials celebrations from his own pocket had suitably endeared Valentine to his Master of Ceremonies once again.
Nonetheless, court life was more hectic than it had ever been before, with Jace the centrepiece. Where their opinions might differ on Jace's bride, the two friends were in pure accord when it came to the event itself. Neither of them could wait for it to be over.
In that sense, Alec was glad of the still empty house on Canal Street. Magnus had yet to see fit to replace any of his runaway servants, and Alec could fathom why. His comings and goings would prove quite the scandal if unearthed, not that it proved much a deterrent. If anything, between the thrill of creeping off to Magnus and knowing that they would be alone together when he arrived added to the excitement.
Even if he mainly found Magnus absentminded while he drowned in ledgers, cloth samples and pattern books. He even had a little replica of the parade: which looked to Alec's amused eyes a rather odd battle plan with the tiny banners of each lord dotting the roads from the Gard to a Cathedral.
Alec was still glad of the company. He'd discovered that he and Magnus could survive in a comfortable silence for hours. These days silence was truly golden.
He thought longingly of his seat by Magnus's fireside now, how peaceful the house was sure to be and how bright the brittle sun would look upon the frosty gardens, even as he was confronted with a palace very much alive and kicking.
The Gard must have woken long before dawn, if indeed it had ever slept. Most of the servants and nobles he had encountered thus far had worn that same hectic, glazed expression of a sleepless night and a stressful morning which was hours from abating.
Fidgeting at the end of the great gallery now Alec could hear a maid weeping. He watched a young, swearing steward bolt past him with two or three different gowns heaped over his shoulders, looking an odd replica of a foul-mouthed, demented camel. A groom who was already drunk tottered past the nearest window.
Alec could have stood there for hours, thinking to himself that Magnus need not have hired the mummers for their amusement after all.
For all his mirth, Alec's mind did not stray far from the impending arrival of the Earl and Countess of Adamant. He was gazing morosely off into the middle distance and playing with the pin of his brooch when Jace finally came upon him.
"No sign?"
"Not as of yet."
The Duke set to worrying his lower lip, mind obviously miles away. Or perhaps more accurately hours away, when he would finally be sworn to Clary and could breathe easy again.
Alec had to attempt to allay some of his unease, "They will come, I am sure of it. Any moment now."
"You look as though you wish for anything else" Jace commented, with a small, sliding smile.
Alec rolled his eyes in return, "Look to your own imminent travail."
"Believe me, I do."
Alec could not resist a snicker, "Jace Herondale, about to be wed. The end of the world must surely be upon us."
His friend did look a touch ill. His skin was pale, and though his hair had been combed (that in itself an unprecedented event) he did not look as though he had slept or eaten much these past few days. Which Alec would hazard he had not. Thankfully they had quite the banquet to look forward to, by which time relief would provide just the right sauce to return his appetite. Seeing Jace look so nervous did stoke a kind of bawdy glee within Alec, but he curbed it long enough to say only half-jokingly, "Are you reconsidering?"
That snapped Jace out of it, and he snapped in turn, "Of course not. Never."
"For if you were, you need not continue. I would spirit you away somehow."
At that, at long last, the glimmer of a real smile started to cross Jace's face. "Bundle me amongst the remains of the vegetables in one of the food carts."
"Gladly."
Jace's smile paled away. He gave a soft, whistling sigh, "Love her for my sake."
A response eluded Alec. How was he supposed to even attempt to voice his despair that after so many years Jace were about to undo every piece of progress he had made since leaving the King's household? Alec knew better than anyone the scars both literal and otherwise that man had left on his friend. To abandon him now at Valentine's mercy all over again seemed more than merely a disservice to his brother. It could qualify as a betrayal.
"You know it has nothing to do with the lady personally."
Jace's expression hardened to one of rare graveness, "Alec, I need you to trust me. This is my homeland. Even as I love you and yours, I had no future in Adamant or in France, not one I wanted. And what I feel for Clary… it may not negate what I must become to have her, nor absolve me of whatever" he paused and contemplated several words before finding one that was adequate, "discomfort I may encounter now that I am one of Valentine's creatures. But I expect she will make it bearable. And there is more to this than meets the eye."
Alec bit back a jibed comment about just how worthwhile Clary was sure to make Jace's lifetime servitude to her father, or to remind him that no sane person thought there was nothing more to this match than met the eye.
His eyes wheeled away from Jace's entirely as two more very recognisable figures advanced from the far end of the gallery.
His mother, remarkably to the foreign eye, marched a half-step ahead of his father. Alec had spent years being fascinated by the dynamics of his parents' relationship. It had taken him years to notice that it was not the traditional marital set up in the first place, or at least to suspect that other domineering wives were less frank about their control.
Trailing behind his countess, Robert looked less a scalded cat than Alec might have reckoned. That was not to say his father looked at all comfortable in his court clothing. No, Robert looked every bit as out of place as Alec felt. His son spared a moment to wonder who hid it better as he tilted forward to a bow.
He need not have bothered, for the man of the moment was the only one his mother cared for. Alec could not begrudge it to Jace on his wedding day. It was not as though he would get parental congratulations from any other quarter. By the time both of Jace's cheeks had received a breezy kiss from Mayrse and Robert landed a hesitant clap on the back, Alec was as well composed to speak to the Count and his wife as he would ever be.
"Alec."
"Lady Mother." He placed the necessary kiss on the back of the hand already stretched out in anticipation. Mayrse, in her maroon damask, looked every bit as regal as the Queen was sure to. However, from Alec's proximity it was possible to spy how the gold thread at her sleeve had begun to unravel. It had rather painstakingly been mended as best the Countess could, but good with a needle as his mother may be, she was not a seamstress.
The revelation that not only were she lacking the funds to replace the gown, Mayrse was not in a position to hire a professional to repair it either made Alec's stomach lurch. This was what Mayrse must wear to a royal wedding. What she would have to stand before all the nobles from her girlhood and be judged in.
His pang of dismayed embarrassment showed no signs of abating as he watched Mayrse's carefully pasted smile return as she turned to Jace, "You have certainly risen high."
Robert huffed out a chuckle behind her and added, "A better match you could not have found, my boy." Jace smiled as graciously as he could, his ears reddening. Mayrse clasped his hand and continued in her quieter voice, the one she used for intrigue, "You must divulge how you accomplished that."
Alec could picture all too easily how eagerly his mother would hear the tale, quite probably perched on a stool at his knee with paper to take notes. To her credit, there were many people who wished to know the details of Jace's historic rise in the hope of emulating, but few would be so open about it. Again, Alec found himself both cringing at and admiring of his mother's lack of smokescreen.
Jace seized the opportunity to escape when it was presented, "All in due course. For now, however, I have somewhere else to be." He drew in a deep breath and nodded once more to Alec, "We shall talk later." He completed the sentiment with a meaningful glance and then retreated hastily back the way he had come.
Alec knew he had spent far more time than he had to spare with them. Jace likely had not the time to wait for the Lightwoods arrival at all, yet he'd made it. If they were touched by that, neither Mayrse nor Robert said so. As soon as Jace was out of sight they rounded on their heir.
"Your letters have been getting briefer."
"I am glad to see you too, Mother."
Her glacial blue eyes narrowed, "Alexander."
Alec backpaddled before he was struck about the face. "In faith, I had little to say. Nothing that you would not have heard without me," He gestured in the direction Jace had left.
"Yes," his mother mused, "No Sybil could have seen that coming. To think, the fortuneless boy I once took pity on is now the greatest of us all. I did write to Isabelle, you know, when I first heard of it. I rather hoped she would finally agree to settle with him. I was convinced, I must admit, that now she could not complain of stranger she might at last allay those foolish fancies she takes against the notion of marriage. It would have been perfect."
Alec could not say he agreed. The idea of Jace being wed to his sister left him aghast and then promptly queasy. Logically, it would solve their problems, but every fibre of him squirmed at what he deemed an unnatural union. The irony of his judging what was or was not natural romantically was not lost on the young lord, fidgeting sheepishly before his disgruntled mother and silent father.
"Alas, not even Jace is fool enough to settle for our Isabelle when he is offered a princess. And since Isabelle is not worth the trouble of trying to wrestle into a betrothal…" She paused and continued gazing ahead wistfully, as if the longed for solution was about to present itself. Which, Alec realised, she expected it was.
This was his opening to offer himself as the next groom.
There were many things Alec was prepared to do for his family. Fall on his own sword, in this matter, was not one of them. Even so, he was surprised at the strength of his own silence.
Even more startling, his saviour proved to be Robert. "It may not be as beyond the realms as that. I have been keeping an eye on that girl," He broke off and shot Mayrse a surly glance as her brows rose, "What? I told you I would. It has come to my attention that Prince Jonathan has taken a liking to her."
If he had not been as horrified by that statement as he was, Alec would have been perturbed by the astonishment on his mother's face too. This was a new discovery to her, which indicated that his parents were no longer speaking to one another. If they could not even strike up a conversation about their children, their marriage was in dire straits indeed.
"You heard wrong." Alec spluttered out eventually.
It was Robert's turn to play interrogator, "In what way am I misunderstanding?" When no elaboration was volunteered Robert closed in on his son, "Do you mean to say she is his whore?"
"Robert!" Mayrse fumed.
His father's fingers closed on his forearm as he tried to turn away, "Answer me, Alec."
"No" he snapped, "Of course not."
Robert visibly relaxed, "Well thank God for that, at least. She has a chance then."
"Father, no. She cannot abide the man. He is a brute, an utter brute."
His voice echoed away, unheard. No one was listening.
His parents were in perfect accord for the first time in over a year. Their eyes had lit like oil lamps. Even if Alec revealed Jonathan Morgenstern's horns and forked tail it would have no bearing on his parents' new plan.
They already had poor Isabelle wed and crowned.
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-2nd December 1536, St Mark's Cathedral, Alicante
It had been many years since Idris had a royal wedding. Their King's wedding had been a closeted affair, the recompense for which had come in the mighty revels that accompanied Valentine's coronation several months later. That had been some thirty years ago, barely in living memory for many of the kingdom's common folk.
A royal wedding was monumental cause for celebration. Not only was it a public holiday but it was also a chance to gawp shamelessly at the court parading about in all their finery. King Valentine had caused something of a stir amongst the court and the commons when he had scorned all foreign beauties in favour of a native Idrisian rose, of who no one at all had ever heard. But this, this match had eclipsed Valentine's rebellious union long ago.
The merry banners flapping in the breeze held the angel of Idris. The heraldry of all the kingdom's great families was out in force. The coats of the horses that trotted past gleamed, as did their tack. The streets surrounding the cathedral teemed with boldly dressed nobles in procession. Punctuated with petal tossing girls and daringly attired dancers. This was a show of strength, a cry of defiance. This court may have been shaken to its core months ago, but today they were a parade of the invincible.
It was choreographed to perfection, for that alone Magnus Bane had every reason to smile. And smile he did, showcasing remarkably pearly teeth with a dauntlessly flashing grin. In his wake fell a cascade of coins, clattered to the cobbled streets over the tempo of the cheerily gallant music. Children scrabbled after the money, hopeful they'd get enough for a hot pie that might provide welcome respite from the nipping winds and miserly winter drizzle.
Today was a celebration for the commons too. It was an opportunity to catch a glimpse of the many esteemed men and women who had otherwise been more myth than mortal. For the city wives and the silk and jewel merchants, it was a day of high fashion. A chance to speculate as to what colours were in vogue, to measure for themselves whether the French styles were truly becoming the preferred way of dress for the women, favoured above some more modest eastern European garments. For the menfolk it was a day of free-flowing wine and respite from their wearying work. It was a treat for the pickpockets of Alicante, for whom the preoccupied crowds were a goldmine.
Of course, as was ever the way with any such climactic moment in the lives of their betters, tongues were wagging. It was difficult for them not to. Until half a year ago the general populace had all but forgotten the Princess Clarissa existed. When she had been reintroduced as their glorious King's only living daughter, there had been much speculation as to who would finally win her coveted hand.
The haste with which the wedding had been contrived was the foremost controversy that had goodwives clucking in scandalised delight. This was not the first time Clarissa Morgenstern had been talked about. She had incited mobs and dispelled them with equal ease. Word had it she was already a most extraordinary princess. And now this.
Already rumours of an illicit affair were rife. Talk of the Princess having taken a lover scattered the masses who both huddled together for warmth. According to some, her ladies had been threatened on pain of death to disguise a swelling belly under the wedding gown. Some even claimed knowledge that she was already married, and this was all for show.
Accounts varied on the veracity of these claims.
Accounts varied even more fiercely on the bridegroom's involvement in either.
The music and chatter reached a crescendo as the lady of the moment passed by at last on a snowy palfrey. Her face was pale as her mount's coat and her hands trembled on the reins she surrendered to a waiting attendant; her brother, resplendent in deep green and trimmed gold. She smiled a little at the crowd.
Her lips cracked open and a short phrase was uttered to her elder sibling, who pointedly did not reply. The Princess was divested with ease of the many furs she had been bundled in against the December cold, revealing the splendour of the gown specially crafted for her on this day.
As had become popular amongst the ruling families of Christendom, Clarissa Morgenstern wore cloth of gold to be wed. But it was the vibrancy of this gold that captured minds and caught breaths. It was like molten gold, crafted in exquisite patterns with the almost equally as costly cream fabrics, all embedded with pearls and yet more gold. To the disappointment of gossipmongers, it clinched in effortlessly to a tiny waist. The Princess wore no headdress today, flame bright waves of hair falling free down her back, some strands wound through with more shimmering mother of pearl and gilded thread.
Her little hand was soon swallowed by her brother's.
The front of the cathedral sported a magnificent porch, a cry back to the centuries when the simplest of wedding pledges were made at the doorway of the church. In some far-flung parts of the kingdom it was still a living custom, to be married on the chapel threshold. The Church had striven hard to stamp it out, and it had not been practiced by the nobility for decades. The lone Princess of Idris would be bound in matrimony at the altar of a cathedral packed with the court and gentry, many of whom had travelled far to witness the making of history.
The Princess braced herself as she passed under the shadow of the great church doorway, as though she strode to war instead of love.
One final fanfare of horns heralded her, and then a great storm of rumbling feet as the congregation rose for her entrance. Outside, the swarm of onlookers hummed and buzzed on the winter streets. Princess Clarissa spared one glance behind her, one scan of those gathered, as though in the final moment she had just become aware of how many had turned out for her and her wedding. One tug upon her hanging sleeve from the Crown Prince and Clarissa Morgenstern was herded onwards.
She moved through the doors flung wide open, passing under the wreath of stone lions carved into the arching entryway, symbols of the evangelist that was the church's namesake. St Mark may have urged firm faith in the face of persecution when he penned his gospel, but there would be no insurgence from the King's daughter today.
Her new position on the grand board of kingly politics and succession had been selected.
For better or worse.
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The brush streaked through Clary's hair once more as Jocelyn guided it through her daughter's copper locks, adeptly smoothing out curls and snags with each motion of her arm.
Her mother hadn't brushed her hair out like this for years. Not since she'd been a little girl. Upon arrival in the chamber, her mother had wordlessly picked up a brush and set about the task. Clary hadn't stopped her.
Behind her, Clary could hear the excited clucking of the ladies darting around her new bedchamber, putting away her jewels and the bridal gown she had been liberated from.
The bride herself kept her eyes fixed on the looking glass.
Her mother draped Clary's hair over one shoulder. Jocelyn paused briefly and muttered something about perhaps plaiting it, before giving her head a single, brisk shake and stepping aside.
Absentmindedly twirling a finger in one of her tresses, Clary slowly rotated herself to survey the rest of the room. The bedchamber she had been led to tonight was not much bigger than the one she had occupied previously. There was one glaring change. The moment she crossed the threshold the huge bed demanded her attention. It dominated the room, covers hauled back to reveal the crisp white sheets underneath.
Only a light tap on her shoulder could steal her attention away as her mother appeared again at her side. Clary waited for something profound to cross her mother's lips. Some assurance of love. Mayhap an apology, for all the years Jocelyn had been hidden her daughter away, to no avail.
When she was blessed with a child, Clary found herself thinking angrily, they would never be given cause to doubt their mother's love, see to it they were never lied to. A child was not something to be held at arm's length, nor hammered into a weapon.
Of course, a simple apology would not remove the years Clary had been left in a dangerous oblivion as to who and what she really was, nor would it make her any less afraid of the future ahead of her. But it would be a start. All she really wanted was for her mother to make that first step. In all the weeks Jocelyn had been here with her the two women had lived more as strangers than family. Little beyond cold or cordial exchanges had been spoken.
But things were different now, Clary convinced herself. At long last it was just the two of them, face to face with no Valentine. It was a momentous occasion, and for it, Clary just wanted her mother. Not the snowy faced and soft-spoken queen.
What she got when Jocelyn did finally speak was someone somewhere between the two, "You know he may bring an entourage."
It was not a request, just a reminder. Clary nodded, more than a little disappointed and feeling her cheeks go hot at the prospect.
She should not be surprised. The consummation of a royal marriage was a public matter and so, often, a public affair. The last thing Clary wanted was to lose what was left of her virtue in front of half the court, but as ever, hers was not the decisive opinion. Knowing her father as she did and beginning to see all that hung on this marriage as she was, she suspected she had good reason to fear. Valentine would want to ensure that the deal he had so meticulously made and pinned the hope of his legacy on was sealed.
"Was yours?" She asked warily, still reaching out for common ground.
Jocelyn scrutinised her for a second, then loosed a dry laugh. "No, Clary. My wedding was a most secret and hasty event." She ended her response in a clipped, blunt tone, making it clear that she was not willing to discuss the topic any further. Not that her daughter wanted to hear any more of it, exactly, but she was still achingly aware of her own ignorance. Beyond the basics of the deed, Clary knew not how she was supposed to behave or what she was supposed to do.
On the one occasion Clary managed to voice her mortified confusion the Marchioness of Edgehunt, her chief lady had been as embarrassed as her young mistress. "You need not expect to do anything, Highness" Lady Penhallow insisted past her flustering, "I suspect His Grace will know what to do."
That was part of the problem: Jace would know exactly what to do. Surely, given his experience, being with a clueless, bumbling Clary would prove a disappointment.
Be that as it may, from the moments that had stolen together over the past few months she knew more about what precisely might occur between herself and her husband than most girls in her position tended to. This could be much worse. At least Clary knew and loved her husband, she could be sure he'd be patient with her.
Isabelle took up position on her other shoulder, reaching over to slide off the excess rings on her hands until Clary was left with only the newest, her wedding ring. Clary expected her friend to seize the opportunity to whisper something terribly bawdy.
Izzy winked, "Nervous?"
"Somewhat," Clary admitted breathlessly.
"So is he," Isabelle whispered in return, darting away once again.
That comforted Clary a little as she clutched her rosary beads and knelt at her prie-dieu, struggling through the usually familiar Latin. Eventually deciding that her limited patience had decisively run out, she hastily blessed herself and rose, returning the beads to their box and snapping the lid shut.
As she did so she could hear the creak of the door to the outer chamber opening. A moment later Jace entered, looking much the same as he always did, except that now he was clad in a tawny night robe. Blessedly alone.
Well, bar the Cardinal Enoch, who strode in behind the young Duke, scarlet robes flapping and incense burner clanking. He might have been marching to battle rather than a marriage blessing as he paced gravely around the bed. Cardinal Enoch launched into the customary chants and prayers, occasionally breaking from spreading the pungent scent to sprinkle the sheets with holy water.
Clary moved over to the bedside. Jace took up his position beside her, the warmth of his arm brushing against hers grounding her. She clasped her hands together in front of her and dutifully chimed the necessary 'Amens' along with the Cardinal's monotone as it dragged on and on.
And on.
After what felt like hours, Jace murmured to her under his breath, "Are we not safe from evil spirits yet?"
"Long ago. We have been praying against impotence for the past few aeons."
She let herself peek up at him just in time to see him pull a face, "There's no need to pray quite so hard."
She gave Jace a reprimanding shove before she could stop herself. He shot her a cheeky grin in return and the duo managed to compose themselves just in time. The Cardinal lifted his head from his holy duties just long enough to fix a suspicious stare on the young couple before him. They lowered their eyes and tried to look humbly prayerful until his attention moved away.
Though they had undoubtedly made a poor impression, Clary found that Jace's usual humour and unchanged demeanour finally put her at ease. She knew not why she had fretted so much. This was Jace. Her Jace.
She was lucky. So lucky, and she prayed her father never discovered how his plotting had brought her so much happiness. How much good his greed had done.
Belatedly, Clary realised that Cardinal Enoch had finally concluded his prayers for her fertility. With a final bow, he made for the exit as fast as his legs could take him. He seemed petrified that any dawdling might compromise his vow of chastity.
Clary did not have long to dwell on the absence. Jace reached out and turned her slowly to face him and his burning gaze. He gave her the amused half smile she had come to adore before bending forward and pressing his lips to hers. Clary happily let him kiss her, revelling in the first proper embrace they'd had all day.
Until Jace pulled away, much too soon. He flickered his gaze over to the loitering maids she had quite forgotten about. They were still giggling and nudging each lot of them were clearly drunk on the fine wine and enjoying the sight of their handsome new master in his nightclothes altogether too much for Clary's liking.
Jace slid his hands down to her waist as he spoke pointedly, "Goodnight, ladies." They took the dismissal well, departing with a few titters and backward glances.
Leaving Clary and Jace decisively alone together.
She tilted her face back up to his, anticipation thrumming. All day she had been longing to be alone with him- nay- for the past six weeks, and now she finally was Clary couldn't think of anything to say. Not that much speaking would be required.
To her surprise, Jace released her and moved away, sauntering over to the fireside and grasping the jug of ale that had been left for them. He poured a glass and then flashed Clary a grin over his shoulder, "Thirsty?" he asked, extending the second cup to her. "They say it is good for the nerves."
With a small smile Clary padded over to join him, her bare feet sinking into the carpets with each light step. Admittedly her mouth was a little dry. "Jace Herondale, nervous?"
He shrugged at her, looking sweetly bashful as he sipped at his drink. Isabelle's words came floating back to her as she swallowed a mouthful of her own. The thought of him being just as wracked with nerves as she was oddly comforting. It made the prospect of it all less daunting. "Surely you have no cause to be." She took care not to sound judgmental or damning, merely that she was stating a basic fact.
Jace returned his cup to the table, looking her in the eye, "There has never been another like you, Clary. I told you that, did I not?"
She nodded, putting her own beverage down alongside his. The silence stretched on, in no way strained or uncomfortable, interrupted only by the faint crackle of the fire.
Jace removed his robe, laying it carefully over the nearest high-backed chair. Then he turned again toward Clary, in only his nightshirt. Through the thin, pale linen she could see the outline of a muscled torso. The open neckline revealed the golden skin of his throat and the top of his chest.
Clary let her eyes wander, feeling her heartrate increase when he stepped closer. His hand rose to her face and his thumb started slowly circling against her jaw as he raised it to his, the two of them now close enough for Clary to share his breaths and study his expression properly. She noted lust, of course, but something else, some uncertainty. He was holding himself back.
"Jace?" She prompted in a whisper.
"It need not be tonight, you know. If you are too tired, or if you just wanted to wait."
Clary let herself ponder it. Her father would be none too pleased if she left this room still a virgin, and she knew from the gossip of her handmaidens there would be certain inspections of the bedding tomorrow morning that would catch her out in any lies. Still, for the first time, her father did not have the final say. This was for her husband to claim. Her husband, who was looking at her with enough tender concern to win her heart all over again.
Clary closed the gap between them, pressing a swift, chaste kiss to his lips. "I love you," she told him firmly, unable to hold it back any longer.
His smiled at her again, resting his forehead against hers, "As I love you."
"And I think we have waited long enough."
With that, he was kissing her again. This time any softness and hesitation was fleeting. Clary's lips were eagerly parting for him. She let herself to be drawn in deeper, his hands falling over her body and easily sliding over the smooth linen of her nightgown. She let her fingers rise to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer still.
When they broke apart again it was only for a few snatched breaths and another shared look before his lips were back on her nose, her cheeks and her brow as his hands fell to the tied ribbons of her nightgown. Jace loosened them with capable ease. The garment fell open.
Whereupon he straightened up and retreated slightly, eyes drinking her in.
Giving her space, a moment to consider where and how she wanted this to go. Ceding to her, even now, always.
This was to be a legal and dynastic joining, a political binding to serve a purpose. This act of union could have been perfunctory or a determined claiming. But this was them, just the two of them. Jace wasn't a statesman or a conquering victor in a long, fraught game.
She wasn't to be his any more or less, nor any differently, than he was to be hers.
Clary's breath caught. Carefully, with steady hands, she eased the nightgown open further and slid it off her shoulders. Then urged it down further with a shake of her hips until she was stepping out of it with unsteady breaths and flushed cheeks.
Clary's body was not one to typically inspire lust, and she was sensible of that. Her breasts were small, her skin was pale and freckled. She lacked the voluptuous figure which men usually found alluring.
Jace was looking at her with utter reverence. As though she were beautiful. Like he was watching Aphrodite step out of the ocean the spray.
"You are so beautiful," he stated simply, the roughness of his voice dousing her in a fresh wave of heat. He proved it by stepping closer, returning his hands and lips to her body. He traced the proof of the words with his mouth, against her jaw, down her neck, over her breasts.
Clary wound her arms tightly around his neck. She tugged his mouth back to hers. "Bed" she gasped in his ear, rubbing her cheek along his roughened jawline to nip his earlobe.
He growled something very ungentlemanly against her collarbone, but he obeyed, gripping her hips and steering her backwards.
Clary's knees clipped the edge of the mattress, and she dropped downward in a manner that was probably not altogether seductive. But she lifted her chin anyway, scrutinising Jace.
He was still staring at her, pupils huge and dark, hair deliciously rumpled.
She swept an appraisal up and down.
"Now, this is most unfair." Clary swallowed trekking her eyes over the form still clad in too much material. She gave an imperious, impertinent wave of her hand, "Even the scales."
Jace grinned at her as he obliged, reaching up and pulling the final item of clothing off himself.
Clary's whole body heated at the sight of him, toned torso, lean limbs and then…
She struggled to form a coherent thought as she took in the sight of what was unfamiliar. The dip of his hipbones, the trail of fair hair…. She'd never seen so much of the male body before. Not apart from some paintings of a nude Adam which had caused the nuns to tut and cover her eyes.
Two things occurred to Clary. The first, there was no tactful fig leaf in question here. Second, that round of prayers truly had been unnecessary.
She forced her eyes back to his.
Whatever cockiness his expression held quickly dissolved at the sight of her staring up at him expectantly, her face surely betraying her lust.
Determined but gentle, Jace eased her backward until she was lying on the mattress and he hovered over her.
His lips rejoined hers, and then continued their ardent expedition over the rest of her. For once, Clary was determined not to think. To just feel. Let her body want as it did and do what it wanted.
Jace's mouth on her breasts warranted an array of helpless wanton sounds. Clary let her hands roam in turn over his own hot, exposed flesh. He was hers to touch now, after all. Hers to hold. She delighted in the acute pleasure of all the little discoveries she made; like how his breathing got heavier when she tugged on the curls at the nape of his neck. How scrabbling her nails along the bottom of his rib cage never failed to illicit some groans or profanities.
She quite happily lost herself in the heady pleasure of the his little nips and sucks as he moved down across her stomach and slid his hand along the inside of her thigh. She parted her legs for him, anticipating his lips would soon return to hers, but no. Jace made no move to rise. Rather, he turned his head to kiss the inside in her bent knee, that searching golden gaze set on hers.
Peppering unhurried little kisses, then following them with teeth. Sucking marks into the soft skin of her thigh, a place no one else would ever see. A reminder, that whatever else may hinge upon it, the particulars of this act was also just for them.
"Yes" she moaned her assent desperately as he finally touched her where she was burning for him most. She would have expected herself to be embarrassed at the intimacy, or even to recoil from the press of his finger. She tensed, but only from the strangeness of the sensation. At her first squirm, Jace withdrew immediately.
He returned to soothing kisses and murmured sweet nothings against her sensitive flesh until she relaxed again. Then he was kissing her, kissing her there, with his mouth open and his tongue-
Clary gasped, choked and then made a noise she didn't know she could. Jace moved to pull back, her fingers sank back into his hair and held him in place.
She begged him to do it again.
He complied with enthusiasm.
Clary had known, in some distant and abstract way, that there were many things which could take place in a bed that did not make babies. Chiefly from moralising allusions among the nuns and what she'd read of St Paul's teachings about forbidden sex acts.
This did not feel sinful, far from it.
She was making more of those helpless noises, and it might have been embarrassing, had Jace not appeared to enjoy her responsiveness.
She wanted nothing more than to make him feel as good as she did. She dipped her hands below his waistline, knowing she'd been successful when she heard his breathing falter. When she closed her fingers and he shuddered, saying her name.
She slid her palms back along his spine as he shifted their position, slipping his hips between her legs again. This time, now with more satisfaction.
Jace tarried, just long enough for her to voice any discontent or insist he halt, before sinking into her. He paused again, trembling in her arms with the effort of his stillness.
Clary screwed her eyes shut in defiance of the strange inner pain. This much she had been prepared for, but like most things it was easier to accept in theory. A necessary pain and not a lasting one, her women had assured her, though one that varied in strength depending on the account. What one woman stoically declared had hardly been a sensation worth fussing over another swore was as bad as being stabbed with a knife.
Thankfully, this discomfiture fell short of a stabbing, and gradually the pain faded enough for her to encourage Jace to move. He did so, very slowly at first and then, as the tension left Clary's limbs, faster.
Tentatively, she let her hips rise to meet the movements of his, haphazardly, until they found their rhythm.
Their lips met, often clumsily, again and again. Each time more intimately, each one drawing them closer together in ways that were more than physical. She would give him absolutely everything, Clary thought as she surrendered her body to him entirely and he too came apart. She offered her heart and her body, more happily than she thought she would ever relinquish anything. There would never quite be another moment like this. She loved that too, knowing he would be her first and only love.
When they were still at last and the ecstasy faded, Clary's joy did not. She kept holding onto Jace just as tightly, not allowing him to move even an inch.
He laughed indulgently when she pulled him back from an attempt to roll off her and buried his face into the crevice between her head and shoulder. Jace laid several sweet, adoring kisses upon her damp neck while she prised her fingers off his shoulders, glimpsing with more satisfaction than shame that she had clung to him in her finishing moments hard enough to leave a mark.
When he did venture to shatter the silence Jace did so in a gentle, quiet voice. "Sweetheart, unless you want to start all of this again you had best let me go." He dropped another kiss to the side of her forehead to soften the ultimatum.
Only because she was finding it increasingly difficult to catch her breath with him lying atop her, Clary released him.
The parting was not for long, Jace immediately tucked an arm under her and drew her to his side. Suddenly aware of the chill of the room Clary was glad to slide back to his warmth, wriggling her way under the covers beside him as she did so. Unfortunately, with her head resting upon his shoulder and her heart slowing to normal she also started to remember how tired she had been.
She fought it as best she could and they talked for a time, mostly about nothing in particular, just for the enjoyment of hearing one another's voice. The first of countless conversations they'd have in their married life, Clary thought giddily. With nowhere to be, and no-one to interrupt. Face to face, inches apart, discussing whatever they wished to from their pillows. They laughed and exchanged sleepy kisses while the wicks burnt out and the candlelight shuddered away. By the time they were completely in darkness, Clary's eyes had already slipped shut. Jace's low, fading voice rumbled through her, until she slipped into dreaming.
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