Chapter Sixteen
Jace had been gone for a week when Clary found herself adjusting to a new normal.
She started her mornings in the infirmary, where she filled a bowl with water, took up a razor and shaving cream, and carefully scraped away the golden fuzz that had grown on Jace's jaw overnight. She didn't know why she did it, exactly, but Jace had never liked having a beard, so she shaved it dutifully every morning.
She then measured out the correct doses of the three potions the Silent Brothers had left for Jace and tipped them into his mouth one by one. Once she had cleaned up after herself, she kissed Jace gently on the forehead and went to rouse Lexie. This could go well, if Clary managed to distract Lexie with a toy or talk of breakfast, or it could go badly, if Lexie noticed her father's absence before Clary could do anything. More often than not, it was the latter, and then Clary would spend several minutes calming Lexie down as she cried repeatedly, "Dada! Dada!"
"Daddy's not here," she would murmur over and over, bouncing Lexie on her hip. "He's not here, sweetheart."
At last, Lexie would settle into a grudging state of calm, and Clary would bring her downstairs for breakfast. By this time, the kitchen was busy; her parents were staying in a spare room to help take care of Lexie, and Simon and Isabelle had taken over Institute duties while Clary took some time off. That was the official tagline, anyway; secretly, Clary suspected none of them wanted to leave her alone. The company was welcome, if a bit stifling. Still, she didn't complain as Luke and Jocelyn served breakfast and cleaned up afterward.
They all dispersed after breakfast, Simon and Isabelle to the library and Jocelyn, Luke, and Lexie to Lexie's nursery, where she would play with her grandparents. Clary was always invited to join any of them, and she sometimes did, but often she would go to her bedroom and shut the door firmly.
"What are you doing up in your room for so many hours?" Jocelyn asked curiously after a few days.
"Resting," Clary replied. "Or sketching, sometimes."
In reality, she would sit cross-legged on her bed, sketchbook and pen held tightly, and stare down at the blank page, concentrating on curing Jace, willing a rune to appear. But whether she let her mind relax or forced it to focus, whether she was in a good mood or a bad one, no rune ever came to her, and she always left with a slight headache.
Maryse joined them every so often for lunch, looking in on Jace afterward as Clary's parents put Lexie down for her nap. Meanwhile, Clary went to the library, pulled down a few books, and sat on the couch, studying up on Faerie and poisons, scouring each tome for any mention of silvershadow. She had noticed Simon and Isabelle exchanging worried glances as she did this, but neither of them said anything about it. Her efforts were fruitless; the only people who seemed to know all the properties of silvershadow were the Scourge, and according to Eli, the Scourge no longer existed.
It had only been a few days since Jace had been gone when Eli came to visit. Clary was alone in the kitchen, cleaning up after lunch and wondering if she ought to skim through Ancient Poisons and Their Antidotes one more time just in case she had missed something, when the doorbell rang. She dried her hands and went to answer it. Peering through the peephole, she was surprised to see the warlock standing on the doorstep, shuffling his feet nervously. Clary slid the latch aside and swung the door open. "Hi, Eli," she said, standing back to let him in.
"Hi," Eli said, wiping his feet on the doormat, "I'm glad you're here, I just wanted—" He froze suddenly, barely over the threshold. "Um...sorry, I know I'm not supposed to ask this, but—are you pregnant?"
"Oh." Clary looked down; she had thrown on an old T-shirt without looking this morning, and it was very tight around her stomach. "Yes," she said, realizing there was no point in lying. "I was about to make a cup of coffee, do you want one?"
She started to move toward the kitchen, but Eli stayed rooted to the spot. "I'm sorry," he blurted out. "I didn't—I didn't know."
"No one knew, Eli," said Clary gently. "There hasn't really been a good time to make an announcement."
"No, but I didn't—" Curiously, he had a pained expression on his face. "I'm sorry," he said again.
"Why are you sorry?" Clary asked.
"Well—it just—it can't be easy. Because of Jace."
Now it was Clary's turn to feel frozen. "Coffee?" she managed, turning away.
He followed her into the kitchen and sat down at the table as she busied herself with making coffee. She tried to steady her hands as she poured water into the machine, but the cup clattered against it.
"Clary?" said Eli tentatively behind her. "Are you doing okay?"
She inhaled and let out a long breath. "Yeah," she said. "Yeah, I'm okay." She set the coffee to brew and turned around. "How did you know about Jace?"
"I didn't think it was a secret," Eli said. "It's all over the Market. That's why I came. I wanted to see if it was true. If he's really...gone."
Clary's eyes burned. "He's not dead."
"No, I know, I didn't mean—"
"I know what you meant." Clary sighed. "I'm sorry. It's been a long couple of days."
When the coffee was done, she poured two cups and mixed sugar into both of them and milk into Eli's before passing it to him. He took a small sip, staring down into the mug.
"I really am sorry," he said in a small voice. "About everything the Scourge did to you. You didn't deserve it."
Clary watched him; he was avoiding her gaze, tapping his fingers repeatedly on the handle of the mug. "Eli," she said in a measured tone, "I want the truth." He peered up at her nervously. "Did you join the Scourge?"
He hesitated, his lower lip quivering. "No," he said at last, in a whisper. "No, I never joined them. But...I thought about it. I really considered it. And now I feel so—so stupid. I mean, clearly they were wrong. And they caused so much damage and pain and—and I never thought this would happen. I never thought Jace would..."
He trailed off and took a large gulp of coffee, wincing as it inevitably blistered his tongue. "Anyway," he said, blinking back tears. "It doesn't matter now. The Scourge is done."
"Done?" Clary repeated.
"There's been no sight of them. It looks like they've all disappeared."
Clary fought down the small bubble of hope rising inside her. "They've gone into hiding before," she reminded him.
"I know," said Eli, "but the word in the Market is that the ritual failed and none of them could figure out why. And then they all started fighting about it and—well, the point is, they sort of fell apart. I don't think they're going to try it again."
Clary sat there stunned. It didn't seem possible that the Scourge was just gone. And yet, Leviathan had been quiet for days; she had had no dreams from him after the last one in his gray world, hadn't even felt him lurking at the back of her mind. Perhaps he was still plotting, biding his time...but was it too much to hope he had been defeated, or given up?
He won't give up, Clary thought dejectedly, remembering what Leviathan had said: However long it takes, I will have my vengeance. But if the Scourge really had fallen apart, he would need time to come up with something else. And if it took him longer than five months, Clary would no longer be pregnant. Her mind would be protected once more. She would be free of him.
"Clary?" Eli said uncertainly, and she realized she was crying. She wiped her tears away hastily and took a sip of coffee.
"Sorry," she mumbled. "That's, um...that's good. Good they're gone." She stood, taking her coffee with her. "The training room is open to you if you want to practice, but I should get back to work."
"Oh," said Eli blankly. "Okay. Thanks." And Clary hurried out of the kitchen and back to the library.
But although Eli's news was reassuring, Clary's subconscious would not relax. That night, when she fell asleep, she found herself back in Faerie, trapped in that cage in the woods. Jace sat across from her, his face hollow.
"We won't save her," he said quietly.
"We did save her," Clary said, struggling to remember. "Didn't we?"
He stared at her, his eyes shimmering with tears, and when they fell, they were beads of silver rolling down his cheeks. "Clary," he whispered, "I..." Then silver liquid dribbled from his lips, and he slumped to the floor, choking silently.
"Jace!" Clary cried, and she fell over his body, shaking him, slapping him, watching his eyes turn glassy. And when she raised her head, she saw the woven basket through her tears, and Lexie lying still inside it. No, she thought desperately, no, I can't lose you too...
Terror flooded her body and she woke screaming.
"Clary...Clary, hey, it's okay..."
Someone was holding her, his arms warm and strong and familiar around her.
"Jace," she sobbed.
"I know. It's okay."
She registered his voice and pulled away quickly, drawing in shuddering breaths to calm herself. "Simon," she said roughly. "I'm—I'm fine. Go back to bed."
He peered at her through the darkness, his brown eyes full of concern. "I can stay," he said gently. "Just until you fall asleep again."
But now Clary became aware of the sound of crying. She swore under her breath. "How loud was I screaming?"
Without waiting for Simon to answer, Clary clambered out of bed, still trying to shake off that frightened feeling that seemed to have settled in her bones, and went across the hall to Lexie's room. Jocelyn was bouncing her, making soothing sounds, and she looked up as Clary came in.
"Are you all right? I heard you—"
"Just a nightmare," said Clary, coming over to stroke Lexie's curls. "Did I wake her up?"
Jocelyn pursed her lips, but seemed to decide there wasn't any use in pushing the subject. "No," she said. "I've been trying to get her back down for a while, but she keeps—"
"Dada!" Lexie screeched into Jocelyn's ear, and she winced.
"I'll do it," said Clary, gathering Lexie into her arms. "You go back to sleep." She glanced over her shoulder; Simon was standing uncertainly in the doorway. "You too," she added.
They both began to protest, but Clary cut them off. "I'm fine," she said firmly. "I'll see you in the morning, okay?"
Reluctantly, they left the room. Clary sank into the rocking chair and wrapped her arms tightly around Lexie, who was still crying, slamming her fists against Clary's chest.
"Dada," she wailed.
Clary's vision misted over. "I know, baby," she whispered. "I miss him too." And, unable to do anything else, she held her daughter and cried with her.
Because it wasn't just that she missed Jace; it was that she didn't miss him all the time. That she still expected to find him beside her when she woke in the morning and stretched her arm across the bed. That any time she looked up from a book to ask a question, it was him she looked for first. That his presence was tattooed all over the Institute, and Clary wandered the halls at night like a ghost, seeing his ghost everywhere: there laughing on a bench, pushing his hair out of his eyes as he bent over the desk, playing lullabies for Lexie on the piano.
That when she looked into her daughter's eyes, Jace gazed back at her.
Eventually, Lexie cried herself to sleep; exhausted, Clary put her to bed, went to bed herself, inked a silencing rune into her arm, and slept, dreaming fitfully of silver rivers and golden eyes.
Jace had been gone for two weeks when Clary started working again.
Simon and Isabelle had done their best to keep the Institute running, but there was no way they could master all the intricate cogs between the Institute and Idris and Downworld that had taken Clary months to learn. It didn't help that by now the news about Jace had spread far and wide, and although Simon and Isabelle tried to downplay it, Clary knew the recent Conclave they had held had not gone well. Namely, it seemed the Shadowhunters were questioning Clary's ability to run the Institute alone in the present circumstances.
"And of course we told them you were capable, and that we'd help, but that Lance Kingsmill is a real piece of—work," Isabelle finished primly as Simon sent her a disapproving look.
"I think the only way to get them all to back off is to prove them wrong," said Simon, sounding apologetic.
"Well," Clary said dryly, "we've done it before." She and Jace had barely been nineteen when they became Heads of the Institute, and they had had their fair share of naysayers then too. Though it had been easier then, with Jace by her side. They had that part right.
Still, the next day after breakfast, Simon and Isabelle went to pack their things and Clary sat down at the desk in the library to begin answering letters and sorting through reports. Hours later, she had begun to make some headway; as she leaned back in her chair and stretched, her phone rang, Jocelyn's picture appearing on the screen. Clary picked it up.
"Hel—"
"Come upstairs! Hurry!"
Clary felt a jolt of fear, but it dissipated quickly; Jocelyn sounded excited rather than afraid. "I'll be right there," said Clary, and she tucked her phone into her pocket and went to see what was going on.
She found Jocelyn sitting on the floor of the nursery, Lexie on her lap. Jocelyn was beaming. "What happened?" asked Clary.
"Just sit down. No, further! Over there," said Jocelyn, pointing. Warily, Clary sat. "Okay," Jocelyn said, setting Lexie onto her feet. "Now...walk to Mama!"
And to Clary's amazement, Lexie took one step, then another. She wobbled across the room, her arms held out for balance, her face full of determination, until at last she toppled into Clary's arms.
"Lexie!" Clary cried, lifting her into the air as Lexie squealed, clearly satisfied with herself. "You can walk! Oh, sweetie, I'm so proud of you..."
But as she hugged Lexie, she felt her throat tighten. Her smile shook.
"Clary," said Jocelyn softly.
"He should've been here," Clary whispered. "He should've seen this."
"I know, sweetheart," Jocelyn said, her voice gentle.
Lexie was looking up at Clary inquisitively. Clary blinked hard and forced the smile back onto her face. "You did so well, baby," she said, kissing the top of Lexie's head. "Can you walk back to Grammy?"
Lexie smiled and kicked her legs. Clary lifted her onto her feet and turned her toward Jocelyn. Lexie toddled halfway across the room before apparently deciding it was too much effort and crawling the rest of the way. Jocelyn chuckled as she scooped her up. "We'll just have to keep practicing, won't we?" she said, bouncing Lexie on her knee. Lexie cooed happily.
"You keep practicing," Clary said, standing up. "I should get going. I'm meeting Alec for lunch."
"That sounds nice," said Jocelyn, smiling. Clary went to leave, but Jocelyn said, "Clary?" She turned back. "If you want to talk about it—"
"No," said Clary quickly. "No, I'm okay. See you later."
Half an hour later, she was sitting opposite Alec at the Lightwood-Banes' small dining table, a platter of ham and cheese sandwiches between them. They were eating in comfortable silence; Alec was the only person who never asked how Clary was doing, and she returned the favor, though his smile looked as hollow as hers felt.
"Where are the kids?" Clary asked, registering how quiet the apartment was.
"Magnus took them to the park," said Alec. "They still have a lot of questions and I didn't want them interrogating you."
"What questions?"
Alec sighed and sipped his tea. "I'm not sure they really understand what's wrong with Jace. Rafe maybe a bit more, but Max keeps talking about 'when Uncle Jace wakes up,' and I don't know what to tell him. I almost think it might be easier if..." He trailed off and took a large bite of his sandwich.
"If he were dead?" Clary finished.
Alec shrugged, chewing. "Easier to explain anyway," he mumbled. He rubbed his shoulder habitually. "I just don't think he'd want this," he said, so quietly Clary almost didn't hear him. "To be stuck in between."
Clary began to pull the crust off her sandwich. "What do you know about silvershadow?" she said slowly.
He gave her a wary look. "Only what I told you. It's a harmless vine with poisonous berries. Why do you ask?"
She rolled the crust between her fingers and dropped it onto her plate. "I wondered if there might be a way to make an antidote. If we had some of the berries..."
"Do you have some of the berries?" Alec said curiously.
Clary shook her head. "But I know where they are. Jace and I found them in Faerie, right before we rescued Lexie."
The wary look on Alec's face had only grown. "I don't think it's a good idea to go back into the Scourge's territory."
"Eli says the Scourge has been neutralized."
"Eli could be wrong," said Alec sharply. "He might not have the right information, he might not even realize how ruthless they are. Why are you so willing to disregard everything we know about them?"
Clary folded her arms. "Fine. Forget I said anything."
Alec sighed. "I'm sorry," he said more quietly. "I didn't mean to snap at you. I just don't want you to put yourself in danger. And anyway, an antidote isn't what we're looking for. The poison's gone. He just won't wake up."
For a while, they sat in silence, the only sound the repetitive tapping of Clary's fingertips on the table. Finally, she let her hands fall into her lap. "Do you really think they're not gone?" she asked him. "The Scourge, I mean?"
He shrugged. "Maybe. You haven't heard anything from Leviathan, have you?"
"Well, no, but—" She looked at him suddenly. "How did you know Leviathan was telling me things?"
Alec's gaze was soft. "I looked over those crime-scene pictures a million times, and I never saw a rune. At first I gave you the benefit of the doubt, but when you told us you were pregnant...I put it together. But what I said before still holds. I won't tell anyone if you don't want me to."
Clary had lost her appetite. She pushed the sandwich away. "Tell whoever you want," she said shortly. "It doesn't matter now. He's been quiet since we came back."
"That's a good sign," said Alec. "And I do think you slowed the Scourge down. But I think it would be naïve to assume they'll give up that easily." He looked at her. "I'm sorry. I know that's not what you want to hear."
"It's the truth," Clary said.
Alec set his mug aside and leaned across the table. "Look," he said. "With Jace—in the state that he's in—I feel like it's my job to protect you. And I know," he went on as she opened her mouth, "you can take care of yourself. But I still think he'd want me to look out for you. So can you just promise me you won't go looking for trouble for no reason?"
"I won't," said Clary. "For no reason."
Alec sat back, looking disgruntled. "You don't make it easy, do you?"
Clary smiled faintly. "Never have."
Jace had been gone for a few weeks when Clary started to lose track of how long it had been, and hated herself for it.
Jace had been gone for a little while after that when Lexie stopped screaming for him every night, and Clary didn't know whether to be relieved or upset.
Jace had been gone for some time after that when Simon made a joke and Clary found herself smiling along with everyone else, and then crying afterward out of guilt.
The truth was that Jace was gone, and somehow Clary was surviving. Somehow the world kept turning, and time kept moving, and Clary kept breathing.
But Jace was still gone.
Spring arrived, and with it came mild breezes, hours of misty sunlight, and enough pollen to make Simon clear out the stock of tissues at the nearest grocery store.
"Who decided—achoo!—who decided to plant tulips right outside our door?" Isabelle demanded as they entered the apartment, her nose adorably red. Simon opened a box and handed her a tissue before setting about placing extra boxes all over the living room. Isabelle flopped into an armchair and blew her nose with a sound like a waterlogged trombone.
"Come on," said Simon bracingly, "it can't be worse than our engagement party. Remember? The florist got the order wrong, and Jace found him the next day and—"
"I remember," said Isabelle, her voice sounding tight.
He looked over at her. By all outward appearances, Isabelle was fine. She had even been the one who suggested they run the Institute for a while, barely two days after everything with Jace happened. Most people would have assumed she was handling it well. But Simon knew her better than most people.
"How bad is it today?" he asked quietly.
She shrugged, folding the tissue into a small square and unfolding it again. "Six. Maybe five."
"Better than yesterday."
"But worse than the day before." She sighed and crumpled the tissue into a ball. "I know it should be easier by now. But I just..."
Simon turned away to tuck the last few boxes into a cupboard. "It's only been a month," he said gently. "You can take as much time as you need."
There was no response. He glanced back at her; she had a strange look on her face.
"What?" he said.
"A month," she repeated slowly. "Simon, I'm...I'm late."
It took him a moment to understand what she meant. He stared at her. "There's no way..."
She scrambled off the chair. He followed her into the bathroom, where she fished a pregnancy test out of the box under the sink and shooed him out of the room. A minute later, she let him back in. The test was on the counter, an hourglass blinking tantalizingly on the screen.
"There's no way," Isabelle agreed as she sat on the edge of the bathtub. "I mean, we've barely touched each other. It's the stress. That must be why I'm late."
"You're probably right," said Simon. He sat beside her. "Stress. That must be it."
"It would be insane for it to happen now," Isabelle said firmly.
"Absolutely insane," said Simon, nodding emphatically. "I mean, the timing—"
"Awful."
"The worst."
And yet Simon could feel nervous, excited energy thrumming in the space between them. He played with the zipper of his hoodie until Isabelle seized his hands and forced them down to his sides. It felt like it had been ages. Simon glanced at his watch. It had been ages.
"Did you set a timer?"
Isabelle swore. "I forgot."
He grinned at her. "I thought we were experts by now."
"Well, then why didn't you set a timer?" said Isabelle crossly.
Simon laughed, getting up. "Okay, next time we'll set two timers just to—" He broke off, staring down at the test.
"What?" said Isabelle behind him.
He picked up the stick. "Izzy," he said hoarsely. "Izzy, it's positive."
There was a beat of silence. He felt her at his shoulder.
"It's positive?" she whispered.
"It's positive," said Simon shakily.
For a moment, they stood there frozen. Then Simon gave a whoop of laughter. He tossed the stick aside, swept Isabelle into his arms, and kissed her passionately. Isabelle gave a very un-Isabelle-like giggle and pulled away.
"Oh my god!" she said breathlessly. Her smile fell, and she dropped a hand to her stomach. "Oh my god."
"Hey." Simon put his hands on her shoulders. "I know it's scary, but...I just want to celebrate. For as long as we can. Don't you?"
Her eyes were shining. "Yeah," she said. "Yeah, you're right. However long we have, we should get to enjoy it. I mean, whatever happens next—right now, right this minute..." She looked at him with a shy smile. "I'm pregnant," she said, clearly savoring the word.
Simon grinned so hard that his cheeks hurt. "We're having a baby," he said, pulling her into his arms. "And I'm going to shout it from the rooftops."
"Lexie," said Clary sternly, crossing out a line in the report she was writing, "if I look up and you're not on your playmat, I'm going to be very upset with you."
There was an unintelligible babble, the telltale sound of a book hitting the floor, and a startled but not pained squeak.
Clary sighed and went to find her daughter. Lexie had wandered into the stacks and was pawing at the shelf above her head, a casualty already at her feet. Clary slid the book back into place and picked Lexie up, ignoring her noises of protest.
"Grammy and Gramps go on one walk and you decide to be a troublemaker," she scolded good-naturedly. Lexie gave a toothy smile. "You have all the toys in the world," Clary went on, bringing Lexie back to her playmat, setting her down, and pushing a set of colorful stacking rings in front of her. "I'm sure you can use that clever mind of yours to come up with something to do with them while Mommy finishes this report, right?"
"Ah," Lexie agreed, and Clary kissed her head before returning to the desk. She wrote a few more sentences before she heard the heavy clunk of the Institute doors, and a minute later the library doors opened.
"I think she's getting a little antsy," Clary said. "Could you—" She looked up, expecting Jocelyn and Luke, but finding Isabelle and Simon instead. "Oh, hi," she said. "What are you guys doing here?"
They were both beaming, and they looked at each other, seemingly having a silent conversation. Clary glanced between them uncertainly. "What's..."
"I'm pregnant," said Isabelle.
Clary gasped, her hands flying up to cover her mouth. "Izzy!" She leaped out from behind the desk and tackled Isabelle in a hug. "Oh, congratulations!" She released Izzy and pulled Simon in, squeezing him tightly. "I'm so happy for you!"
"It's early, it's so early, we shouldn't even be telling you yet," Isabelle said in a rush, "but we just couldn't wait."
"You must both be so excited," said Clary, smiling at them.
Simon grinned. "We are." He put his arm around Isabelle and pulled her in against him. Her hand brushed across her stomach, and he laced his fingers with hers.
Tears sprang to Clary's eyes suddenly. She turned away, blinking hard, and began to straighten the already neat stacks of paper on the desk.
"Clary?" said Simon from behind her. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, of course," she said, in a much higher voice than normal. "I just have to get some work done, but I really am h-happy for you..."
She heard them approach. Isabelle touched her shoulder lightly. "Clary," she said softly.
Clary curled her fingers under the edge of the desk and dropped her head, willing herself to keep it together. But tears came anyway, and she couldn't stop them from falling.
"Come on," said Isabelle. She led Clary over to the couch and Clary sank down onto it, shaking with silent sobs. Isabelle and Simon sat on either side of her, Izzy wrapping an arm around her.
"I'm sorry," Clary said, wiping furiously at her eyes. "I don't want to make this about me. This is good news, I know how hard it's been for you, and I really am happy..."
"We know you are," said Simon. "But if you want to talk, we'll listen."
Clary drew in a long breath, pushing the emotion forcefully back down. "I don't want to talk," she said. "There's no point. It won't change anything."
Simon started to say something, but a noise behind Clary distracted her. She looked around; Lexie had vanished again. Cursing under her breath, she pushed herself up and found Lexie in the same aisle, still reaching determinedly above her head.
"Lexie!" she snapped. "What did I tell you?"
Lexie's face fell; her lower lip started to quiver.
The anger drained out of Clary as quickly as it had come. She picked Lexie up and held her close. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I didn't mean to yell at you."
She came back into the main area and saw that Simon and Isabelle were talking quietly on the couch. They looked up as she approached.
"I'm going to take Lexie up for her nap," she said, "but we should celebrate. Will you stay for dinner?"
Simon smiled. "That would be great."
"Oh!" said Isabelle, her eyes lighting up. "I'll cook!" Simon and Clary exchanged panicked glances. "I saw that," Isabelle said, glaring at both of them. "But how am I supposed to get better if no one ever lets me practice?"
"I just don't see why we have to be your test subjects," Simon muttered under his breath, and Isabelle stuck her tongue out at him.
"I'll get started in a bit," she told Clary, "right after I...um..."
"What?" said Clary.
Isabelle looked uncomfortable. "Well, I—I kind of wanted to go up and see Jace. Tell him the news." She went slightly pink as she said it. "I know it's stupid. But I just wanted him to know."
"It's not stupid," said Simon gently, taking her hand. She squeezed it briefly before standing up.
"Okay then," she said. "I'll be back down soon."
She went out of the room, leaving Clary and Simon alone. Simon began, "Clary, you know you can—"
"Don't worry about it," Clary interrupted. "Really. I'm happy for you, I promise." And she hoisted Lexie higher on her hip and carried her out of the library.
Dinner turned out to be a spectacular fiasco, as Clary had expected. Isabelle decided to make a vegetarian pot pie and proceeded to use nearly every bowl in the Institute's kitchen, promising to do the dishes later. She spilled a large quantity of flour on the floor as she was making the crust, something Clary didn't notice until Lexie emerged from behind the counter looking like a ghost. By the time Clary returned from cleaning Lexie up, the pie was finished and actually looked palatable until Isabelle cut into it and discovered a mess of vegetables that was somehow simultaneously dripping wet and congealed into a firm block. At that point, Isabelle scraped the whole thing into the trash and ordered a delivery from the nearest pizzeria, whose number she had apparently saved to her contacts.
It took a good two hours for them to clean up the kitchen, so that by the time they finished, Lexie had been put to bed by her grandparents and Clary, Simon, and Isabelle were thoroughly exhausted.
"Isabelle," said Simon wearily as he hung up the dishtowel. "I mean this with the utmost love. Please never cook again."
"Maybe I just need a better recipe," Isabelle mumbled. Simon smacked his forehead with his palm. "All right, fine, point taken. It's not an inconvenience if we stay over tonight, is it?" she added to Clary. "We can always catch a cab."
Clary shook her head. "Sleep well. I'll see you in the morning."
"Are you not going to bed?" Simon asked.
"Later," said Clary. "I just have some work to finish up."
But when she went back to the library, she stacked the documents she had been reading and set them aside. She sat and stared at a knot of wood in the desktop for what felt like hours. She had watched the whole disaster in the kitchen unfold with some humor, but it felt distant, as if she were just following a script: laugh, smile, answer. And every time Simon and Isabelle teased each other, or when Simon had wrapped his arms around Isabelle from behind and locked his fingers over her stomach, Clary felt another wave of emotion that needed to be swiftly tucked away.
And now Clary sat in the library and tried to hold the dam steady, tried to feel nothing. But really what she felt was lonely; it seeped through her like damp through a house, making her crumble from the inside. All she wanted was to forget any of this was happening, to forget Simon and Isabelle and Jace and make the sea of emotions cease.
She stood up slowly and left the library. She made her way back into the kitchen, where she crossed to the liquor cabinet and picked out the strongest alcohol she could find: a half-empty bottle of vodka. She took it to the table, sat down, unscrewed the cap, and brought the bottle to her lips.
The baby kicked.
Clary felt something else then: a deep, horrible guilt. She set the bottle down, feeling sickened with herself. Selfish, said a nasty voice inside her. You're a terrible mother.
The fumes of alcohol were making her nauseous; she pushed the bottle away and laid her head in her hands. What had she been thinking? No, she realized, that was the problem. She hadn't been thinking. She hadn't wanted to think, and she still didn't. Part of her still found the vodka tantalizing, still wanted to push those better thoughts aside and be selfish, drown herself in drink...but the baby was still moving, and Clary couldn't do it.
She found herself thinking of Céline Herondale. She had never liked Jace's mother, and had sympathized with her even less after having Lexie; she simply couldn't fathom how a mother could condemn her child to death, grief-stricken or not. But now she thought she understood, on some level, how destroyed Céline must have been to make that decision. How consumed by this hollowness within her.
"Clary?"
She glanced up. Simon was hovering in the doorway. He stepped into the light, his eyes fixed on the bottle on the table. "Is that—"
"I didn't drink any," said Clary dully.
Simon hesitated, his shoes squeaking as he shifted awkwardly. Then he came over, capped the bottle, and stowed it safely back in the cupboard before sitting down beside her. "What's up?" he said.
Clary shrugged and began to scrape obsessively at a bit of dried food caked on the table. Simon laid his hands over hers to stop her, but that only made her want to break something. Instead, she stood up and filled herself a glass of water just for something to do.
"What's wrong?" Simon asked softly.
She gave a humorless laugh. "What's wrong," she echoed. "I don't know. Everything."
Simon seemed to have no response to that. Clary stared at nothing, sipping her water mechanically.
"Is this about Izzy and me?" Simon said tentatively.
She came out of her stupor, looking at him. "No," she said. "God, no. Of course not."
"Are you sure?" asked Simon. "Because you've seemed down since we told you."
She shook her head and sat back down at the table. "It's not really about you," she said. "I'm—"
"Happy for us, I know."
Clary nodded. "I really am. I just..." She ran a hand over her belly. "More and more," she said quietly, "I'm beginning to believe that he's not coming back. That I'm going to have this baby alone."
"You're not alone," said Simon gently.
"Yes, I am," Clary said in a hard voice. "You and Izzy, and my parents—you help, but..." Her eyes stung. "He'll never know his father. Lexie's already starting to forget him."
"Don't give up yet," Simon said. "He could still wake up—"
"He won't," Clary snapped, slamming her fist on the table with such force that the glass toppled over, rolling away and spilling water all over the table before Simon caught it and set it upright. Clary shoved herself to her feet. "Don't lie to me," she said furiously. "He's not coming back. You know it, and I know it. He's as good as dead. We might as well accept it."
"Clary," said Simon, his voice full of hurt.
"Screw you, Simon," Clary said venomously. It wasn't fair to him, she knew, but it felt good to lash out at someone when what she really wanted was...to lash out at Jace.
As much as she didn't want to be, she was furious with him. She was furious that he had lied to her, that he had promised they would have the rest of their lives together, that she had been shutting down and he had woken her up and then he had left.
And if he had just told her he was still poisoned, she could have...what? She'd almost passed out trying to heal him the first time, and she hadn't even been able to heal him fully with all the energy she could muster the second time. She would have had to give her life to save him...but maybe she would have done it. Maybe dying was better than this; he didn't know, he hadn't known then what it felt like to be on the other side, so utterly alone. But if he had, he would never have let her make that sacrifice. Because then it would be him, alone.
She couldn't blame him; in a lot of ways, she envied him. He was asleep forever, oblivious to the world around him and the people he'd left behind.
Clary blinked hard, balling up the tangle of emotions inside her and stuffing them deep, deep down. "I'm sorry," she said robotically.
"It's okay," said Simon, though his voice was stiff.
"No, it's not." She pressed her palms into her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said again, her voice cracking. "God, I'm so sorry. This isn't your fault."
She heard the chair scrape away from the table, felt a gentle hand on her arm. She pulled away. "I'm going to bed," she said, not looking at him.
"Clary. Hey." He turned her chin toward him. He looked weary too; she felt a stab of guilt. This was supposed to be a happy day for him, and she'd turned it into a pity party for herself. "I'm here for you," he said softly.
She stepped away. "I know." He looked as if he wanted to say more, but she turned and left him behind.
It was May, which meant the nights were beginning to warm, but Clary felt cold all over. She pushed her emotions even deeper, feeling herself go numb. She remembered what it had felt like to be possessed by Beelzebub; this was like that, like she was tucked inside herself, watching herself wander the halls. She stopped in front of her bedroom, but whatever part of her was controlling her movements didn't seem to be able to enter. She continued to walk.
At last, she pushed open the doors to the infirmary. She'd forgotten to clean the shaving equipment that morning; it all sat on the bedside table, scummy water half-evaporated from the bowl.
Jace was lying there, still as always. Clary watched herself walk over to him and climb onto the bed beside him. She barely fit with her stomach between them, so she turned on her back, pressing her shoulder against his. It was uncomfortable—the baby felt heavy on her lungs and hips—but it was the only way she could lie beside him without worrying she'd fall off the narrow bed. She turned her head toward him. He didn't smell like Jace; he smelled clean and sterile, as if he had absorbed the air in the infirmary.
Once, when she was young, she and her mother had visited the wax museum in Times Square. Most tourists loved it, snapping pictures with "celebrities" and marveling at the detail of the faces. But Clary had found it eerie. All those near-lifelike people, so still and silent; carved in the likeness of real people, but just a little off, just enough to make them alien and inhuman. Part of her had wanted to run, screaming. That was what it felt like to be lying this close to Jace. Jace was full of life and light. He was the mischievous humor that danced in his eyes, the sound of a piano on a quiet night, a drop of sunlight glancing off a blade, dangerous and beautiful all at once. This was wax-Jace, with everything that made him Jace drained away.
But it was the closest thing she had, so she slipped her fingers between his and listened to the even, mechanical sound of his breathing. "I miss you," she whispered, her voice breaking.
There was no response. She buried her face in his shoulder and closed her eyes, almost wishing she could stay asleep with him forever.