“A la claire fontaine,” Maryse said, “m’en allant promener.”
He turned to look at her. “What?”
“Il y a longtemps queje t’aime. Jamais je ne t’oublierai—it’s the old French ballad I used to sing to Alec and Isabelle. The one you asked me about.”
There was very little light in the room now, and in the dimness Maryse looked to him almost as she had when he was ten years old, as if she had not changed at all in the past seven years. She looked severe and worried, anxious—and hopeful. She looked like the only mother he’d ever known.
“You were wrong that I never sang it to you,” she said. “It’s just that you never heard me.”
Jace said nothing, but he reached out and yanked the zipper open on the duffel bag, letting his belongings spill out onto the bed.
Epilogue
“Clary!” Simon’s mother beamed all over her face at the sight of the girl standing on her doorstep. “I haven’t seen you for ages. I was starting to worry you and Simon had had a fight.”
“Oh, no,” Clary said. “I just wasn’t feeling well, that’s all.” Even when you’ve got magic healing runes, apparently you’re not invulnerable. She hadn’t been surprised to wake up the morning after the battle to find she had a pounding headache and a fever; she’d thought she had a cold—who wouldn’t, after freezing in wet clothes on the open water for hours at night?—but Magnus said she had most likely exhausted herself creating the rune that had destroyed Valentine’s ship.
Simon’s mother clucked sympathetically. “The same bug Simon had the week before last, I bet. He could barely get out of bed.”
“He’s better now, though, right?” Clary said. She knew it was true, but she didn’t mind hearing it again.
“He’s fine. He’s out in the back garden, I think. Just go on through the gate.” She smiled. “He’ll be happy to see you.”
The redbrick row houses on Simon’s street were divided by pretty white wrought iron fences, each of which had a gate that led to a tiny patch of garden in the back of the house. The sky was bright blue and the air cool, despite the sunny skies. Clary could taste the tang of future snow on the air.
She fastened the gate shut behind her and went looking for Simon. He was in the back garden, as promised, lying on a plastic lounging chair with a comic open in his lap. He pushed it aside when he saw Clary, sat up, and grinned. “Hey, baby.”
“Baby?” She perched beside him on the chair. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“I was trying it out. No?”
“No,” she said firmly, and leaned over to kiss him on the mouth. When she drew back, his fingers lingered in her hair, but his eyes were thoughtful.
“I’m glad you came over,” he said.
“Me too. I would have come sooner, but—”
“You were sick. I know.” She’d spent the week texting him from Luke’s couch, where she’d lain wrapped up in a blanket watching CSI reruns. It was comforting to spend time in a world where every puzzle had a detectable, scientific answer.
“I’m better now.” She glanced around and shivered, pulling her white cardigan closer around her body. “What are you doing lying around outside in this weather, anyway? Aren’t you freezing?”
Simon shook his head. “I don’t really feel cold or heat anymore. Besides”—his mouth curled into a smile—“the kissing stuff;I want to spend as much time in the sunlight as I can. I still get sleepy during the day, but I’m fighting it.”
She touched the back of her hand to his cheek. His face was warm from the sun, but underneath, the skin was cool. “But everything else is still . . . still the same?”
“You mean am I still a vampire? Yeah. It looks like it. Still want to drink blood, still no heartbeat. I’ll have to avoid the doctor, but since vampires don’t get sick . . .” He shrugged.
“And you talked to Raphael? He still has no idea why you can go out into the sun?”
“None. He seems pretty pissed about it too.” Simon blinked at her sleepily, as if it were two in the morning instead of the afternoon. “I think it upsets his ideas about the way things should be. Plus he’s going to have a harder job getting me to roam the night when I’m determined to roam the day instead.”
“You’d think he’d be thrilled.”
“Vampires don’t like change. They’re very traditional.” He smiled at her, and she thought, He’ll always look like this. When I’m fifty or sixty, he’ll still look sixteen. It wasn’t a happy thought. “Anyway, this’ll be good for my music career. If that Anne Rice stuff is anything to go by, vampires make great rock stars.”
“I’m not sure that information is reliable.”
He leaned back against the chair. “What is? Besides you, of course.”
“Reliable? Is that how you think of me?” she demanded in mock indignation. “That’s not very romantic.”
A shadow passed across his face. “Clary . . .”
“What? What is it?” She reached for his hand and held it. “You’re using your bad news voice.”
He looked away from her. “I don’t know if it’s bad news or not.”
“Everything’s one or the other,” Clary said. “Just tell me you’re all right.”
“I’m all right,” he said. “But—I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”
Clary almost fell off the lounge chair. “You don’t want to be friends anymore?”
“Clary—”
“Is it because of the demons? Because I got you turned into a vampire?” Her voice was rising higher and higher. “I know everything’s been crazy, but I can keep you away from all that. I can—”
Simon winced. “You’re starting to sound like a dolphin, do you know that? Stop.”
Clary stopped.
“I still want to be friends,” he said. “It’s the other stuff I’m not so sure about.”
“Other stuff?”
He started to blush. She hadn’t known vampires could blush. It looked startling against his pale skin. “The girlfriend-boyfriend stuff.”
She was silent for a long moment, searching for words. Finally, she said: “At least you didn’t say ‘the kissing stuff.’ I was afraid you were going to call it that.”
He looked down at their hands, where they lay intertwined on the plastic of the lounge chair. Her fingers looked small against his, but for the first time, her skin was a shade darker. He stroked his thumb absently over her knuckles and said, “I wouldn’t have called it that.”
“I thought this was what you wanted,” she said. “I thought you said that—”
He looked up at her through his dark lashes. “That I loved you? I do love you. But that’s not the whole story.”
“Is this because of Maia?” Her teeth had started to chatter, only partly from the cold. “Because you like her?”
Simon hesitated. “No. I mean, yes, I like her, but not the way you mean. It’s just that when I’m around her—I know what it’s like to have someone like me that way. And it’s not like it is with you.”
“But you don’t love her—”
“Maybe I could someday.”
“Maybe I could love you someday.”
“If you ever do,” he said, “come and let me know. You know where to find me.”
Her teeth were chattering harder. “I can’t lose you, Simon. I can’t.”
“You never will. I’m not leaving you. But I’d rather have what we have, which is real and true and important, than have you pretend anything else. When I’m with you, I want to know I’m with the real you, the real Clary.”
She leaned her head against his, closing her eyes. He still felt like Simon, despite everything; still smelled like him, like his laundry soap. “Maybe I don’t know who that is.”
“But I do.”
Luke’s brand-new pickup was idling by the curb when Clary left Simon’s house, fastening the gate shut behind her.
“You dropped me off. You didn’t have to pick me up too,” she said, swingin
g herself up into the cab beside him. Trust Luke to replace his old, destroyed truck with a new one that was exactly like it.
“Forgive me my paternal panic,” said Luke, handing her a waxed paper cup of coffee. She took a sip—no milk and lots of sugar, the way she liked it. “I tend to get a little nervous when you’re not in my immediate line of sight these days.”
“Oh, yeah?” Clary held the coffee tightly to keep it from spilling as they bumped down the potholed road. “How long do you think that’s going to go on for?”
Luke looked considering. “Not long. Five, maybe six years.”
“Luke!”
“I plan to let you start dating when you’re thirty, if that helps.”
“Actually, that doesn’t sound so bad. I may not be ready until I’m thirty.”
Luke looked at her sideways. “You and Simon . . . ?”
She waved the hand that wasn’t holding the coffee cup. “Don’t ask.”
“I see.” He probably did. “Did you want me to drop you at home?”
“You’re going to the hospital, right?” She could tell from the nervous tension underlying his jokes. “I’ll go with you.”
They were on the bridge now, and Clary looked out over the river, nursing her coffee thoughtfully. She never got tired of this view, the narrow river of water between the canyon walls of Manhattan and Brooklyn. It glittered in the sun like aluminum foil. She wondered why she’d never tried to draw it. She remembered asking her mother once why she’d never used her as a model, never drawn her own daughter. “To draw something is to try to capture it forever,” Jocelyn had said, sitting on the floor with a paintbrush dripping cadmium blue onto her jeans. “If you really love something, you never try to keep it the way it is forever. You have to let it be free to change.”
But I hate change. She took a deep breath. “Luke,” she said. “Valentine said something to me when I was on the ship, something about—”
“Nothing good ever starts with the words ‘Valentine said,’” muttered Luke.
“Maybe not. But it was about you and my mom. He said you were in love with her.”
Silence. They were stopped in traffic on the bridge. She could hear the sound of the Q train rumbling past. “Do you think that’s true?” Luke said at last.
“Well.” Clary could sense the tension in the air and tried to choose her words carefully. “I don’t know. I mean, he said it before and I just dismissed it as paranoia and hatred. But this time I started thinking, and well—it is sort of weird that you’ve always been around, you’ve been like a dad to me, we practically lived on the farm in the summer, and yet neither you nor my mom ever dated anyone else. So I thought maybe . . .”
“You thought maybe what?”
“That maybe you’ve been together all this time and you just didn’t want to tell me. Maybe you thought I was too young to get it. Maybe you were afraid it would start me asking questions about my dad. But I’m not too young to get it anymore. You can tell me. I guess that’s what I’m saying. You can tell me anything.”
“Maybe not anything.” There was another silence as the truck inched forward in the crawling traffic. Luke squinted into the sun, his fingers tapping on the wheel. Finally, he said, “You’re right. I am in love with your mother.”
“That’s great,” Clary said, trying to sound supportive despite how gross the idea happened to be of people her mom’s and Luke’s age being in love.
“But,” he said, finishing, “she doesn’t know it.”
“She doesn’t know it?” Clary made a wide sweeping gesture with her arm. Fortunately, her coffee cup was empty. “How could she not know? Haven’t you told her?”
“As a matter of fact,” said Luke, slamming his foot down on the gas so that the truck lurched forward, “no.”
“Why not?”
Luke sighed and rubbed his stubbled chin tiredly. “Because,” he said. “It never seemed like the right time.”
“That is a lame excuse, and you know it.”
Luke managed to make a noise halfway between a chuckle and a grunt of annoyance. “Maybe, but it’s the truth. When I first realized how I felt about Jocelyn, I was the same age you are. Sixteen. And we’d all just met Valentine. I wasn’t any competition for him. I was even a little glad that if it wasn’t going to be me she wanted, it was going to be someone who really deserved her.” His voice hardened. “When I realized how wrong I was about that, it was too late. When we ran away together from Idris, and she was pregnant with you, I offered to marry her, to take care of her. I said it didn’t matter who the father of her baby was, I’d raise it like my own. She thought I was being charitable. I couldn’t convince her I was being as selfish as I knew how to be. She told me she didn’t want to be a burden on me, that it was too much to ask of anyone. After she left me in Paris, I went back to Idris but I was always restless, never happy. There was always that part of me missing, the part that was Jocelyn. I would dream that she was somewhere needing my help, that she was calling out to me and I couldn’t hear her. Finally I went looking for her.”
“I remember she was happy,” Clary said in a small voice. “When you found her.”
“She was and she wasn’t. She was glad to see me, but at the same time I symbolized for her that whole world she’d run from, and she wanted no part of it. She agreed to let me stay when I promised I’d give up all ties to the pack, to the Clave, to Idris, to all of it. I would have offered to move in with both of you, but Jocelyn thought my transformations would be too hard to hide from you, and I had to agree. I bought the bookstore, took a new name, and pretended Lucian Graymark was dead. And for all intents and purposes, he has been.”
“You really did a lot for my mom. You gave up a whole life.”
“I would have done more,” Luke said matter-of-factly. “But she was so adamant about wanting nothing to do with the Clave or Downworld, and whatever I might pretend, I’m still a lycanthrope. I’m a living reminder of all of that. And she was so sure she wanted you never to know any of it. You know, I never agreed with the trips to Magnus, to altering your memories or your Sight, but it was what she wanted and I let her do it because if I’d tried to stop her, she would have sent me away. And there’s no way—no way—she would have let me marry her, be your father and not tell you the truth about myself. And that would have brought down everything, all those fragile walls she’d tried so hard to build between herself and the Invisible World. I couldn’t do that to her. So I stayed silent.”
“You mean you never told her how you felt?’
“Your mother isn’t stupid, Clary,” said Luke. He sounded calm, but there was a certain tightness in his voice. “She must have known. I offered to marry her. However kind her denials might have been, I do know one thing: She knows how I feel and she doesn’t feel the same way.”
Clary was silent.
“It’s all right,” Luke said, trying for lightness. “I accepted it a long time ago.”
Clary’s nerves were singing with a sudden tension that she didn’t think was from the caffeine. She pushed back thoughts about her own life. “You offered to marry her, but did you say it was because you loved her? It doesn’t sound like it.”
Luke was silent.
“I think you should have told her the truth. I think you’re wrong about how she feels.”
“I’m not, Clary.” Luke’s voice was firm: That’s enough now.
“I remember once I asked her why she didn’t date,” Clary said, ignoring his admonishing tone. “She said it was because she’d already given her heart. I thought she meant to my dad, but now—now I’m not so sure.”
Luke looked actually astonished. “She said that?” He caught himself, and added, “Probably she did mean Valentine, you know.”
“I don’t think so.” She shot him a look out of the corner of her eye. “Besides, don’t you hate it? Not ever saying how you really feel?”
This time the silence lasted until they were off the bridge and rumbling down Orchard
Street, lined with shops and restaurants whose signs were in beautiful Chinese characters of curling gold and red. “Yes, I hated it,” Luke said. “At the time, I thought what I had with you and your mother was better than nothing. But if you can’t tell the truth to the people you care about the most, eventually you stop being able to tell the truth to yourself.”
There was a sound like rushing water in Clary’s ears. Looking down, she saw that she’d crushed the empty waxed-paper cup she was holding into an unrecognizable ball.
“Take me to the Institute,” she said. “Please.”
Luke looked over at her in surprise. “I thought you wanted to come to the hospital?”
“I’ll meet you there when I’m finished,” she said. “There’s something I have to do first.”
The lower level of the Institute was full of sunlight and pale dust motes. Clary ran down the narrow aisle between the pews, threw herself at the elevator, and stabbed at the button. “Come on, come on,” she muttered. “Come—”
The golden doors creaked open. Jace was standing inside the elevator. His eyes widened when he saw her.
“—on,” Clary finished, and dropped her arm. “Oh. Hi.”
He stared at her. “Clary?”
“You cut your hair,” she said without thinking. It was true—the long metallic strands were no longer falling in his face, but were neatly and evenly cut. It made him look more civilized, even a little older. He was dressed neatly too, in a dark blue sweater and jeans. Something silver glinted at his throat, just under the collar of the sweater.
He raised a hand. “Oh. Right. Maryse cut it.” The door of the elevator began to slide closed; he held it back. “Did you need to come up to the Institute?”
She shook her head. “I just wanted to talk to you.”
“Oh.” He looked a little surprised at that, but stepped out of the elevator, letting the door clang shut behind him. “I was just running over to Taki’s to pick up some food. No one really feels like cooking....”
“I understand,” Clary said, then wished she hadn’t. It wasn’t as if the Lightwoods’ desire to cook or not cook had anything to do with her.
Cassandra Clare: The Mortal Instruments Series Page 79