Cassandra Clare: The Last Stand of the New York Institute

Jocelyn did look around apprehensively, but either she decided it was safe or small, intently squirming Clary was stubborn and her mother knew she would have to let her go free. She put Clary down, and Clary went toddling determinedly off on her quest. They stood and watched her bright little head bob as she grabbed up, in turn, Tessa’s book, one of Magnus’s candles (which Clary chewed on thoughtfully for a moment), and a silver tray Magnus had left under the sofa.

“Curious little thing, isn’t she?” Magnus asked. Jocelyn glanced toward Magnus. Her eyes had been anxiously fastened on her child. Magnus found himself smiling at her. “Not a bad quality,” he assured her. “She could grow up to be an adventurer.”

“I want her to grow up to be safe and happy,” said Jocelyn. “I don’t want her to have adventures. Adventures happen when life is cruel. I want her to have a mundane life, quiet and sweet, and I hoped she would be born not able to see the Shadow World. It is no world for a child. But I’ve never had much luck with hope. I saw her trying to play with a faerie in a hedge this afternoon. I need you to help me. I need you to help her. Can you blind her to all that?”

“Can I tear away an essential part of your child’s nature, and twist her into a shape that would suit you better?” Magnus asked her. “If you want her mad by the end of it.”

He regretted the words as soon as he had spoken. Jocelyn stared at him, white-faced, as if she had just been hit. But Jocelyn Morgenstern was not the kind of woman who wept, not the kind of woman who broke, or Valentine would have broken her long since. She held herself tall and asked, her voice level, “Is there anything else you can do?”

“There is . . . something else I could try,” said Magnus.

He did not say that he would. He kept his eyes on the little girl, and thought of the young werewolf girl Valentine had blinded, of Edmund Herondale stripped of his Marks centuries ago, and of Tessa’s Jamie and Lucie and all they had borne. He would not give up a child to the Shadowhunters, for whom the Law came before mercy.

Clary espied Magnus’s poor cat. The Great Catsby, who was getting on in years, lay prone upon a velvet cushion, his fluffy gray tail spilling over it.

The adults all saw that disaster was imminent. They took a step forward, as one, but Clary had already firmly pulled the Great Catsby’s tail, with the regal assured air of a countess reaching for the bellpull to summon her maid.

The Great Catsby gave a piteous meow to protest the indignity, turned, and scratched Clary, and Clary began to scream. Jocelyn was on her knees beside Clary the next instant, her red hair like a veil over her child, as if she could somehow screen Clary from all the world.

“Is she part banshee?” Magnus asked over the piercing wail. Clary sounded like a police siren. Magnus felt as if he were going to be arrested for the twenty-seventh time. Jocelyn glared at him through her hair, and Magnus lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Oh, pardon me for implying that the bloodlines of Valentine’s child are anything less than pure.”

“Come on, Magnus,” Tessa said quietly. She had loved so many more Shadowhunters than Magnus ever had. She went and stood beside Jocelyn. She put a hand against Jocelyn’s shoulder, and Jocelyn did not shake her hand off.

“If you want the child safe,” said Magnus, “she doesn’t need only a spell to hide her own Sight. She needs to be protected from the supernatural as well, from any demons who might come crawling to her.”

“And what Iron Sister and Silent Brother will do that ceremony for me without turning Clary and me over to the Clave?” Jocelyn demanded. “No. I can’t risk it. If she knows nothing of the Shadow World, she will be safe.”

“My mother was a Shadowhunter who knew nothing of the Shadow World,” said Tessa. “That didn’t keep her safe.”

Jocelyn stared at Tessa in open horror, obviously able to infer the story of what had happened: that a demon had gained access to an unprotected Shadowhunter woman, and Tessa had been the result.

There was a silence. Clary had turned curiously to Tessa as Tessa had approached, her screams forgotten. Now she lifted her chubby little arms out to Tessa. Jocelyn let Tessa take Clary again, and this time Clary did not try to wriggle away from her. Clary wiped her small tearstained face against Tessa’s T-shirt. It seemed to be a gesture of affection. Magnus hoped nobody would offer Clary to him in her current sticky condition.

Jocelyn blinked and began, slowly, to smile. Magnus noticed for the first time that she was beautiful. “Clary never goes to strangers. Maybe—maybe she can tell that you’re not a stranger to the Fairchilds.”

Tessa gazed at Jocelyn, her gray eyes clear. Magnus thought, in this case, Tessa was seeing more than he did. “Maybe. I will help you with the ceremony,” she promised. “I know a Silent Brother who will keep any secret, if I ask him to.”

Jocelyn bowed her head. “Thank you, Theresa Gray.”

It occurred to Magnus how outraged Valentine would have been, to see his wife beseeching Downworlders, to think of his child in a warlock’s arms. Magnus’s thought of responding to Jocelyn’s appeal with cruelty receded even further. This seemed the kind of revenge worth getting—to prove, even after Valentine’s death, how wrong Valentine had been.

He walked over to the two women and the child, and he glanced at Tessa, and he saw her nod.

“Well, then,” Magnus said, “it seems we are going to help you, Jocelyn Morgenstern.”

Jocelyn flinched. “Don’t call me that. I’m—I’m Jocelyn Fairchild.”

“I thought you weren’t a Shadowhunter anymore,” Magnus said. “If you don’t want them to find you, changing your last name seems a fairly elementary first step. Trust me, I’m an expert. I’ve watched a lot of spy movies.”

Jocelyn looked skeptical, and Magnus rolled his eyes.

“I was also not born with the name ‘Magnus Bane,’” he said. “I came up with that one all on my own.”

“I actually was born Tessa Gray,” Tessa said. “But you should choose whatever name seems right to you. I’ve always said there is a great deal of power in words, and that means names, too. A name you choose for yourself could tell you the story of what your destiny will be, and who you intend to become.”

“Call me Fray. Let me join together the names of the Fairchilds, my lost family, and the Grays. Because you are . . . a family friend,” said Jocelyn, speaking with sudden firmness.

Tessa smiled at Jocelyn, looking surprised but pleased, and Jocelyn smiled down at her daughter. Magnus saw the determination in her face. Valentine had wanted to crush the world as Magnus knew it. But this woman had helped crush him instead, and now she was looking at her daughter as if she would make another world, shining and brand new, just for Clary, so Clary would never be touched by any of the darkness of the past. Magnus knew what it was to want to forget as badly as Jocelyn did, knew the passionate urge to protect that came with love.

Perhaps none of the children of the new generation—not this small stubborn redheaded scrap, or half-faerie Helen and Mark Blackthorn at the Los Angeles Institute, or even Maryse Lightwood’s children growing up in New York far from the Glass City—would ever have to learn the full truth about the ugliness of the past.

Jocelyn stroked her little girl’s face, and they all watched as the baby smiled, lit up with the sheer joy of living. She was a story in herself, sweet and full of hope, just beginning.

“Jocelyn and Clary Fray,” said Magnus. “It’s nice to meet you.”