Clary shrank back. "I do not want the gifts of your lady," she said, "for they come freighted with lies and expectations. I will not owe the Queen anything."
"It is not a gift," Kaelie said impatiently. "It is a means of summoning. The Queen forgives you for your earlier stubbornness. She expects there is a time soon in which you will want her help. She is willing to offer it to you, should you choose to ask. Simply ring that bell, and a servant of the Court will come and bring you to her."
Clary shook her head. "I will not ring it."
Kaelie shrugged. "Then it should cost you nothing to take it."
As if in a dream Clary saw her own hand reach out, her fingers hover over the bell.
"You would do anything to save him," said Kaelie, her voice thin and as sweet as the bell's ring, "whatever it cost you, whatever you might owe to Hell or Heaven, would you not?"
Remembered voices chimed in Clary's head. Did you ever stop to wonder what untruths might have been in the tale your mother told you, that served her purpose in telling it? Do you truly think you know each and every secret of your past?
Madame Dorothea told Jace he would fall in love with the wrong person.
He is not beyond saving. But it will be difficult.
The bell clanged as Clary took it, folding it into her palm. Kaelie smiled, her blue eyes shining like glass beads. "A wise choice."
Clary hesitated. But before she could thrust the bell back at the faerie girl, she heard someone call her name, and turned to see her mother making her way through the crowd toward her. She turned back hastily, but was not surprised to see that Kaelie was gone, having melted away into the crowd like mist burning away in the morning sun.
"Clary," Jocelyn said, reaching her, "I was looking for you, and then Luke pointed you out, just standing over here by yourself. Is everything okay?"
Just standing over here by yourself. Clary wondered what kind of glamour Kaelie had been using; her mother ought to be able to see through most. "I'm fine, Mom."
"Where's Simon? I thought he was coming."
Of course she would think of Simon first, Clary thought, not Jace. Even though Jace had been supposed to come, and as Clary's boyfriend, he probably ought to even have been there early. "Mom," she said, and then paused. "Do you think you'll ever like Jace?"
Jocelyn's green eyes softened. "I did notice he wasn't here, Clary. I just didn't know if you'd want to talk about it."
"I mean," Clary went on doggedly, "do you think there's something he could do to make you like him?"
"Yes," Jocelyn said. "He could make you happy." She touched Clary's face lightly, and Clary clenched her own hand, feeling the bell press into her skin.
"He does make me happy," Clary said. "But he can't control everything in the world, Mom. Other things happen-" She fumbled for words. How could she explain that it wasn't Jace making her unhappy, but what was happening to him, without revealing what that was?
"You love him so much," Jocelyn said gently. "It scares me. I've always wanted to keep you protected."
"And look how that worked out," Clary began, and then softened her voice. This wasn't the time to blame her mother or fight with her, not now. Not with Luke looking over at them from the doorway, his face alight with love and anxiety. "If you just knew him," she said, a little hopelessly. "But I guess everyone says that about their boyfriend."
"You're right," Jocelyn said, surprising her. "I don't know him, not really. I see him, and he reminds me a little of his mother somehow. I don't know why-he doesn't look like her, except that she was also beautiful, and she had that terrible vulnerability that he has-"
"Vulnerability?" Clary was astonished. She had never thought anyone but herself thought of Jace as vulnerable.
"Oh, yes," said Jocelyn. "I wanted to hate her for taking Stephen away from Amatis, but you just couldn't help wanting to protect Celine. Jace has a little of that." She sounded lost in thought. "Or maybe it's just that beautiful things are so easily broken by the world." She lowered her hand. "It doesn't matter. I have my memories to contend with, but they're my memories. Jace shouldn't bear the weight of them. I will tell you one thing, though. If he didn't love you like he does-and it's written all over his face whenever he looks at you-I wouldn't tolerate him for even a moment. So keep that in mind when you're being angry with me."
She waved off Clary's protestation that she wasn't angry with a smile and a pat on the cheek, and headed back toward Luke with a last appeal for Clary to get out among the crowd and mingle. Clary nodded and said nothing, looking after her mother as she went, and feeling the bell sear against the inside of her hand where she clutched it, like the tip of a burning match.
The area around the Ironworks was mostly warehouses and art galleries, the kind of neighborhood that emptied out at night, so it didn't take too long for Jordan and Simon to find a parking space. Simon jumped down out of the truck, only to find Jordan already on the sidewalk, looking at him critically.
Simon hadn't packed any nice clothes when he'd left his house-he didn't have anything on him fancier than a bomber jacket that had once belonged to his dad-so he and Jordan had spent the afternoon prowling the East Village for a decent outfit for him to wear. They'd finally found an old Zegna suit in a consignment shop called Love Saves the Day that mostly sold glitter platform boots and sixties Pucci scarves. Simon suspected it was where Magnus got most of his clothes.
"What?" he said now, self-consciously pulling down the sleeves of his suit jacket. It was a little too small for him, though Jordan had opined that if he never buttoned it, no one would notice. "How bad do I look?"
Jordan shrugged. "You won't crack any mirrors," he said. "I was just wondering if you were armed. You want anything? Dagger, maybe?" He opened his own suit jacket just a bit, and Simon saw something long and metallic glinting against the inside lining.
"No wonder you and Jace like each other so much. You're both crazy walking arsenals." Simon shook his head in weariness and turned to head toward the Ironworks entrance. It was across the street, a wide gold awning shadowing a rectangle of sidewalk that had been decorated with a dark red carpet with the gold image of a wolf stamped into it. Simon couldn't help being slightly amused.
Leaning against one of the poles holding up the awning was Isabelle. She had her hair up and was wearing a long red dress, slit up the side to show most of her leg. Loops of gold laddered her right arm. They looked like bracelets, but Simon knew they were really her electrum whip. She was covered in Marks. They twined her arms, threaded their way up her thigh, necklaced her throat, and decorated her chest, a great deal of which was visible, thanks to the plunging neckline of her dress. Simon tried not to stare.
"Hey, Isabelle," he said.
Beside him Jordan was also trying not to stare. "Um," he said. "Hi. I'm Jordan."
"We met," Isabelle said coldly, ignoring his proffered hand. "Maia was trying to rip your face off. Quite rightly, too."
Jordan looked worried. "Is she here? Is she okay?"
"She's here," said Isabelle. "Not that how she feels is any of your business..."
"I feel a sense of responsibility," said Jordan.