Authors: Cassandra Clare
“Wow,” Clary said weakly. “This looks great.” She took a seat in one of the armchairs. It felt good to sit down.
Dorothea smiled, her eyes glinting with a sly humor. “Have some tea,” she said, hefting the pot. “Milk? Sugar?”
Clary looked sideways at Jace, who was sitting beside her and who had taken possession of the sandwich plate. He was examining it closely. “Sugar,” she said.
Jace shrugged, took a sandwich, and set the plate down. Clary watched him warily as he bit into it. He shrugged again. “Cucumber,” he said, in response to her stare.
“I always think cucumber sandwiches are just the thing for tea, don’t you?” Madame Dorothea inquired, of no one in particular.
“I hate cucumber,” Jace said, and handed the rest of his sandwich to Clary. She bit into it—it was seasoned with just the right amount of mayonnaise and pepper. Her stomach rumbled in grateful appreciation of the first food she’d tasted since the nachos she’d eaten with Simon.
“Cucumber and bergamot,” Clary said. “Is there anything else you hate that I ought to know about?”
Jace looked at Dorothea over the rim of his teacup. “Liars,” he said.
Calmly the old woman set her teapot down. “You can call me a liar all you like. It’s true, I’m not a witch. But my mother was.”
Jace choked on his tea. “That’s impossible.”
“Why impossible?” Clary asked curiously. She took a sip of her tea. It was bitter, strongly flavored with a peaty smokiness.
Jace expelled a breath. “Because they’re half-human, half-demon. All witches and warlocks are crossbreeds. And because they’re crossbreeds, they can’t have children. They’re sterile.”
“Like mules,” Clary said thoughtfully, remembering something from biology class. “Mules are sterile crossbreeds.”
“Your knowledge of livestock is astounding,” said Jace. “All Downworlders are in some part demon, but only warlocks are the children of demon parents. It’s why their powers are the strongest.”
“Vampires and werewolves—they’re part demon too? And faeries?”
“Vampires and werewolves are the result of diseases brought by demons from their home dimensions. Most demon diseases are deadly to humans, but in these cases they worked strange changes on the infected, without actually killing them. And faeries—”
“Faeries are fallen angels,” said Dorothea, “cast down out of heaven for their pride.”
“That’s the legend,” Jace said. “It’s also said that they’re the offspring of demons and angels, which always seemed more likely to me. Good and evil, mixing together. Faeries are as beautiful as angels are supposed to be, but they have a lot of mischief and cruelty in them. And you’ll notice most of them avoid midday sunlight—”
“For the devil has no power,” said Dorothea softly, as if she were reciting an old rhyme, “except in the dark.”
Jace scowled at her. Clary said, “‘Supposed to be’? You mean angels don’t—”
“Enough about angels,” said Dorothea, suddenly practical. “It’s true that warlocks can’t have children. My mother adopted me because she wanted to make sure there’d be someone to attend this place after she was gone. I don’t have to master magic myself. I have only to watch and guard.”
“Guard what?” asked Clary.
“What indeed?” With a wink the older woman reached for a sandwich from the plate, but it was empty. Clary had eaten them all. Dorothea chuckled. “It’s good to see a young woman eat her fill. In my day, girls were robust, strapping creatures, not twigs like they are nowadays.”
“Thanks,” Clary said. She thought of Isabelle’s tiny waist and felt suddenly gigantic. She set her empty teacup down with a clatter.
Instantly, Madame Dorothea pounced on the cup and stared into it intently, a line appearing between her penciled eyebrows.
“What?” Clary said nervously. “Did I crack the cup or something?”
“She’s reading your tea leaves,” Jace said, sounding bored, but he leaned forward along with Clary as Dorothea turned the cup around and around in her thick fingers, scowling.
“Is it bad?” Clary asked.
“It is neither bad nor good. It is confusing.” Dorothea looked at Jace. “Give me
your
cup,” she commanded.
Jace looked affronted. “But I’m not done with my—”
The old woman snatched the cup out of his hand and splashed the excess tea back into the pot. Frowning, she gazed at what remained. “I see violence in your future, a great deal of blood shed by you and others. You’ll fall in love with the wrong person. Also, you have an enemy.”
“Only one? That’s good news.” Jace leaned back in his chair as Dorothea put down his cup and picked up Clary’s again. She shook her head.
“There is nothing for me to read here. The images are jumbled, meaningless.” She glanced at Clary. “Is there a block in your mind?”
Clary was puzzled. “A what?”
“Like a spell that might conceal a memory, or might have blocked out your Sight.”
Clary shook her head. “No, of course not.”
Jace leaned forward alertly. “Don’t be so hasty,” he said. “It’s true that she claims not to remember ever having had the Sight before this week. Maybe—”
“Maybe I’m just a late developer,” Clary snapped. “And don’t
leer
at me, just because I said that.”
Jace assumed an injured air. “I wasn’t going to.”
“You were working up to a leer, I could tell.”
“Maybe,” Jace acknowledged, “but that doesn’t mean I’m not right. Something’s blocking your memories, I’m almost sure of it.”
“Very well, let’s try something else.” Dorothea put the cup down, and reached for the silk-wrapped tarot cards. She fanned the cards and held them out to Clary. “Slide your hand over these until you touch one that feels hot or cold, or seems to cling to your fingers. Then draw that one and show it to me.”
Obediently Clary ran her fingers over the cards. They felt cool to the touch, and slippery, but none seemed particularly warm or cold, and none stuck to her fingers. Finally she selected one at random, and held it up.
“The Ace of Cups,” Dorothea said, sounding bemused. “The love card.”
Clary turned it over and looked at it. The card was heavy in her hand, the image on the front thick with real paint. It showed a hand holding up a cup in front of a rayed sun painted with gilt. The cup was made of gold, engraved with a pattern of smaller suns and studded with rubies. The style of the artwork was as familiar to her as her own breath. “This is a good card, right?”
“Not necessarily. The most terrible things men do, they do in the name of love,” said Madame Dorothea, her eyes gleaming. “But it is a powerful card. What does it mean to you?”
“That my mother painted it,” said Clary, and dropped the card onto the table. “She did, didn’t she?”
Dorothea nodded, a look of pleased satisfaction on her face. “She painted the whole pack. A gift for me.”
“So you say.” Jace stood up, his eyes cold. “How well did you know Clary’s mother?”
Clary craned her head to look up at him. “Jace, you don’t have to—”
Dorothea sat back in her chair, the cards fanned out across her wide chest. “Jocelyn knew what I was, and I knew what she was. We didn’t talk about it much. Sometimes she did favors for me—like painting this pack of cards—and in return I’d tell her the occasional piece of Downworld gossip. There was a name she asked me to keep an ear out for, and I did.”
Jace’s expression was unreadable. “What name was that?”
“Valentine.”
Clary sat straight up in her chair. “But that’s—”
“And when you say you knew what Jocelyn was, what do you mean? What was she?” Jace asked.
“Jocelyn was what she was,” said Dorothea. “But in her past she’d been like you. A Shadowhunter. One of the Clave.”
“No,” Clary whispered.
Dorothea looked at her with sad, almost kindly eyes. “It’s true. She chose to live in this house precisely because—”
“Because this is a Sanctuary,” Jace said to Dorothea. “Isn’t it? Your mother was a Control. She made this space, hidden, protected—it’s a perfect spot for Downworlders on the run to hide out. That’s what you do, isn’t it? You hide criminals here.”
“You
would
call them that,” Dorothea said. “You’re familiar with the motto of the Covenant?”
“Sed lex dura lex,”
said Jace automatically. “‘The Law is hard, but it is the Law.’”
“Sometimes the Law is too hard. I know the Clave would have taken me away from my mother if they could. You want me to let them do the same to others?”
“So you’re a philanthropist.” Jace’s lip curled. “I suppose you expect me to believe that Downworlders don’t pay you handsomely for the privilege of your Sanctuary?”
Dorothea grinned, wide enough to show a flash of gold molars. “We can’t all get by on our looks like you.”
Jace looked unmoved by the flattery. “I should tell the Clave about you—”
“You can’t!” Clary was on her feet now. “You promised.”
“I never promised anything.” Jace looked mutinous. He strode to the wall and tore aside one of the velvet hangings. “You want to tell me what this is?” he demanded.
“It’s a door, Jace,” said Clary. It
was
a door, set strangely in the wall between the two bay windows. Clearly it couldn’t be a door that led anywhere, or it would have been visible from the outside of the house. It looked as if it were made of some softly glowing metal, more buttery than brass but as heavy as iron. The knob had been cast in the shape of an eye.
“Shut up,” Jace said angrily. “It’s a Portal. Isn’t it?”
“It’s a five-dimensional door,” said Dorothea, laying the tarot cards back on the table. “Dimensions aren’t all straight lines, you know,” she added, in response to Clary’s blank look. “There are dips and folds and nooks and crannies all tucked away. It’s a bit hard to explain when you’ve never studied dimensional theory, but, in essence, that door can take you anywhere in this dimension that you want to go. It’s—”
“An escape hatch,” Jace said. “That’s why your mother wanted to live here. So she could always flee at a moment’s notice.”
“Then why didn’t she—” Clary began, and broke off, suddenly horrified. “Because of me,” she said. “She wouldn’t leave without me that night. So she stayed.”
Jace was shaking his head. “You can’t blame yourself.”
Feeling tears gather under her eyelids, Clary pushed past Jace to the door. “I want to see where she would have gone,” she said, reaching for the door. “I want to see where she was going to escape to—”
“Clary, no!” Jace reached for her, but her fingers had already closed around the knob. It spun rapidly under her hand, the door flying open as if she’d pushed it. Dorothea lumbered to her feet with a cry, but it was too late. Before she could even finish her sentence, Clary found herself flung forward and tumbling through empty space.
S
HE WAS TOO SURPRISED TO SCREAM
. T
HE SENSATION OF
falling was the worst part; her heart flew up into her throat and her stomach turned to water. She flung her hands out, trying to catch at something, anything, that might slow her descent.
Her hands closed on branches. Leaves tore off in her grip. She thumped to the ground, hard, her hip and shoulder striking packed earth. She rolled over, sucking the air back into her lungs. She was just beginning to sit up when someone landed on top of her.
She was knocked backward. A forehead banged against hers, her knees banging against someone else’s. Tangled up in arms and legs, Clary coughed hair—not her own—out of her mouth and tried to struggle out from under the weight that felt like it was crushing her flat.
“Ouch,” Jace said in her ear, his tone indignant. “You elbowed me.”
“Well, you
landed
on me.”
He levered himself up on his arms and looked down at her placidly. Clary could see blue sky above his head, a bit of tree branch, and the corner of a gray clapboard house. “Well, you didn’t leave me much choice, did you?” he asked. “Not after you decided to leap merrily through that Portal like you were jumping the F train. You’re just lucky it didn’t dump us out in the East River.”
“You didn’t have to come after me.”
“Yes, I did,” he said. “You’re far too inexperienced to protect yourself in a hostile situation without me.”
“That’s sweet. Maybe I’ll forgive you.”
“Forgive me? For what?”
“For telling me to shut up.”
His eyes narrowed. “I did not … Well, I did, but you were—”
“Never mind.” Her arm, pinned under her back, was beginning to cramp. Rolling to the side to free it, she saw the brown grass of a dead lawn, a chain-link fence, and more of the gray clapboard house, now distressingly familiar.
She froze. “I know where we are.”
Jace stopped spluttering. “What?”
“This is Luke’s house.” She sat up, pitching Jace to the side. He rolled gracefully to his feet and held out a hand to help her up. She ignored him and scrambled upright, shaking out her numb arm.
They stood in front of a small gray row house, nestled among the other row houses that lined the Williamsburg waterfront. A breeze blew off the East River, setting a small sign swinging over the brick front steps. Clary watched Jace as he read the block-lettered words aloud: “
GARROWAY BOOKS. FINE USED, NEW, AND OUT OF PRINT. CLOSED SATURDAYS
.” He glanced at the dark front door, its knob wound with a heavy padlock. A few days’ worth of mail lay on the doormat, untouched. He glanced at Clary. “He lives in a bookstore?”
“He lives behind the store.” Clary glanced up and down the empty street, which was bordered on one end by the arched span of the Williamsburg Bridge, and by a deserted sugar factory on the other. Across the sluggishly moving river the sun was setting behind the skyscrapers of lower Manhattan, outlining them in gold. “Jace, how did we get here?”
“Through the Portal,” Jace said, examining the padlock. “It takes you to whatever place you’re thinking of.”
“But I wasn’t thinking of here,” Clary objected. “I wasn’t thinking of anywhere.”
“You must have been.” He dropped the subject, seeming uninterested. “So, since we’re here anyway …”
“Yeah?”