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𝕯usk 𝕿ill 𝕯awn / you've got no place to hide.
chapter two ━━━ secret and lies.
[ the mortal instruments series ]
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ᖭི༏ᖫྀ ˚ ˖┊Chapter Two: Secret and Lies

He dark prince sat astride his black steed, his sable cape flowing behind him. A golden circlet bound his blond locks. His handsome face was cold with the rage of battle, and...

"And his arm looked like an eggplant," Clary muttered to herself in exasperation. The drawing just wasn't working. With a sigh, she tore yet another sheet from her sketchpad, crumpled it up, and tossed it against the orange wall of her bedroom. Already the floor was littered with discarded balls of paper, a sure sign that her creative juices weren't flowing the way she'd hoped. She wished for the thousandth time that she could be a bit more like her mother. Everything Jocelyn Fray drew, painted, or sketched was beautiful and seemingly effortless.

Daemon's heart clenched seeing his daughter look so small. It's an image he long forgotten, he tries his best to memorize it.

Her room had all sorts of paintings hung up. Some had ribbons by it to show what place she ranked for it. Clary hoped to someday own her own Art Studio or have her art showcased.

Daemon's eyes flickered with surprise as he absorbed the news. "She can draw?" he echoed, his voice tinged with disbelief. He hadn't expected that detail, not after so many years of distance. The more he learned about Alyssa's new life, the more it reminded him of the gaps he'd left in her world.

Tyland who was sipping his tea side eyed him, "I shouldn't be surprised that you don't know."

The man looked close to killing the Lannister. 

Looking over at Corlys and Rhaenys, Daemon couldn't help but feel a stab of resentment mixed with reluctant acknowledgment. They'd been there for Alyssa in a way he couldn't because he couldn't stand Alyssa being part of Rhea. 

His heart clenched at how even his own brother stepped up to be a parent to his daughter. 

Fourteen Flames--his grandchildren call Viserys their grandsire!

Corlys grinned broadly. "Even in this world, she paints. That part of her hasn't changed."

Alyssa's children exchanged warm smiles, their minds drifting back to the cherished portraits and artwork adorning the halls of Runestone—each piece a testament to their mother's talent and passion.

Daemon and Rhaenyra, however, shared a troubled glance. They had never known Alyssa to be a painter, and the revelation unsettled them in ways they couldn't articulate.

Curious, Rhaenyra pressed Viserys for more. He casually mentioned how Alyssa had once commissioned a painting as a wedding gift for Aegon and Helaena. And had done the portrait of his dear Aemma.

Rhaenys caught the conflicted look on Daemon's face and couldn't resist twisting the knife. "She painted a family portrait, of course," she said smoothly, her tone laced with subtle mockery. "Corlys, Laena, Laenor, myself, and Alyssa. Surely, you've seen it—the one above the fireplace in Driftmark."

Those who were there in that room when Aemond lost his eye recalled the room. The painting was absolutely beautiful and could tell Alyssa did it with time and care.

Rhaenyra's face darkened at the memory, her scowl betraying a flash of jealousy. She hadn't received such a gift when she married Daemon—not that she had expected one. But the knowledge that Alyssa had crafted something so thoughtful for Alicent's children stung more than she cared to admit.

Clary pulled her headphones out—cutting off Stepping Razor in midsong—and rubbed her aching temples. It was only then that she became aware of the loud, piercing sound of a ringing telephone echoing through the apartment. Tossing the sketchpad onto the bed, she jumped to her feet and ran into the living room, where the retro-red phone sat on a table near the front door.

"Is this Clarissa Fray?" The voice on the other end of the phone sounded familiar, though not immediately identifiable.

Clary twirled the phone cord nervously around her finger. "Yeees?"

"Hi, I'm one of the knife-carrying hooligans you met last night in Pandemonium? I'm afraid I made a bad impression and was hoping you'd give me a chance to make it up to—"

The children laughed at Simon's prank some of the adults cracked a smile of amusement. 

"SIMON!" Clary held the phone away from her ear as he cracked up laughing. "That is so not funny!"

"Sure it is. You just don't see the humor."

"Jerk." Clary sighed, leaning up against the wall. "You wouldn't be laughing if you'd been here when I got home last night."

"Why not?"

"My mom. She wasn't happy that we were late. She freaked out. It was messy."

"What? It's not our fault there was traffic!" Simon protested. He was the youngest of three children and had a finely honed sense of familial injustice.

"Yeah, well, she doesn't see it that way. I disappointed her, I let her down, I made her worry, blah blah blah. I am the bane of her existence," Clary said, mimicking her mother's precise phrasing with only a slight twinge of guilt.

"So, are you grounded?" Simon asked, a little too loudly. Clary could hear a low rumble of voices behind him; people talking over each other.

"I don't know yet," she said. "My mom went out this morning with Luke, and they're not back yet. Where are you, anyway? Eric's?"

"Yeah. We just finished up practice." A cymbal clashed behind Simon. Clary winced. "Eric's doing a poetry reading over at Java Jones tonight," Simon went on, naming a coffee shop around the corner from Clary's that sometimes had live music at night. "The whole band's going to go to show their support. Want to come?"

"Yeah, all right." Clary paused, tugging on the phone cord anxiously. "Wait, no."

"Shut up, guys, will you?" Simon yelled, the faintness of his voice making Clary suspect that he was holding the phone away from his mouth. He was back a second later, sounding troubled.

"Was that a yes or a no?"

"I don't know." Clary bit her lip. "My mom's still mad at me about last night. I'm not sure I want to piss her off by asking for any favors. If I'm going to get in trouble, I don't want it to be on account of Eric's lousy poetry."

"Come on, it's not so bad," Simon said. Eric was his next-door neighbor, and the two had known each other most of their lives. They weren't close the way Simon and Clary were, but they had formed a rock band together at the start of sophomore year, along with Eric's friends Matt and Kirk. They practiced together faithfully in Eric's parents' garage every week. "Besides, it's not a favor," Simon added, "it's a poetry slam around the block from your house. It's not like I'm inviting you to some orgy in Hoboken. Your mom can come along if she wants."

"ORGY IN HOBOKEN!" Clary heard someone, probably Eric, yell. Another cymbal crashed. She imagined her mother listening to Eric read his poetry, and she shuddered inwardly.

The Targaryens didn't know whether to laugh or be disgusted. 

"I don't know. If all of you show up here, I think she'll freak."

"Then I'll come alone. I'll pick you up and we can walk over there together, meet the rest of them there. Your mom won't mind. She loves me."

Clary had to laugh. "Sign of her questionable taste, if you ask me."
"Nobody did." Simon clicked off, amid shouts from his bandmates.

Clary hung up the phone and glanced around the living room. Evidence of her mother's artistic tendencies was everywhere, from the handmade velvet throw pillows piled on the dark red sofa to the walls hung with Jocelyn's paintings, carefully framed—landscapes, mostly: the winding streets of downtown Manhattan lit with golden light; scenes of Prospect Park in winter, the gray ponds edged with lacelike films of white ice.

On the mantel over the fireplace was a framed photo of Clary's father. A thoughtful-looking fair man in military dress, his eyes bore the telltale traces of laugh lines at the corners. He'd been a decorated soldier serving overseas. Jocelyn had some of his medals in a small box by her bed. Not that the medals had done anyone any good when Jonathan Clark had crashed his car into a tree just outside Albany and died before his daughter was even born.

Daemon stood silently, his gaze fixed on the framed photo of Clary's father, the image of a man who had served his country and tragically passed away before his daughter ever knew him. A pang of guilt twisted in his chest, unspoken yet palpable. He clenched his jaw, feeling the weight of the conversation as the words from his family echoed around him.

"Fathers are overrated anyway," Daeron, Aegon II, and Aemond muttered, their tone laced with bitterness.

The statement visibly hurt Viserys I, whose expression shifted into one of sorrowful disappointment. His eldest daughter, Rhaenyra, glanced at him briefly, torn between defending her father and staying silent. Ultimately, she chose the latter, acknowledging the truth in her brothers' words even as it pained her.

"At least yours was still present and somewhat in your lives," Ceraella remarked, her voice quiet but cutting. She crossed her arms and looked directly at Daemon, her gaze sharp and unyielding. "My mother didn't have a mother or father, and look how she turned out."

Daemon flinched slightly, the subtle movement betraying the guilt he was trying to suppress. He turned his eyes downward, unable to meet hers. He had failed Alyssa—failed as a father, as a protector, and as someone who should have been a constant presence in her life. 

The reminder that others had stepped in where he should have stood only deepened his shame.

Jocelyn had gone back to using her maiden name after he died. She never talked about Clary's father, but she kept the box engraved with his initials, J.C., next to her bed. Along with the medals were one or two photos, a wedding ring, and a single lock of blond hair. Sometimes Jocelyn took the box out, opened it, and held the lock of hair very gently in her hands before putting it back and carefully locking the box up again.

The sound of the key turning in the front door roused Clary out of her reverie. Hastily, she threw herself down on the couch and tried to look as if she were immersed in one of the paperbacks her mother had left stacked on the end table. Jocelyn recognized reading as a sacred pastime and usually wouldn't interrupt Clary in the middle of a book, even to yell at her.

The door opened with a thump. It was Luke, his arms full of what looked like big square pieces of pasteboard. When he set them down, Clary saw that they were cardboard boxes, folded flat. He straightened up and turned to her with a smile.

"Hey, Un—hey, Luke," she said. He'd asked her to stop calling him Uncle Luke about a year ago, claiming that it made him feel old and, anyway, reminded him of Uncle Tom's Cabin. Besides, he'd reminded her gently, he wasn't really her uncle, just a close friend of her mother's who'd known her all her life. "Where's Mom?"

He Targaryens grimaced at the scene, though those who had seen war seemed less affected.

"What does this man have to do with mother?" Baelon rolled his eyes, clearly wanting to return to his mother.

Balerion responded, his tone calm. "I thought you'd be interested in learning about the man who helped raise your mother."

"Raised?" Rhaenys scoffed, her nostrils flaring. "You mean her real father wasn't in the picture? Even in this world, he's a poor excuse for a father." She cast a pointed glare at Daemon, the bitterness clear in her voice.

"What's he doing?" Jace asked, his curiosity piqued, directing the question at Balerion.

"Lucian Garroway," Balerion explained, "or rather, his real name is Lucian Graymark. There's a reason he changed it, but that'll be revealed later. He's the stepfather of Clary. He works at a Bookstore. 

"Parking the truck," he said, straightening his lanky frame with a groan. He was dressed in his usual uniform: old jeans, a flannel shirt, and a bent pair of gold-rimmed spectacles that sat askew on the bridge of his nose. "Remind me again why this building has no service elevator?"

"Because it's old and has character," Clary said immediately.

Luke grinned. "What are the boxes for?" she asked.

His grin vanished.

"Your mother wanted to pack up some things," he said, avoiding her gaze.

"What things?" Clary asked.

He gave an airy wave. "Extra stuff lying around the house. Getting in the way. You know she never throws anything out. So what are you up to? Studying?"

He plucked the book out of her hand and read out loud:
"The world still teems with those motley beings whom a more sober philosophy has discarded. Fairies and goblins, ghosts and demons, still hover about—"

He lowered the book and looked at her over his glasses.
"Is this for school?"

"The Golden Bough? No. School's not for a few weeks." Clary took the book back from him.

"It's my mom's."

"I had a feeling."

She dropped it back on the table.

"Luke?"

"Uh-huh?" The book already forgotten, he was rummaging in the tool kit next to the hearth.

"Ah, here it is." He pulled out an orange plastic tape gun and gazed at it with deep satisfaction.

"What would you do if you saw something nobody else could see?"

The tape gun fell out of Luke's hand and hit the tiled hearth. He knelt to pick it up, not looking at her.

"You mean if I were the only witness to a crime, that sort of thing?"

"He must be someone close to Clary. You can see how much she holds up at a pedestal." Jeyne mused

Cristopher was relieved to know that his wife had a decent father figure in her life when the real one wasn't in the picture. It was clear that Clary's real father was dead. 

"No. I mean, if there were other people around, but you were the only one who could see something. As if it were invisible to everyone but you."

He hesitated, still kneeling, the dented tape gun gripped in his hand.

"I know it sounds crazy," Clary ventured nervously, "but..."

He turned around. His eyes, very blue behind the glasses, rested on her with a look of firm affection.

"Clary, you're an artist, like your mother. That means you see the world in ways that other people don't. It's your gift, to see the beauty and the horror in ordinary things. It doesn't make you crazy—just different. There's nothing wrong with being different."

Daemon stared at the screen, his jaw tightening as he watched Clary and her stepfather interact. A wave of jealousy ran through his veins, but it wasn't just jealousy—it was regret.

Seeing the bond between them, he couldn't help but wonder what it might have been like if he had accepted Alyssa into his life instead of pushing her away.

Would she have turned out differently? Would their relationship have been warmer, more open? The thought gnawed at him, and for a moment, Daemon was lost in the realization of the opportunities he had squandered.

Clary pulled her legs up and rested her chin on her knees. In her mind's eye, she saw the storage room, Isabelle's gold whip, the blue-haired boy convulsing in his death spasms, and Jace's tawny eyes. Beauty and horror.

She said, "If my dad had lived, do you think he'd have been an artist too?"

Luke looked taken aback. Before he could answer her, the door swung open, and Clary's mother stalked into the room, her boot heels clacking on the polished wooden floor. She handed Luke a set of jingling car keys and turned to look at her daughter.

Jocelyn Fray was a slim, compact woman, her hair a few shades darker than Clary's and twice as long. At the moment, it was twisted up in a dark red knot, stuck through with a graphite pen to hold it in place. She wore paint-spattered overalls over a lavender T-shirt and brown hiking boots whose soles were caked with oil paint.

People always told Clary that she looked like her mother, but she couldn't see it herself. The only thing that was similar about them was their figures: they were both slender, with small chests and narrow hips. She knew she wasn't beautiful like her mother was.

"Wow!"

"They're practically twins!"

Seeing Alyssa so warm and loving with her mother made hearts swell in the room. It was a rare sight, especially given the way Rhea Royce treated her daughter. The contrast between Alyssa's nurturing nature and her mother's cold, distant demeanor was evident, and it left a lingering sense of longing in the air.

"At least her mother isn't a bitch." Aegon II said earning splitters and laughter.

Daemon quietly scoffed, the Gods purposely tried to make her Targaryen features wash away.

To be beautiful, you had to be willowy and tall. When you were as short as Clary was, just over five feet, you were cute. Not pretty or beautiful, but cute. Throw in carroty hair and a face full of freckles, and she was a Raggedy Ann to her mother's Barbie doll.

Jocelyn even had a graceful way of walking that made people turn their heads to watch her go by. Clary, by contrast, was always tripping over her feet. The only time people turned to watch her go by was when she hurtled past them as she fell downstairs.

"Thanks for bringing the boxes up," Clary's mother said to Luke, and smiled at him. He didn't return the smile. Clary's stomach did an uneasy flip. Clearly, there was something going on.

The Targaryens let that information sink in. Clary's mother Jocelyn and this man are not together so how is it that he came to raise Clary?

"Sorry it took me so long to find a space. There must be a million people at the park today—"

"Mom?" Clary interrupted. "What are the boxes for?"

Jocelyn bit her lip. Luke flicked his eyes toward Clary, mutely urging Jocelyn forward. With a nervous twitch of her wrist, Jocelyn pushed a dangling lock of hair behind her ear and went to join her daughter on the couch.

Up close, Clary could see how tired her mother looked. There were dark half-moons under her eyes, and her lids were pearly with sleeplessness.

"Is this about last night?" Clary asked.

"No," her mother said quickly, and then hesitated. "Maybe a little. You shouldn't have done what you did last night. You know better."

"And I already apologized. What is this about? If you're grounding me, get it over with."

"I'm not," said her mother, "grounding you." Her voice was as taut as a wire. She glanced at Luke, who shook his head.

"Just tell her, Jocelyn," he said.

"Could you not talk about me like I'm not here?" Clary said angrily. "And what do you mean, tell me? Tell me what?"

Jocelyn expelled a sigh. "We're going on vacation."

Luke's expression went blank, like a canvas wiped clean of paint.

Clary shook her head. "That's what this is about? You're going on vacation?" She sank back against the cushions. "I don't get it. Why the big production?"

"I don't think you understand. I meant we're all going on vacation. The three of us—you, me, and Luke. We're going to the farmhouse."

The room fell silent, the tension thick as everyone watched Jocelyn. Cristopher's gaze narrowed, his lips pressing into a tight line. "What is she trying to hide?" he muttered, his voice laced with suspicion. The words seemed to hang in the air, a question unanswered but full of implications.

"She seems quite overbearing to me," Rhaena remarked but became quiet remembering Laena, and sighed. She would do anything to be hugged by her mother again, no matter how tight it was. 

Rhaenys, who had been quietly watching the conversation unfold, spoke up. "It's not about the trip," she said thoughtfully. "It's about what they're running from. Or what they're trying to keep from Clary."

"Exactly," Baelon chimed in, a knowing glint in his eye. "She's not being upfront. There's more to the story; they're not telling us everything."

Ceraella rolled her eyes, "Whatever it is, she's going to find out." 

The room seemed to lean forward, the mystery deepening as they all began to sense there was far more at stake than a simple vacation.

"Oh." Clary glanced at Luke, but he had his arms crossed over his chest and was staring out the window, his jaw pulled tight. She wondered what was upsetting him. He loved the old farmhouse in upstate New York—he'd bought and restored it himself ten years before, and he went there whenever he could. "For how long?"

"For the rest of the summer," said Jocelyn. "I brought the boxes in case you want to pack up any books, painting supplies—"

"For the rest of the summer?" Clary sat upright with indignation. "I can't do that, Mom. I have plans—Simon and I were going to have a back-to-school party, and I've got a bunch of meetings with my art group, and ten more classes at Tisch—"

Helaena's voice broke the silence, her wide, inquisitive eyes fixed on her cousin-aunt. "She goes to school?" she murmured, unable to tear her gaze away from the vibrant, confident version of Alyssa before her.

Aegon II and Aemond were no different. Aegon's usually flippant demeanor was replaced with a rare focus, while Aemond blinked rapidly, trying to suppress the tears threatening to fall. The sight of Alyssa stirred an ache he couldn't ignore, a pain rooted in guilt and loss.

Aemond's mind spiraled back to Storm's End. He hadn't anticipated Alyssa's intervention when Lucerys was at the mercy of his rage. Her disappearance in a flash of golden light has haunted him ever since. Cannibal was all that remained, and Aemond had escaped to Dragonstone, surrendering to save his family. But it hadn't felt like enough. It was his fault—his recklessness, his anger. He might as well have killed her himself.

Daemon's glare bore into him from across the room. The memory of that day on Dragonstone burned brightly. Daemon had been ready to execute Aemond, but Rhaenyra had intervened. She had chosen diplomacy over vengeance, valuing peace and stability over bloodshed, even as her heart ached for justice.

"In this world, women and men stand as equals," came the explanation from the screen. "They have the freedom to be whoever they want—to pursue education, rise in power, and live lives unshackled by societal constraints. Medicine, technology, infrastructure—everything is advanced here."

The words resonated deeply. The women in the room exchanged wistful glances, each imagining the possibilities of a world where their gender didn't limit them.

"That's amazing!" Baela's voice rang out, her face glowing with pride and joy. "I'm so glad Alyssa has that kind of opportunity!"

Christopher also seemed equally excited for her, "It is amazing."

Her enthusiasm was infectious, but the undercurrent of regret lingered among the older generation. In this new world, Alyssa thrived, unburdened by the chains that had bound her in Westeros. For some, it was a source of pride. For others, it was a bitter reminder of what they had taken for granted.

"I'm sorry about Tisch. But the other things can be canceled. Simon will understand, and so will your art group."

Clary heard the implacability in her mother's tone and realized she was serious. "But I paid for those art classes! I saved up all year! You promised." She whirled, turning to Luke. "Tell her! Tell her it isn't fair!"

"My daughter paid for those classes out of her pocket?" Rhaenys exclaimed and narrowed her eyes. 

Luke didn't look away from the window, though a muscle jumped in his cheek. "She's your mother. It's her decision to make."

"She's clearly hiding something!" Baelon said, he didn't like this woman. 

"I don't get it." Clary turned back to her mother. "Why?"

"I have to get away, Clary," Jocelyn said, the corners of her mouth trembling. "I need the peace, the quiet, to paint. And money is tight right now—"

"So sell some more of Dad's stocks," Clary said angrily. "That's what you usually do, isn't it?"

Jocelyn recoiled. "That's hardly fair."

"Look, go if you want to go. I don't care. I'll stay here without you. I can work; I can get a job at Starbucks or something. Simon said they're always hiring. I'm old enough to take care of myself—"

The room fell into a stunned silence at the thought of Alyssa, the Princess, having to get a job to make ends meet. The concept was utterly foreign to most of them.

"What's a Starbucks?" Daeron asked, his voice full of confusion, his brow furrowing at the odd-sounding name.

"It's a shop that sells drinks, young prince," Balerion answered dryly, his tone almost dismissive.

But then, there was a collective realization that not even royalty was exempt from hardship. Many had forgotten that Alyssa, despite her status, had always had a heart for the small folk.

"She's done more for the people than most royalty ever will," Cristopher added, his voice cracking. He quickly wiped his eyes, attempting to hide the tears welling up. "At just ten, she was already singing on the streets, using whatever coins she earned to help orphanages and women's shelters." His words left a lingering sadness in the air.

"I always thought it was dangerous but the stubborn girl refused to listen to me." Viserys I choked trying his best not to think of the girl that carried his mother's namesake. Corlys and Daemon shared the same sentiment but Rhaenys. 

"I think it made her even more beautiful. She's always had a big heart." Rhaenys thought of her sweet girl. She thought of all her children. 

Laena, Laenor, and Alyssa. 

Her spirited girl, kind boy, and sweet girl. 

Alicent's face softened, a melancholy look crossing her features as she absorbed the reality of Alyssa's selflessness. There was no pretending that a part of her didn't feel the weight of that truth—especially when her own children had been sheltered from such harshness.

Rhaenyra watched the conversation unfold with a heavy heart. It stung her to hear the praise for Alyssa, the girl who had always been a quiet presence in her life. Her feelings of jealousy stirred once more, but she struggled to push them aside. She couldn't help but feel disheartened seeing how much others had adored Alyssa for her strength, her humility. There were moments she wondered if she'd ever be seen in the same light.

"No!" The sharpness in Jocelyn's voice made Clary jump. "I'll pay you back for the art classes, Clary. But you are coming with us. It isn't optional. You're too young to stay here on your own. Something could happen."

"Like what? What could happen?" Clary demanded.

There was a crash. She turned in surprise to find that Luke had knocked over one of the framed pictures leaning against the wall. Looking distinctly upset, he set it back. When he straightened, his mouth was set in a grim line.

"I'm leaving," Luke said.

Jocelyn bit her lip. "Wait." She hurried after him into the entryway, catching up just as he seized the doorknob. Twisting around on the sofa, Clary could just overhear her mother's urgent whisper.

"...Bane," Jocelyn was saying. "I've been calling him and calling him for the past three weeks. His voicemail says he's in Tanzania. What am I supposed to do?"

"Jocelyn." Luke shook his head. "You can't keep going to him forever."

"But Clary—"

"Isn't Jonathan," Luke hissed. "You've never been the same since it happened, but Clary isn't Jonathan."

What does my father have to do with this? Clary thought, bewildered.

"So her father is dead." Aemond pointed out making them bow their heads. Their Alyssa grew up fatherless and poor. 

"I can't just keep her at home, not let her go out. She won't put up with it."

"Of course she won't!" Luke sounded really angry. "She's not a pet; she's a teenager. Almost an adult."

"If we were out of the city..."

"Talk to her, Jocelyn." Luke's voice was firm. "I mean it." He reached for the doorknob.

The door flew open. Jocelyn gave a little scream.

"Fucking hells!" 

The others were just as startled. 

"Jesus!" Luke exclaimed.

"Actually, it's just me," said Simon. "Although I've been told the resemblance is startling." He waved at Clary from the doorway. "You ready?"

"I forgot she's going out with Simon." Rhaena realized seeing the familiar boy. It was nice knowing that her sister had a friend. 

"I would feel a lot better if she had more girl companions." Cristopher scowled with folded arms. 

"Shut up Cris." Jeyne rolled her eyes. Her lover Jessmyn snorted. 

Jocelyn took her hand away from her mouth. "Simon, were you eavesdropping?"

Simon blinked. "No, I just got here." He looked from Jocelyn's pale face to Luke's grim one. "Is something wrong? Should I go?"

"Don't bother," Luke said. "I think we're done here." He pushed past Simon, thudding down the stairs at a rapid pace. Downstairs, the front door slammed shut.

"Damn," Jacaerys winced at the anger of the man. 

"He clearly doesn't agree with Jocelyn."

Simon hovered in the doorway, looking uncertain. "I can come back later," he said. "Really. It wouldn't be a problem."

"That might—" Jocelyn began, but Clary was already on her feet.

"Forget it, Simon. We're leaving," she said, grabbing her messenger bag from a hook near the door. She slung it over her shoulder, glaring at her mother. "See you later, Mom."

Jocelyn bit her lip. "Clary, don't you think we should talk about this?"

"We'll have plenty of time to talk while we're on vacation," Clary said venomously and had the satisfaction of seeing her mother flinch. "Don't wait up," she added, and, grabbing Simon's arm, she half-dragged him out the front door.

Baela gave Daemon a pointed look, her voice firm. "It's clear her mother loves her very much, but the secrets and lies she's keeping will only push Clary further away," she said, her gaze lingering on Daemon, remembering how their father had once told Alyssa not to approach them when they first met. It made her uneasy to think about it, especially now. "Whatever Jocelyn is hiding... it probably ties into whatever happened to Clary."

Cregan nodded, his tone calm but serious. "Whatever it is, it's affecting her. Keeping things from Clary isn't helping; it's making it worse."

Simon dug his heels in, looking apologetically over his shoulder at Jocelyn, who stood small and forlorn in the entryway, her hands knitted tightly together. "Bye, Mrs. Fray!" he called. "Have a nice evening!"

"Oh, shut up, Simon," Clary snapped, slamming the door behind them, cutting off her mother's reply.

"Jesus, woman, don't rip my arm off," Simon protested as Clary hauled him downstairs, her green Skechers slapping against the wooden steps with every angry stride. She glanced up, half-expecting to see her mother glaring down from the landing, but the apartment door remained firmly shut.

"Sorry," Clary muttered, releasing his wrist. She paused at the bottom of the stairs, her messenger bag bumping against her hip.

Clary's brownstone, like most in Park Slope, had once been the grand residence of a wealthy family. Hints of its former elegance lingered in the curving staircase, the chipped marble floor in the entryway, and the wide, single-paned skylight overhead. Now, the house was divided into separate apartments. Clary and her mother shared the building with a downstairs tenant: an elderly woman who ran a psychic shop from her apartment. Rarely seen outside, Madame Dorothea received few customers. A tarnished gold plaque fixed to her door proclaimed her as MADAME DOROTHEA, SEERESS AND PROPHETESS.

The thick, sweet scent of incense drifted through the half-open door, mixing with the low hum of voices from within.

"Nice to see she's doing a booming business," Simon said. "It's tough to get steady prophet work these days."

"Do you have to be sarcastic about everything?" Clary snapped.

Simon blinked, surprised. "I thought you liked it when I was witty and ironic."

Alicent almost snorted at the two friends reminded of her brother and Alyssa. 

"They're clearly friends Cristopher there's no need for you to act like a child." Jeyne scowled at him, smacking him upside the head making him yelp. 

The children of Cristopher and Alyssa snickered. 

Clary was about to respond when the door to Madame Dorothea's swung fully open. A man stepped out, tall and striking, with skin like maple syrup, gold-green catlike eyes, and a cascade of tangled black hair. He grinned at her, his teeth sharp and white, his smile dazzling.

A wave of dizziness overtook her, the world tilting as if she were about to faint.

Simon glanced at her, alarmed. "Are you okay? You look like you're going to pass out."

Clary blinked, struggling to steady herself. "What? No, I'm fine."

Simon didn't seem convinced. "You look like you just saw a ghost."

She shook her head, a strange memory tugging at the edges of her mind before slipping away like water through her fingers. "Nothing. I thought I saw Dorothea's cat, but I guess it was just a trick of the light."

Simon stared at her, unconvinced.

"I haven't eaten since yesterday," she admitted defensively. "I guess I'm a little out of it."

Sliding an arm around her shoulders, Simon said, "Come on, I'll get you some food."

At Nacho Mama, a hole-in-the-wall Mexican joint in the neighborhood, Clary poked at her plate of nachos, chasing a stray piece of guacamole with the tip of a chip. "I just can't believe she's being like this," she said for the fourth time. "Like grounding me every other week wasn't bad enough. Now I'm going to be exiled for the whole summer."

"Well, you know how your mom gets sometimes," Simon said, grinning as he bit into his veggie burrito. "Like, when she breathes in or out."

Despite herself, Clary snorted.

"Oh, sure, act like it's funny," Clary snapped. "You're not the one getting dragged off to the middle of nowhere for God knows how long—"

"Clary." Simon cut into her tirade, his voice calm but firm. "I'm not the one you're mad at. Besides, it's not going to be permanent."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I know your mom," Simon replied after a pause. "I mean, we've been friends for, what, ten years now? I've seen this before. She gets like this sometimes. She'll think better of it."

Clary picked up a hot pepper from her plate, nibbling the edge thoughtfully. "Do you, though? Know her, I mean? I sometimes wonder if anyone really does."

Simon blinked, caught off guard. "You lost me there."

Clary sucked in a breath, trying to cool the burning in her mouth. "I mean, she never talks about herself. I don't know anything about her early life, her family, or even much about how she met my dad. She doesn't even have wedding photos. It's like her life started when she had me. That's what she always says when I ask her about it."

"Aw." Simon scrunched his face. "That's sweet."

"No, it isn't," Clary countered sharply. "It's weird. It's weird that I don't know anything about my grandparents. I know my dad's parents weren't very nice to her, but could they really have been that bad? What kind of people don't even want to meet their granddaughter?"

"No other family?" Rhaenys sounded aghast. 

"So it is just her mom and her," Aemon said sadly feeling terrible. He liked to think he was very lucky to be born into a family that loved and cherished him. 

"Maybe she hates them," Simon suggested. "Maybe they were abusive or something. She does have those scars."

Clary froze, staring at him. "She has what?"

Simon shifted uncomfortably. "You know—those little thin scars. On her back and arms. I've seen your mom in a bathing suit."

"I've never noticed any scars," Clary said decisively, though her voice faltered slightly. "I think you're imagining things."

Simon held her gaze, looking as though he wanted to argue, but before he could, her phone buzzed insistently from inside her messenger bag. Clary fished it out, glancing at the screen. Her expression soured.

"It's my mom."

"I could tell from the look on your face. You gonna answer?"

"Not right now." Clary shoved the phone back into her bag as it stopped ringing, guilt settling in her stomach like a stone. "I don't want to fight with her."

"You can always crash at my house," Simon offered. "Stay as long as you need."

Alicent's face bristled at the thought of her 'friend' staying at a man's house. 

Cristopher seemed to not like that idea either but seeing Clary so sad, he wanted her to be happy and if it meant staying with Simon so she can do the things she loved like Art and continue her life in this place...New York then so be it. 

"Maybe. We'll see if she calms down first."

Clary reluctantly tapped her voicemail. Her mom's voice came through, tense but trying for casual.

"Baby, I'm sorry if I sprang the vacation plan on you. Come on home, and we'll talk."

Clary ended the message before it could finish, a knot of guilt twisting tighter in her chest. She was angry, but somehow that didn't drown out the ache of regret.

"She wants to talk about it," she muttered.

"Do you want to talk to her?"

"I don't know." Clary scrubbed a hand across her eyes, her frustration bubbling up. "Are you still going to the poetry reading?"

"I promised I would," Simon said.

"Then I'll go with you. I'll call her after it's over."

As she stood, the strap of her messenger bag slid down her arm. Simon absently reached over, tugging it back up, his fingers lingering on her shoulder for a moment before letting go.

The air outside was thick and heavy, the humidity frizzing Clary's curls and sticking Simon's blue T-shirt to his back. The city buzzed faintly in the background, the noise blending with the sound of their steps on the cracked pavement.

"So, what's going on with the band?" Clary asked, breaking the silence. "Anything new? There was a lot of yelling in the background when I called you earlier."

Simon's face lit up. "Things are great," he said, a hint of excitement in his voice. "Matt says he knows someone who could get us a gig at the Scrap Bar. And we're talking about names again."

"Oh, yeah?" Clary hid a smile, trying not to laugh. Simon's band had never actually produced any music. Most of the time, they were just sitting around in his living room, debating band names and logos—though Clary sometimes wondered if any of them could actually play an instrument. "What's on the table?"

Simon grinned. "We're deciding between Sea Vegetable Conspiracy and Rock Solid Panda."

Clary shook her head. "Those are both terrible."

The children cackled at the terrible names. 

"What a strange man." Tyland mused. 

"Eric suggested Lawn Chair Crisis."

"Maybe Eric should stick to gaming," Clary quipped.

"But then we'd have to find a new drummer."

"Oh, is that what Eric does? I thought he just mooched money off you and told girls at school he was in a band to impress them."

"Not at all," Simon said breezily. "Eric's turned over a new leaf. He's got a girlfriend now. They've been dating for three months."

"Practically married," Clary teased, stepping around a couple pushing a stroller. The little girl in it had yellow plastic clips in her hair and was clutching a pixie doll with gold-streaked sapphire wings. Out of the corner of her eye, Clary thought she saw the wings flutter. She quickly turned her head, blinking hard.

The Targaryens pay extra attention. Those who thought she was going crazy ( Alicent and Rhaenyra ) did not say anything. 

Simon continued, unfazed. "Which means I'm the last member of the band without a girlfriend. You know, that's basically the whole point of being in a band—to get girls."

"I thought it was about the music," Clary said, glancing away as a man with a cane cut across her path. She focused on the pavement, trying not to stare at anyone too long, afraid that they might sprout wings, extra limbs, or forked tongues like snakes.

"I care," Simon grumbled. "Pretty soon, the only guys left without a girlfriend will be me and Wendell, the school janitor. And he smells like Windex."

"At least you know he's still available," Clary said, trying not to laugh.

Simon shot her a glare. "Not funny, Fray."

"Well, there's always Sheila 'The Thong' Barbarino," Clary suggested with a smirk. Sheila had sat behind her in math class in ninth grade, and Clary had gotten a bit more than an education every time Sheila dropped her pencil, which happened often. Each time, Clary was treated to the sight of Sheila's underwear peeking out from above the waistband of her super-low-rise jeans.

Simon raised an eyebrow. "That's who Eric's been dating for the past three months."

Clary's expression dropped into one of mild horror. "Wait, what? You mean—"

"Yeah," Simon continued, unfazed. "His advice to me was to just pick whichever girl in school has the most rockin' bod and ask her out on the first day of classes."

Clary recoiled. "Eric is a sexist pig." She shook her head, suddenly not wanting to know which girl in school Simon thought had the "most rockin' bod." "Maybe you should just call the band The Sexist Pigs."

The women cheered at her remark while Rhaenys and Corlys grinned proudly. Jeyne, Ceraella, and Jessmyne being the loudest. 

"It has a ring to it," Simon said casually, unfazed by the suggestion. Clary shot him a disapproving look, but before she could respond, her messenger bag began vibrating, her phone blaring a sharp, insistent sound.

She fished it out of the zip pocket, barely looking at the screen. "Is it your mom again?" Simon asked, his voice laced with concern.

Clary nodded, her stomach tightening. She could almost picture her mom—small, standing in the doorway of their apartment, the shadows in the hallway swallowing her up. Guilt unfurled in Clary's chest, a cold knot she couldn't shake.

"Okay now I feel bad." Baela stated

"Same." Aemon muttered imagining if it was his mother. 

She glanced up at Simon. His eyes were dark with worry, his face so familiar it felt like second nature—like something she could trace in her sleep. The weight of the silence between them lingered, and for a moment, Clary thought of the weeks ahead—the lonely stretch of days without him, without this constant presence in her life.

She shoved the phone back into her bag, refusing to let the knot tighten further. "Come on," she said, her voice a little sharper than she meant. "We're going to be late for the show."

。˚❀ ©️𝑎𝑚𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑓𝑜𝑙𝑘𝑙𝑜𝑟𝑒 ·ꕤ.ﾟ

𑁍˚. 𓄼 yall i can't believe tiktok is getting banned. 

𑁍˚. 𓄼 want a dedication? i'll pick out whatever favorite comment in this chapter and dedicate the next chapter.