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CHAPTER EIGHT:
❝ Venus Descending ❞
Esme knocked on the door of one of the rooms in the institute then slowly swung it open. "I was told I could find you here," she said, taking in Clary and Isabelle. Where Clary was still in her casual clothes, standing in front of a full-length mirror, Isabelle seemed to shimmer in the lamplight - she was wearing a long silvery skirt and a sequined top, and her nails were painted like glittering coins. Strands of silver beads were caught in her dark hair. She looked like a moon goddess.
Clary gave her a look that said: Save me, but Esme chose to ignore it. They watched Isabelle in as she rifled through her closet. Her room looked as if a disco ball had exploded inside it. The walls were black and shimmered with swirls of sponged-on golden paint.
Clothes were strewn everywhere: on the rumpled black bed, hung over the backs of the wooden chairs, spilling out of the closet, and the tall wardrobe propped against one wall. Her vanity table, its mirror rimmed with spangled pink fur, was covered in glitter, sequins, and pots of blush and powder.
"Nice room," Clary said, thinking longingly of her orange walls at home. Esme was reminded of her purple ones.
"Thanks. I painted it myself." Isabelle emerged from the closet, holding something black and slinky. She tossed it at Clary. Clary held the cloth up, letting it unfold. "It looks awfully small."
"It's stretchy," said Isabelle. "Now go put it on."
Hastily, Clary retreated to the small bathroom, and Isabelle turned her eyes on Esme. "No," she protested, but the Lightwood girl was already pulling her towards the closet. After rejecting lace and sheer and leather, Isabelle pulled something silk that looked a lot like something you'd wear at night when going to sleep. She shoved the glittering blacktop in Esme's hands just as Clary walked out.
"You're so lucky to have such a flat chest," Isabelle said. "I could never wear that without a bra."
Clary scowled. "It's too short."
Esme strode towards the small bathroom, which was painted bright blue. She tugged the grey sweater over her head and then slid the silk top on - it was tight, with thin spaghetti straps and Esme felt cold. As she shuffled back in, she found Clary pulling on heels. She asked Isabelle, "Do you a jacket?" She wanted a jacket for three reasons: one, it was really breezy outside. Two, to feel less naked. And three, to hide the thin white scars that rang along the length of her, a few bumps where the stitched wound hadn't healed right. Clary caught Esme's skin in her peripheral vision and her heart was stabbed with a terrible sadness.
