Shadowveil

The Explanation

Clary held her cup of tea uneasily. 

She could see her pale, worried face reflected in its murky brown surface, her auburn hair flying out of its braids. Beside her, Jace stirred his cup methodically, the clink-clink-clink of his spoon on the china making her nerves jump. "I wouldn't drink that if I were you," she murmured to him. 

Once they arrived at the Lightwood mansion Isabelle had sat them down in the living room, threatened Robert into making tea, and then disappeared, presumably to call Magnus and Alec. Robert had huffed and dragged his feet; it took him a long time to deliver the cups, and they looked suspiciously cloudy. Once he finished his chore, he'd turned around with ill grace and stomped out. Simon and the other four siblings had disappeared too, and Clary didn't know the layout of the mansion well enough to look for them. 

Jace probably did, but he was too busy stirring and staring into his tea. She nudged his knee. "Hey," she whispered. "What are you thinking about?" He looked over and tried to smile. 

"I don't know." He set his cup aside carefully while she waited. "I guess this all just brings back memories. Stupid, I know, that going to the future makes me think about the past." She took his hand and squeezed it silently, unable to find words. She knew how he felt. She thought about Robert Lightwood, who had died from a fairy arrow to the chest, and Aaron Lewis who had died of a heart attack and now lived on through the grandsons they would never meet. 

She remembered Jordan Kyle; his Praetor medal still hung around thirty-four-year-old Simon's neck in remembrance. Hodge Starkweather, who might have been a traitor but had raised and loved Jace for much of his life. Imogen Herondale, Jace's grandmother; Celine, his mother, Stephen, his father; and Michael Wayland, Robert's parabatai. Then there were Emma Carstair's parents; Arthur Blackthorn, and Amatis Greymark; and George Lovelace who had died from the Mortal Cup. Poor Max Lightwood, forever nine years old, and Raphael, immortal but who died before a human lifespan was over. Even Valentine and Sebastian were dead, and with them hundreds of Shadowhunters whom Clary had never known. 

They were too young to have lost this much, Clary thought, resting her head on Jace's shoulder. It seemed to her sometimes that all Shadowhunters had learned to live with a broken heart. 

"Okay!" Isabelle announced, throwing open the doors with a bang that made both of them jump. "I called Alec and Magnus. Magnus was very interested to hear about your time-traveling portal. Well, actually, his exact words were, 'Oh dear. My little biscuit has done it again. I do hope it's replicatable' so I think that means they should be here soon."

"How soon?" Jace asked, tapping his fingers against the leather armchair. "If we have a bit of time, I'd love to change out of gear--" A booming chime resounded through the house, rattling the teacups and Clary's teeth. "They're here! Come on!" Isabelle cried excitedly, yanking Clary and Jace behind her. 

"That was quick," Jace muttered. "Well, Magnus is a warlock," she countered. "They just used a Portal. It's not like they had to charter a flight and ride a shuttle bus to France and then walk into Idris." Jace conceded with a nod. 

The entry to the Lightwood mansion was full of noise. Two undeniably recognizable figures stood there; Magnus demented--Clary meant dashing--as usual in an embroidered black-and-silver frock coat, burgundy breeches, and a glittering, vaguely sari-style wrap top. Alec looked far more normal in just jeans, a plain white shirt, and a dark blazer. The blazer did have a few embroidered golden flowers at the cuffs, but then when you lived with Magnus you probably couldn't escape a glitter-up entirely.

More noticeable were the small figures running around, one of them trailing sparks like an overlarge sparkler that had grown limbs and decided to escape the Fourth of July parade. "Ah, Clary, Jace," Magnus greeted over the din, not looking particularly surprised. Apparently, several centuries of life meant you'd seen enough weirdness to brush past two time-traveling versions of your friends.