City of Heavenly Fire

They were dancing.

Lily was playing something slow and soft on the piano, and Clary drifted among the other wedding guests, Jace’s arms around her. It was exactly the kind of dancing she liked: not too complicated, mostly a matter of holding on to your partner and not doing anything to trip them up.

She had her cheek against Jace’s shirtfront, the fabric rumpled and soft under her skin. His hand played idly with the curls that had fallen from her chignon, fingers tracing the back of her neck. She couldn’t help but remember a dream she’d had a long time ago, in which she had been dancing with Jace in the Hall of Accords. He had been so removed back then, so often cold; it amazed her sometimes now when she looked at him, that this was the same Jace. The Jace you helped make me, he had said. A Jace I like much better.

But he was not the only one who had changed; she had changed too. She opened her mouth to tell him so, when there was a tap on her shoulder. She turned to see her mother, smiling at them both.

“Jace,” Jocelyn said. “If I could ask you a favor?”

Jace and Clary had both stopped dancing; neither said anything. Jocelyn had come to like Jace much better in the past six months than she had liked him before; she was even, Clary would venture to say, fond of him, but she still wasn’t always thrilled about Clary’s Shadowhunter boyfriend.

“Lily’s tired of playing, but everyone’s enjoying the piano so much—and you play, don’t you? Clary told me how talented you are. Would you play for us?”

Jace swept a glance toward Clary, so quick that she saw it only because she knew him well enough to look. He had manners, though, exquisite ones, when he chose to use them. He smiled at Jocelyn like an angel, and then went over to the piano. A moment later the strains of classical music filled the tent.



Tessa Gray and the boy who had been Brother Zachariah sat at the farthest table in the corner and watched as Jace Herondale’s light fingers danced over the keys of the piano. Jace wore no tie and his shirt was partly unbuttoned, his face a study in concentration as he abandoned himself to the music with a passion.

“Chopin.” Tessa identified the music with a soft smile. “I wonder—I wonder if little Emma Carstairs will play the violin someday.”

“Careful,” her companion said with a laugh in his voice. “You can’t force these things.”

“It’s hard,” she said, turning to look at him earnestly. “I wish you could tell her more of the connection between the two of you, that she might not feel so alone.”

Sorrow turned down the corners of his sensitive mouth. “You know I cannot. Not yet. I hinted at it to her. That was all I could do.”

“We will keep an eye on her,” said Tessa. “We will always keep an eye on her.” She touched the marks on his cheeks, remnants of his time as a Silent Brother, almost reverently. “I remember you said this war was a story of Lightwoods and Herondales and Fairchilds, and it is, and Blackthorns and Carstairs as well, and it’s amazing to see them. But when I do, it’s as if I see the past that stretches out behind them. I watch Jace Herondale play, and I see the ghosts that rise up in the music. Don’t you?”

“Ghosts are memories, and we carry them because those we love do not leave the world.”

“Yes,” she said. “I just wish he were here to see this with us, just here with us one more time.”

She felt the rough silk of his black hair as he bent to kiss her fingers lightly—a courtly gesture from a bygone age. “He is with us, Tessa. He can see us. I believe it. I feel it, the way I used to know sometimes if he was sad or angry or lonely or happy.”

She touched the pearl bracelet at her wrist, and then his face, with light, adoring fingers. “And what is he now?” she whispered. “Happy or wistful or sad or lonely? Do not tell me he is lonely. For you must know. You always knew.”

“He is happy, Tessa. It gives him joy to see us together, as it always gave me joy to see the two of you.” He smiled, that smile that had all the truth of the world in it, and slid his fingers from hers as he sat back. Two figures were approaching their table: a tall, redheaded woman, and a girl with the same red hair and green eyes. “And speaking of the past,” he said, “I think there’s someone here who wants to talk to you.”



Clary was watching Church with amusement when her mother sidled up to her. The cat had been festooned with dozens of tiny silver wedding bells and, in a vengeful rage, was gnawing a hole in one of the piano legs.

“Mom,” Clary said suspiciously. “What are you up to?”