Clary exhaled. “It smells like …” Springtime, she thought, before the heat comes and crushes the leaves into pulp and withers the petals off the flowers.
“Home,” said Jace, “to me.” He pushed aside a hanging frond and ducked past it. Clary followed.
The greenhouse was laid out in what seemed to Clary’s untrained eye no particular pattern, but everywhere she looked was a riot of color: blue-purple blossoms spilling down the side of a shining green hedge, a trailing vine studded with jewel-toned orange buds. They emerged into a cleared space where a low granite bench rested against the bole of a drooping tree with silvery-green leaves. Water glimmered in a stone-bound rock pool. Hodge sat on the bench, his black bird perched on his shoulder. He had been staring thoughtfully down at the water, but looked skyward at their approach. Clary followed his gaze upward and saw the glass roof of the greenhouse shining above them like the surface of an inverted lake.
“You look like you’re waiting for something,” Jace observed, breaking a leaf off a nearby bough and twirling it between his fingers. For someone who seemed so contained, he had a lot of nervous habits. Perhaps he just liked to be constantly in motion.
“I was lost in thought.” Hodge rose from the bench, stretching out his arm for Hugo. The smile faded from his face as he looked at them. “What happened? You look as if—”
“We were attacked,” Jace said shortly. “Forsaken.”
“Forsaken warriors? Here?”
“Warrior,” said Jace. “We only saw one.”
“But Dorothea said there were more,” Clary added.
“Dorothea?” Hodge held a hand up. “This might be easier if you took events in order.”
“Right.” Jace gave Clary a warning look, cutting her off before she could start talking. Then he launched into a recital of the afternoon’s events, leaving out only one detail—that the men in Luke’s apartment had been the same men who’d killed his father seven years ago. “Clary’s mother’s friend—or whatever he is, really—goes by the name Luke Garroway,” Jace finished finally. “But while we were at his house, the two men who claimed they were emissaries of Valentine referred to him as Lucian Graymark.”
“And their names were …”
“Pangborn,” said Jace. “And Blackwell.”
Hodge had gone very pale. Against his gray skin the scar along his cheek stood out like a twist of red wire. “It is as I feared,” he said, half to himself. “The Circle is rising again.”
Clary looked at Jace for clarification, but he seemed as puzzled as she was. “The Circle?” he said.
Hodge was shaking his head as if trying to clear cobwebs from his brain. “Come with me,” he said. “It’s time I showed you something.”
The gas lamps were lit in the library, and the polished oak surfaces of the furniture seemed to smolder like somber jewels. Streaked with shadows, the stark faces of the angels holding up the enormous desk looked even more suffused with pain. Clary sat on the red sofa, legs drawn up, Jace leaning restlessly against the sofa arm beside her. “Hodge, if you need help looking—”
“Not at all.” Hodge emerged from behind the desk, brushing dust from the knees of his trousers. “I’ve found it.”
He was carrying a large book bound in brown leather. He paged through it with an anxious finger, blinking owl-like behind his glasses and muttering: “Where … where … ah, here it is!” He cleared his throat before he read aloud: “‘I hereby render unconditional obedience to the Circle and its principles …. I will be ready to risk my life at any time for the Circle, in order to preserve the purity of the bloodlines of Idris, and for the mortal world with whose safety we are charged.’”
Jace made a face. “What was that from?”
“It was the loyalty oath of the Circle of Raziel, twenty years ago,” said Hodge, sounding strangely tired.
“It sounds creepy,” said Clary. “Like a fascist organization or something.”
Hodge set the book down. He looked as pained and grave as the statuary angels beneath the desk. “They were a group,” he said slowly, “of Shadowhunters, led by Valentine, dedicated to wiping out all Downworlders and returning the world to a ‘purer’ state. Their plan was to wait for the Downworlders to arrive in Idris to sign the Accords. They must be signed again each fifteen years, to keep their magic potent,” he added, for Clary’s benefit. “Then, they planned to slaughter them all, unarmed and defenseless. This terrible act, they thought, would spark off a war between humans and Downworlders—one they intended to win.”
“That was the Uprising,” said Jace, finally recognizing in Hodge’s story one that was already familiar to him. “I didn’t know Valentine and his followers had a name.”
“The name isn’t spoken often nowadays,” said Hodge. “Their existence remains an embarrassment to the Clave. Most documents pertaining to them have been destroyed.”
“Then why do you have a copy of that oath?” Jace asked.
Hodge hesitated—only for a moment, but Clary saw it, and felt a small and inexplicable shiver of apprehension run up her spine. “Because,” he said, finally, “I helped write it.”
Jace looked up at that. “You were in the Circle.”
“I was. Many of us were.” Hodge was looking straight ahead. “Clary’s mother as well.”
Clary jerked back as if he’d slapped her. “What?”
“I said—”
“I know what you said! My mother would never have belonged to something like that. Some kind of—some kind of hate group.”
“It wasn’t—” Jace began, but Hodge cut him off.
“I doubt,” he said slowly, as if the words pained him, “that she had much choice.”
Clary stared. “What are you talking about? Why wouldn’t she have had a choice?”
“Because,” said Hodge, “she was Valentine’s wife.”