He had never thought he would have his own child, to watch grow up.
Maryse looked back at him, standing very tall and straight. Perhaps his assumption about how she had felt for all these years was wrong; perhaps she had never decided to ignore the past, and thought with Nephilim pride that he had to follow her lead. Perhaps she had always wanted to apologize and always been too proud.
“Oh, Maryse,” Magnus said. “Forget it. I’m serious, don’t mention it again. In one of those turns I never expected, we’re family. All the beautiful surprises of life are what make life worth living.”
“You still get surprised?”
“Every day,” said Magnus. “Especially since I met your son.”
He walked out of the kitchen with his son in his arms and Maryse behind him, back to the party.
His beloved Alec, paragon of maturity, appeared to be hitting his parabatai repeatedly around the head. Last time Magnus had seen them, they had been hugging, so he presumed Jace had made one of his many unfortunate jokes.
“What is wrong with you?” Alec demanded. He laughed and kept raining down blows as Jace flailed on the sofa, sending cushions flying, a vision of Shadowhunter grace. “Seriously, Jace, what is wrong with you?”
This seemed a reasonable question to Magnus.
He looked around the room. Simon was dancing with Isabelle, very badly. Isabelle did not seem to mind. Clary was jumping up and down with Marisol, barely taller than the younger girl. Catarina appeared to be fleecing Jon Cartwright at cards, over by the window.
Robert Lightwood was standing right beside Magnus. Robert had to stop creeping up on people like this. Someone was going to have a heart attack.
“Hello, little man,” said Robert. “Where did you go off to?”
He shot a suspicious look at Maryse, who rolled her eyes.
“Magnus and I were having a talk,” she said, touching Magnus’s arm.
Her behavior made perfect sense to Magnus: win over the son-in-law, gain more access to the grandchild. He had seen these kind of family interactions before, but he had never, never thought he would be part of them.
“Oh?” Robert said eagerly. “Have you decided on his name?”
The latest song stopped playing just as Robert asked the question. His booming voice rang out in the hush.
Alec leaped off Jace and over the back of the sofa, to stand beside Magnus. The sofa collapsed, gently, with Jace still trapped in the cushions.
Magnus looked at Alec, who looked back at him, hope shining in his face. That was one thing that had not changed about Alec in the time they had been together: He had no guile, used no tricks to hide how he really felt. Magnus never wanted him to lose that.
“We did talk about it, actually,” Magnus said. “And we thought that you had the right idea.”
“You mean . . . ,” Maryse said.
Magnus inclined his head, as close as he could come to a sweeping bow while holding the baby. “I am delighted to introduce you all,” he said, “to Max Lightwood.”
Magnus felt Alec’s hand rest, warm as gratitude and sure as love, against his back. He looked down at the baby’s face. The baby seemed much more interested in his bottle than his name.
The time might come when the child, being a warlock, would want to choose his own name to bear through the centuries. Until the time came when he was old enough to choose who he wanted to be, Magnus thought he could do a lot worse than this name, this sign of love and acceptance, grief and hope.
Max Lightwood.
One of the beautiful surprises of life.
There was a humming, delighted hush, with murmurs of pleasure and approval. Then Maryse and Robert began to fight about middle names.
“Michael,” Robert repeated, a stubborn man.
Catarina strolled up, tucking a roll of money into her bra and thus not looking like the most appropriate teacher in the history of time. “How about Ragnor?” she asked.
“Clary,” said Jace from the fallen sofa. “Help me. It’s gone all dark.”
Magnus wandered away from the debate, because Max’s bottle was almost empty and Max was starting to cry.
“Don’t magic a bottle, make a real one,” Alec said. “If he gets used to you being faster at feeding him, you have to feed him all the time.”
“That is blackmail! Don’t cry,” Magnus urged his son, going back into the kitchen so he could make up a bottle by hand.
It was not so difficult, getting the formula ready. Magnus had watched Alec do it several times now, and he found that he was able to follow along by doing what Alec had done.
“Don’t cry,” he coaxed Max again as the milk heated up. “Don’t cry, and don’t spit up on my shirt. If you do either of those things, I will forgive you, but I will be upset. I want us to get along.”
Max cried on. Magnus wiggled the fingers of his free hand over the baby’s face, wishing there was a magic spell to make babies hush that would not be wrong to cast.
To his surprise Max ceased crying, in the same way he had in the hall yesterday when transferred to Alec’s arms. He stared with a liquid, interested gaze at the sparkles cast on his face by Magnus’s rings.
“See?” Magnus said, and restored Max’s bottle to him, full again. “I knew we were going to get along.”
He went and stood in the kitchen doorway, cradling Max in his arms, so he could watch the party. Three years ago, he would not have thought any of this was possible. There were so many people he felt connected to, in this one room. So much had changed, and there was so much potential for change. It was terrifying, to think of all that might be lost, and exhilarating to think of all he had gained.
He looked to Alec, who was standing between his parents, his stance confident and relaxed, his mouth curved in a smile at something one of them had said.
“Maybe one day it will be just you and me, my little blueberry,” Magnus said conversationally. “But not for a long, long time. We’ll take care of him, you and I. Won’t we?”
Max Lightwood made a happy burbling sound that Magnus took as agreement.
This warm, bright room was no bad starting place for his child’s path to knowing there was more to life than many people ever learned, that there was limitless love to be found, and time to discover it. Magnus had to trust that for himself, for his son, for his beloved, for all of the shining, fading mortals and enduring, struggling immortals that he knew, there would be time enough.
He put the bottle down to one side and pressed his lips to the fuzzy curls covering his son’s head. He heard Max make a small murmuring sound in his ear. “Don’t worry,” Magnus murmured back. “We’re all in this together.”
Angels Twice Descending
By Cassandra Clare and Robin Wasserman
Simon knew if he looked up he could meet Isabelle’s eyes, or Clary’s, and draw strength from them. He could silently ask them if this was the right path, and they would reassure him.
But this choice couldn’t belong to them. It had to be his, and his alone.
—Angels Twice Descending