Outtake: Clary, Sebastian, and Magnus.
This
is the way the scene that begins on page 160 in City of Glass, where Clary and
Sebastian visit Magnus at Ragnor Fell’s cottage, originally read. There was a
much more elaborate set-up, which I cut for pacing reasons. Still, the original
scene does feature Magnus in harem pants.
“We’re
here,” Sebastian said abruptly—so abruptly that Clary wondered if she really had
offended him somehow—and slid down from the horse’s back. But his face, when he
looked up at her, was all smiles. “We made good time,” he said, tying the reins
to the lower branch of a nearby tree. “Better than I thought we would.”
He
indicated with a gesture that she should dismount, and after a moment’s
hesitation, Clary slid off the horse and into his arms. She clutched him as he
caught her, her legs unsteady after the long ride. “Sorry,” she said
sheepishly. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to grab you.”
“I
wouldn’t apologize for that.” His breath was warm against her neck and she
shivered. His hands lingered just a moment longer on her back before he
reluctantly let her go. “I like that coat,” he said, his eyes lingering on her
as his hands had done a moment ago. “Not only does it feel great, but the color
makes your eyes look even more green.”
All
this wasn’t helping Clary’s legs feel any less unsteady. “Thanks,” she said,
knowing full well she was blushing and wishing heartily that her fair skin
didn’t show color so readily. “So—this is it?” She looked around—they were
standing in a sort of small valley between low hills. There were a number of
gnarled-looking trees ranged around a clearing. Their twisted branches had a
sort of sculptural beauty against the steel-blue sky. But otherwise . . .
“There’s nothing here,” Clary said with a frown.
“Clary.”
There was laughter in his voice. “Concentrate.”
“You
mean—a glamour? But I don’t usually have to—”
“Glamours
in Idris are often stronger than glamours elsewhere. You may have to try harder
than you usually do.” He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her gently.
“Look at the clearing.”
Clary
looked. And silently performed the mental trick that allowed her to peel
glamour from the thing it disguised. She imagined herself rubbing turpentine on
a canvas, peeling away layers of paint to reveal the true image underneath—and
there it was, a small stone house with a sharply gabled roof, smoke twisting
from the chimney in an elegant curlicue. A winding path lined with stones led
up to the front door. As she looked, the smoke puffing from the chimney stopped
curling upward and began to take on the shape of a wavering black question
mark.
Sebastian
laughed. “I think that means who’s there?”
Clary
pulled her jacket closer around her. She felt suddenly, unaccountably cold—the
wind blowing across the level grass wasn’t that brisk, but there was ice in her
bones nevertheless. “It looks like something out of a fairy tale.”
Sebastian
didn’t disagree, just started up the front walk. Clary followed. When they
reached the front steps, Sebastian took her hand. Immediately, the smoke
curling from the chimney stopped forming itself into question marks and began
puffing out in the shape of lopsided hearts. Clary snatched her hand back, felt
immediately guilty, and reached for the door knocker to disguise her
embarrassment. It was heavy and brass, shaped like a cat, and when she let it
fall it hit the wooden door with a satisfying thwack.
The
thwack was followed by a number of popping and clicking noises. The door
shuddered and swung open. Beyond it, Clary could discern only darkness. She
looked sideways at Sebastian, her mouth suddenly dry. Like a fairy tale
cottage, she’d said. Except the things that lived in cottages in fairy tales
weren’t always benevolent . . .
“At
least it isn’t decorated with candy and gingerbread,” Sebastian said, as if
reading her thoughts. “I’ll go in first, if you like.”
“No.”
She shook her head. “We’ll go in together.”
They’d
barely cleared the threshold when the door slammed shut behind them, shutting
out all light. The blackness was relentless, impenetrable. Something brushed up
against Clary in the darkness and she screamed.
“It’s
just me,” Sebastian said irritably. “Here—take my hand.”
She
felt his fingers grope for hers in the darkness and this time she seized onto
his hand with a feeling of gratitude. Stupid, she thought, clutching
Sebastian’s fingers tightly, stupid to come in here like this—Jace would be
furious—
Light
suddenly flickered in the darkness. Two bright eyes appeared, green as a cat’s,
hanging against the blackness like jewels. Who is there? said a voice—soft as
fur, sharp as ice shards.
“Sebastian
Verlac and Clarissa Morgenstern. You saw us coming up the walk.” Sebastian’s
voice rang out clear and strong. “I know you’re expecting us. My aunt Elodie
told me where to find you. You’ve done work for her before—”
I
know who you are. The eyes blinked, plunging them both momentarily back into
darkness. Follow the torchlight.
“The
what?” Clary turned, her hand still in Sebastian’s, in time to see a number of
torches flare up in a line, one catching fire from the next, until a blazing
path was lit before them. They followed it hand it hand like Hansel and Gretel
following the breadcrumb trail in the dark forest, although Clary wondered if
the children in the fairy tale had been holding hands quite so tightly . . .
The
ground crunched softly underneath. Looking down Clary saw that the path was
lined with shards of gleaming black, like the carapaces of enormous insects.
“Dragon scales,” Sebastian said, following her gaze. “I’ve never seen so many .
. .”
Dragons
are real? Clary wanted to say, but stopped herself. Of course dragons were
real. What was it Jace always said to her? All the stories are true. Before she
could repeat that thought aloud, the path opened out and they found themselves
standing in a wide-open garden bathed in sunlight. At least, at first glance it
looked like a garden. There were trees, whose leaves gleamed silver and gold,
and paths laid out between banks of flowers, and in the center of the garden a
sort of pavilion with bright silk walls. The torchlit path continued in front
of them, leading up to the pavilion, but as they followed it Clary saw that the
flowers on either side of the path were ingenious creations of paper and cloth.
There were no insects buzzing, no birds chirping. And when she glanced up, she
saw that there was no sky overhead, just a painted backdrop of blue and white,
with a single blazing light shining down on them where the sun ought to have
been.
They
had reached the pavilion. Inside it, Clary could just glimpse the soft, moving
gleam of candlelight. Her curiosity won out over her nerves and she let go of
Sebastian’s hand and ducked through a gap in the heavy silk hangings.
Clary
stared. The inside of the pavilion looked like something out of an illustrated
copy of the Arabian Nights. The walls were gold silk, the floor covered in
embroidered rugs. Floating golden balls spilled incense that smelled like roses
and jasmine, the scent so thick and sweet it made her cough. There were beaded
pillows scattered everywhere and a big low couch, scattered with tasseled
cushions. But that wasn’t the reason she was staring. She had been prepared for
something fantastical, even bizarre. She had not, however, been prepared for
the sight of Magnus Bane—wearing a gold mesh vest and a pair of transparent
silk harem pants—puffing gently on a fantastically large hookah with a dozen
snaky pipe-arms curling out of it.
“Welcome
to my humble abode.” The smoke that floated up around Magnus’ ears formed
itself into little stars as he grinned. “Anything I can get you? Wine? Water?
Ichor?”
Clary
found her voice. “An explanation would be nice. What the hell are you doing
here?”
“Clary.”
She hadn’t even noticed Sebastian follow her into the pavilion, but there he
was, staring at her in horror. “There’s no need for you to be rude.”
“You
don’t understand!” She turned to Sebastian, dismayed by the look on his face.
“Something’s not right—”
“It’s
all right, Clary,” he said. He turned to Magnus, his jaw set firmly. “Ragnor
Fell,” he began, “I am Sebastian Verlac—”
“How
nice for you,” Magnus said kindly, and snapped his fingers once.
Sebastian
froze in place, his mouth still open, his hand partially outstretched in
greeting.
“Sebastian!”
Clary reached out to touch him, but he was as rigid as a statue. Only the
slight rise and fall of his chest showed that he was even still alive.
“Sebastian?” she said, again, but it was hopeless: she knew somehow that he
couldn’t see or hear her. She turned on Magnus. “I can’t believe you just did
that. What on earth is wrong with you? Has whatever’s in that pipe melted your
brain? Sebastian’s on our side.”
“I
don’t have a side, Clary darling,” Magnus said with a wave of his hookah. “And
really, it’s your own fault I had to freeze him outside Time for a short while.
You see, you were awfully close to telling him I’m not actually Ragnor Fell.”
“That’s
because you’re not actually Ragnor Fell.”
Magnus
blew a stream of smoke out of his mouth and regarded her thoughtfully through
the haze. “Actually,” he said, “for all intents and purposes, I am.”
Clary’s
head had begun to ache, whether from the thick smoke in the room or the effort
of restraining her overwhelming urge to punch Magnus in the eye, she wasn’t
sure. “I don’t get it.”
Magnus
patted the sofa beside him. “Come sit down next to me and I’ll explain,” he
purred. “You trust me, don’t you?”
Not
really, Clary thought. But then again, who did she trust? Jace? Simon? Luke?
None of them were around. With an apologetic glance at the frozen Sebastian,
she went to join Magnus on the couch.
