A/N: I just finished reading "City of Heavenly Fire" and decided to republish this old fic to match up to the end of the series (hopefully the sequel won't alter this!)

Disclaimer: Don't own it, wouldn't want to. Cassandra Clare is doing a wonderful job by herself!


Shortly after their marriage, they moved into the Herondale Manor. It seemed a really strange idea to them at first, move into the house that had once belonged to the Inquisitor, but it belonged to Jace by law.

They had put it off for several years, saying they didn't have time to do it up, that it was too big for just the two of them, that they were too busy and happy to live at the Institute with the rest of their friends. Clary wanted to be closer to her family, too, and Jace didn't like the idea of living in Idris permanently, especially with Alec living with Magnus in New York.

Then Simon and Isabelle moved out of the Institute into an apartment in Alicante, and Magnus and Alec went on an extended vacation, and with the wedding on the horizon it just seemed to be the right time for a fresh start.

The manor had been deserted for several years when they took possession of it, but it was in immaculate condition. Evidentially it had been cleaned regularly despite the absence of an owner. It was a cold, clinical place, everything flat and lined and organised. Aside from the odd painting, the walls were completely bare. Clary wondered, when she first saw it, if Jace's obsession with keeping things neat was genetic.

There was nothing in the house to show that dozens of people, generations of Herondales, had lived in it before them. There were no portraits of them, no reminders of their presence. It was impossible to tell from the many bedrooms which had belonged, at one point, to Stephen Herondale.

Jace left it to Clary to sort out which room was theirs. She chose the one at the top of the house, facing the canal, affording both a view of the beautiful glass towers of Alicante and a glimmer of the country around. She liked to see the city. It reminded her of New York, but without the constant whir of noise and the smell of hot dogs and cold heat.

Jace hadn't liked the house at first. After unpacking his few belongings, he spent all his few time in the small library, re-arranging bookshelves. It was the only room in the house that felt remotely full. There was life in the smell of old paper, memories that didn't scar or sting. In the evenings, rather than attempt to curl up on the stiff, uncomfortable sofas in the living room, he and Clary would sit in the library, right by the heath, with the glow of the fireside flickering against their books as they were drawn in, away from the world. He found a new meaning to the word "home". Home was wherever Clary happened to be.

Yet, it wasn't long before the rest of the house started to feel like home as well. Every time he left the library, Clary had transformed some part of the house. She re-arranged furniture constantly. She brought new paintings, put up her own. Many days Luke and Jocelyn would come over, baring gifts of books and artwork. Luke spent many an hour with Jace in his library, trading books and discussing literature.

One day Jace crept out of his den and found that the upstairs landing had become a forest. Clary and Jocelyn had painted a magnificent mural. The walls were covered in the dark, shady outlines of trees, and the background swirled with the colours of sunset. Burnt orange and frosty pink, ribbons of blue and purple, a faint shimmering of stars. Jace could only stare at the concentration in Clary's face as she applied a final lick of her brush.

Jocelyn laughed when her daughter finally clapped her hands and stood back to admire their work.

"Done!" she said triumphantly, and Jocelyn ruffled her hair and gave her a squeeze.

Before Jace could interrupt them, somebody small rushed passed his legs, zooming at the top of her lungs and running straight for Jocelyn.

"Mommy!" she screamed, trailing a long piece of white paper behind her like a flag, "Look what I drew!"

The child ran straight into her mother, brown curls bouncing, green eyes glistening, and held up her painting proudly. Jace supposed it was supposed to be a picture of the night sky, although it looked more like a ink spillage with blobs of white in it. Felicity, it appeared, did not take after her mother or sister.

"It's beautiful, baby!" Jocelyn exclaimed, crouching down to give her daughter a rewarding pat. Jace still thought it was skilful how parents could lie so easily to their children to make them happier.

Felicity Fairchild Greymark was five years old, born one year after her parent's marriage. She looked a lot like Clary did as a child, but with Luke's colouring and distinct absence of freckles. Clary loved her only second to Jace. She had been a huge surprise, a late addition to her family, but one of the primary reasons she'd put off moving to Idris for so long. She wanted to be a part of her life.

Clary grinned and gave her little sister a tight squeeze from behind. "Well done, Fleecy."

When Felicity had first started to talk (at a very early age, and at great length) she had found it very difficult to say her own name. Fleecy had been the result. Clary thought it was adorable -to be fair, she thought everything the little girl did was adorable. Jace thought it made her sound like an item of clothing.

Luke came up the corridor behind him and swung his daughter into his arms. "Come here, you little pup..."

Felicity began to squeal with delight as he wrestled her into his arms, flinging her carefully over his shoulder. "No, Daddy, nooo!" she giggled.

Jace sometimes wondered if Clary was ever jealous of her sister, the way that other siblings often were. She was, after all, Luke's actual daughter, and no one loved that child more than him. Every time he looked at her, his eyes seemed to swell with joy. Possibly because he still saw her as his miracle, born without the werewolf gene, or maybe because she was the child he shared with the woman he had loved is entire life.

Then again, Jace thought, as Luke turned his gaze towards Clary, she wasn't the only child.

"Sorry dear, she escaped from under my radar. Are you done? Wow," he said, noticing the design for the first time. "This is amazing."

"Thanks, Luke." Clary turned as Luke leaned in to give Jocelyn a quick kiss (causing Felicity to squeal with indignation, cover her eyes, and say "Yuck!" very loudly.) "Hey," she said. "Do you-"

"It's great."

Clary put her hands on her hips, narrowing her eyes. Her freckled arms and cheeks were splattered with paint, her wild red curls easing out of her ponytail. There was only so angry she could be, when she looked at him like that.

"Great?" she asked him, questionably.

Jace knew that tone. It was the "take-that-back-and-try-better" tone, with "quickly" in the subtext.

"It's beautiful, Clary." He knew by the softened look in her eyes that she knew he meant it, but he wasn't just talking about her work. He was talking about her.

"You like it?"

"I love it."

She crept into his arms, probably smearing paint on his clothes. It was a welcome price to pay.

Jace looked at the walls, at the arched ceilings covered in branches and sunlight. He looked at the little family, Felicity wedged in the arms of her parents, and finally down at Clary.

Home, he thought, and a fleeting thought passed through him. This was all he needed, all he wanted. Nothing ever needed to change again.

And of course, something did.


A note of Felicity's name. It really just popped into my head. It seemed to suit her, and I googled it and found it was Latin-based and meant happiness, which seemed perfect! It also has a familiar sound with "Clarissa" so it seemed like something Jocelyn might choose, and "Fleecy" is just cute... whatever Jace may think.