Six hours later, Clary was still staring at the sketchpad, completely uninspired and unable to produce anything worthwhile. A pile of crumpled papers sat in the corner; a handful of them had made it over the lip of the trashcan, but most of them had bounced out or off of the sides or ricocheted off of the walls. In all that Jace had done for her, he hadn't taught her how to shoot a basketball.

Now he never would. Despite what Jace earnestly believed, Clary knew, deep down she knew, that they were finished. Jace's stubborn streak reached long and far; he hated to lose and didn't like being told what to do, but his inability to accept that they weren't compatible was no reason to continue living in a lie.

Clary sketched a few lines on the paper, wrinkled her nose, and ripped it out. She tossed it towards the wastebasket, groaning as it fell a few feet short. She let her head fall forward to the table, cradled by her arms, and she let out a shuddering sigh. She tried to hold back tears. She wouldn't cry.

Her mind kept going back to what Jace had said before he left. "I bring you out of that tower you've trapped yourself in… You're lonely and sheltered without me." Part of her wondered if he was right. Did she lock herself away?

She couldn't afford to take risks on frivolous things like boys. She had a son. She had a child that depended on her to be steady and strong and present. As much as she loved both of them, she couldn't let him take a backseat to Jace. He was only six years old; Matthew couldn't take care of himself and he couldn't be left alone. Living in a rundown and impoverished area for the last six and a half years had shown her what happened when parents, especially mothers, checked out of their children's lives.

It never ended well. Teens were hooked on drugs and alcohol, trapped in never-ending cycles of violence against others and against themselves. They were incapable of love. They could only hate. She couldn't and wouldn't let her son, her Matthew, who was so full of light and happiness and wonder, end up like that.

Maybe eventually she would find love again and get married, have another child with a man who had a steady nine-to-five job. She would still waitress, maybe paint on the weekends, and they would take turns cooking dinner while Matthew, now a teenager, played with his baby brother or sister and went to college.

She tried to ignore the little niggle of doubt that played in her stomach. She told herself that that is what she wanted, that perfect, idyllic, American dream with a yet unknown man, not the unpredictable, all-consuming, neverending love she felt for Jace and was trying to convince herself she no longer felt. It was painful. She didn't want to give him up. In an ideal world, this wouldn't be her choice. She wanted him. Even now, when she had reconciled herself to spending the rest of her life never seeing Jace again, her entire being ached for him. She wanted him to come hold her, she wanted him to come touch her hair, stroke her face, take her to bed and wrap his strong arms around her and pull her tight against his chest. To whisper that he loved her.

That was what hurt the most – Jace didn't love her. He wanted her, yes, but there was no love. He fought hard because he was stubborn and wanted to be right. She made him feel safe, so he stayed by her side. Time would fly though, and he would soon forget her. Like a child whose toy was taken from him, he would cry and pout for a few moments, but would quickly move on. She anticipated a few calls, a few gifts, a drunken visit perhaps, but these would soon fade.

Soon enough, Jace would find someone else. Someone better suited for him would come along and Jace would follow her through life. He would treat her like a princess, and she would deserve it. She would fall in love with him – she would practically have no choice in the matter, Jace was a romantic, and he treated his women with respect and generosity – and they would get married and have beautiful children who would be successful and loving and perfect.

Clary's heart broke all over again. It was only when she felt the warmth on her hand that she realized tears had fallen. Little spatters dotted the smudged paper as she cried. They came faster and faster, rolling in big fat drops down her cheeks and splashing to the book in front of her. Her body shook and shivered as she sobbed, the pent up emotion of the breakup and stress of the day whipping her into a frenzy.

"Stop," she whispered to herself. "Stop now. Stop crying. Don't cry. You're better than this. You're stronger than this." A few more wracking sobs. "Breathe, Fray." She tried, failed. "In through your nose, out through your mouth." She repeated this again and again, urging herself to calm down and breathe. She brought herself back.

She let her fingers pick up the pencil again. She felt herself move unconsciously, shading and lining and filling in the blank, tear-stained paper. When she finally opened her eyes, she looked down and saw a rough sketch of a lined face, expressive eyes, a scar above the eye and on the collarbone. Jace haunted her very being. He was behind her eyes and burned into her mind, an imprint on her heart.

Clary knew that packing up and moving on from this relationship would be far harder than she ever imagined. She knew that it would destroy her, but she knew it needed to be done.

She tore the sheet of paper from the book and crumpled it, tossing it mechanically towards the wastebasket in the corner.

The next three days passed the same way. Clary woke up, got Matthew ready, and took him to school. She came up, opened the sketchbook, and stared at it all day before going back to pick Matthew up, bringing him home for dinner, putting him to bed and then going to sleep herself. She was no better than a robot, going through the motions for the sake of the show.

Memories of Jace plagued her, and even though it hurt to recall them, she knew that those very memories would provide the best inspiration. In her mind, she conjured the image of them at the party, dancing bodies pulsating with energy and life and passion. She sat at the table and drew and drew and drew. Hours passed as she frantically sketched and erased. Shaded and reshaped. It took two more days of this process, this editing and rebuilding of the image in her mind before she was happy with the basic framework. It was two more days of simple dinners of chicken nuggets and grilled cheese sandwiches for Matthew and countless cups of coffee for her. It was two days of questions like, "Mommy, why won't you play with me?" and "Mommy, why won't you stop drawing?" and patient answers like, "Mommy is trying something new," and "Mommy will play with you when she's done with this; it's very important," before she was happy with the piece.

On Friday, she dropped Matthew off at school and made arrangements for him to spend the night at a friend's house. She remembered how, when she was younger and dreamed of going to art school, she would sometimes spend twenty-three or twenty-four hours at a time on a single canvas. She prayed that she would be able to recall some of her talent; these canvases were expensive – far, far out of her budget. If she ruined these, she would never be able to buy more, and she would run out of money before being able to go back to waitressing. Everything depended on this.

She rummaged through her closet, knowing that there was an easel tucked away in its deepest corners. Once it was in her hands, she stepped back and sat back on her bed. She looked at the tool with nostalgia, memories of happily painting with her mother flooding over her. With a sad smile, she stood and moved toward the living room.

After dressing in raggedy clothes, she spread newspapers across the floor of the apartment and set up the easel in the middle. She meticulously mixed the paints, taking a deep breath before timidly dipping the brush into the mix, raising her arm, and dragging the bristles across the canvas in the first tentative stroke. She took in a sharp breath, startled when she saw the mark on the page. Startled at how good it felt. Startled at how she never wanted to stop.

She smiled and kept painting.

"Pick up the phone, Clary. Pick up the phone. You can do this, but first you need to pick up the phone." Clary stood next to the table that her completed canvas was lying on. It was bright and dark at the same time; colors contrasted and melted together in one medium. Next to the painting lay her phone, and next to her phone lay a piece of paper with seven digits scrawled on it, old and yellowed from six years of sitting in a box. With shaking fingers, she reached for the phone, picked it up, and dialed. She took a deep breath and pressed the call button.

It rang. Six times it rang, and with each tone, part of Clary's nerve died. Finally it picked up, and a vaguely familiar voice answered.

"Hello?" It was a man's voice, quiet and unassuming, not like the club owner's voice that Clary remembered. She didn't say anything, prompting the man to speak again, albeit more annoyed this time.

"Um, hi," She started. "I'm trying to reach Magnus Bane?" Her voice was timid and she ended the sentence with a question.

"He's in the next room. Who's calling?" Clary felt relief flood through her. The first half of the battle was won; Magnus Bane still existed, and he was in the next room.

"Clary Fray. I'm an artist." Her cheeks flamed as she described herself, hoping that she didn't sound presumptuous.

"Are you kidding me?" The man sounded angry now. "I can't escape from you, can I? What the hell do you want with Magnus? First my brother, then my-" he cut himself off. "You know what, nevermind." There was a muffled noise, as if he had put the phone's receiver against his shirt.

Clary knew why the voice was familiar – it was Alec. Alec was with Magnus. She thought back the night that she had run away from Jace's apartment and remembered why the Asian man that had followed Alec looked so familiar. He had bought Brooklyn by the Water at Night. He was the club owner.

Clary sat down, overwhelmed and confused and irritated. She waited, praying that Alec would hand the phone off, crossing her fingers and whispering, "Please, please, please."

The noise on the other end of the lessened, and a few moments later, a smooth voice floated through the phone. "The awesome and all-powerful Magnus Bane speaking, how may I assist my peasantry today?"

Clary was stunned into silence. She bit her bottom lip at the strange greeting, unsure of how to answer.

"Speak, speak quickly, or I hang up. My time is too precious for this."

That sparked Clary into finding her voice. "Mr. Bane, this is Clary Fray calling." She paused for him to acknowledge her, but no such affirmation came. "I," She started in, stuttering a little bit as she internally cursed herself for this stupid idea. "I'm an artist that you bought a painting from a few years ago-"

"Brooklyn by the Water at Night. I recall." He interrupted her, but said nothing else.

"Right," she pressed forward, screwing up her face and covering her eyes with her hands. "Well, I just recently started painting again, and you said to let you know if I was ever in a position to sell my artwork again." She paused again, hoping for him to say something. He didn't. "So this is me, letting you know." She finished awkwardly, wishing she could throw herself into some water in Brooklyn at night.

"Interesting." Was all he said. For a few seconds, there was silence. "I based an entire club's ambience and atmosphere on that painting. A very successful club, I might add. Buying the rights to it was one of the best decisions I've ever made. I suppose I owe both of us the opportunity to do that again."

Clary let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

"Thank you," she replied, voice still a little shaky.

"Describe it to me," Magnus replied.


"Describe what the painting looks like."

"Well, I have three ready to go right now. I have some other ideas though."

"So, describe."

Clary paused, unsure of how to proceed. She cleared her throat, trying to buy some time to figure out how she wanted to explain her piece. She could practically hear Magnus tapping his feet on the other side of the phone.

"Well, the first piece is very cool, but still warm. It's got a lot of silver and red and blue tones to it. It's not a still life; it's an abstract. It's very nightlife-y." She paused awkwardly once again, feeling as though she were failing. Her pitch needed to be better. She took a deep breath and sent a quick prayer for the right words. "This is the kind of art that you would expect to see on a wall in a club with flashing strobe lights and hypnotic music. It looks kind of like sound waves, almost, or drops of paint rippling in the water. People would dance, but not like at a typical club. This isn't a bumping and grinding kind of feeling, this is a dancing to let out emotion and passion and stress from the week. This is a kind of release, like taking six shots in row and then kissing a complete stranger. This is," she trailed off, "Freedom." She finished.

"Fascinating. Put it aside for me," Magnus commanded. "What's next?"

"The second one is a still life. It's kind of trippy." She bit her lip and looked at the piece, feeling the explanation come to her quickly. "Imagine you're dizzy; you've been spinning for what seems like hours and you're coming back into yourself. As you orient yourself, your head feels kind of cloudy and even though you can still distinguish everything from everything else in the room, it seems off. Twisted and out of proportion. That's what this painting is. It's a dizzy-looking room in a decrepit old house, the kind of house that an old horror film would take place in, with serial killers or monsters lurking around every corner."

"Hmm." Magnus hummed. "It sounds interesting, but I don't know if it would make a good ambience piece. Put it aside and I'll consider it when I see you." Magnus let out a sigh as if he had collapsed onto a couch and asked her to describe the final piece.

"This is," Clary said hesitantly, "a boy." It was, in truth, Jace. As hard as she had tried to remove him from her art, she couldn't. He leaked into her mind in everything she did. Finally, she had just given in and painted the images that she had conjured.

It was his body, his face, although his features had been distorted and clouded. It was dream-like; he was reaching out for the woman in the image. She stood with her back to him, looking towards the ground with her arms wrapped around herself. She wore a long, flowing dress, the dark blue contrasted with her auburn hair. The man was shirtless, his muscled arms extended to the point of pain, his body was bent and stretched as he grasped for the woman just beyond his reach. The couple bled into the background, not quite separate from their surroundings, as though nature itself was absorbing them.

"And a girl," she continued, explaining the yearning and pain and unrequited love that the portrait represented.

Magnus was silent for a few moments. Then, "When and where can you meet me?"

"Well," Clary replied slowly, "I'm going back to work in a few days, but until then, I'm available any time between nine and three."

"Ten-thiry tomorrow morning, sharp. Be at my apartment with any and all paintings that you might have ready by that time, including any sketches for upcoming pieces. I'm opening another club in a few months and I want the first pick of your artwork."

"I can do that," Clary answered, more than a little surprised at the suddenness of the meeting. "What's your address?"

Magnus rattled it off and Clary scurried to find a pen and paper to write it down. "I'll be there," she replied as Magnus hung up.

Clary looked up at the door to Magnus' apartment building. She had three completed paintings, each wrapped in a protective case, and three incomplete sketches to present to Magnus as proofs. She hoped and prayed that he would be willing to buy at least one of her paintings. Since she couldn't return to work for another week and bills were quickly approaching their due date, she desperately needed the money.

As she climbed the ornate steps, Clary ran through her mental list of reasons to be scared. Her whole future rested on one man's opinion of her art. She couldn't afford to not get this sale. She had a little boy who needed to eat for the next week.

She stopped herself and took a deep breath before listing the reasons that she was sure she would get the sale. Magnus was anxious to get her down here. Magnus had previously bought her art. She was a good painter.

She raised her hand and rang the bell next to the tag that read "Magnus Bane, Prestigious Club Owner of Brooklyn."Her lips quirked at his sense of humor, and she was grateful for the momentary distraction from the butterflies in her stomach.

She heard the dull tone that signaled the intercom was turning on before a crackling voice burst through the speaker. "Enter," it intoned. She heard the click as the door unlocked and she reached out to twist the knob. She stepped through the threshold and looked around. The apartment appeared to be set up similarly to hers. An old house had been broken up into separate apartments by floors. The bottom floor, where she was standing in the foyer, was two apartments. She read the numbers on the doors – 432A and 432B. Magnus was 432F. She looked up the beautifully carved wooden stairs when she heard a door slam; a voice echoed down to her, bidding her to climb the four flights of steps and meet Magnus in the parlor of his apartment.

Clary shook her head at the man's eccentricity, but smiled and started the climb anyway.

Panting a little by the time she reached the top, she juggled her paintings for a moment so that she could pat at her hair and straighten her shirt, trying to make herself a little more presentable.

The door was hanging wide open and Clary took a tentative step forward, peering around the doorjamb while trying to remain unnoticed.

It didn't work.

"Are you going to go in, or just standing there spying?" Magnus' voice boomed from behind her. She jumped and sheepishly whirled around, blushing furiously. Magnus stood before her in an ornamental dressing robe, lavishly decorated with Japanese cherry blossoms in blues and pinks and reds. His arms were crossed over his chest and his left eyebrow was raised; he carried a rolled up newspaper in his hands and he was looking at her half-amusedly, half-annoyed.

"Uh," Clary cleared her throat and shifted the art in her arms again, subtly trying to draw his attention back to her art and away from her embarrassment. "I'm sorry, I wasn't sure if I should go in or not."

"Clearly," Magnus quipped, "my door was open so I understand how you could assume that I didn't want visitors."

Clary was silent for a moment as she took in the sass of the man who stood before her. "Alrighty then," she murmured. "I'm Clary; I'm not sure if you remember me or not, but,"

"Of course I remember you. Your hair is a dead giveaway." Magnus pointed out, still standing in the same spot, giving her the same bored look.

"Right," Clary answered, narrowing her eyes, "Well, I have my art, in case you still want to look at it."

"Of course I do; that's the entire reason I invited you over." Magnus replied, giving her an incredulous look. "I'm incredibly interested in your art."

"Then why are copping such an attitude?" Clary asked crankily, knowing that she shouldn't allow him to irritate her, that she might be jeopardizing her prospects, but not caring. She'd had enough of being bullied and intimidated and belittled. Maybe Jace was right and she was in a tower, but she didn't need him to free her. She just needed a few seconds of insane bravery. Clary had never been a timid person before Matthew came along; all she had to do was remember that.

Magnus looked taken aback.

Despite every cell of her body screaming no stop what are you doing don't do this you'll regret it you're so stupid this is going to turn him off why why why, Clary continued, "If you want to look at my art, then look at my art, but don't give me all this sass and act like I'm the weird one when I call out the eccentric crap that you pull. I don't need that. If you're looking for someone to kowtow to your every whim and fantasy, then you've got the wrong girl. I'll sell my art to someone else." She stopped, breathing hard and flushed red after her outburst. She may have just ruined any chance she had of selling art, but she was, for once, proud of herself.

Magnus raised his hand and traced the outline of his chin with his index finger. He looked impressed. "You're fiery. Like your hair." He paused, thought for a moment. Then: "I like it." He cocked his head to the side and studied her. "No one talks to me like that. Most clients handle me with kid gloves, afraid that they'll offend me and I'll take my business elsewhere. But," he continued after a moment, "Not you. You're honest and passionate. You won't let me get away with shit."

Clary stared back at him, confused with the turn of events. Magnus grandly swept one arm towards the open door, motioning for her to enter. "I think that we will have a very long and lucrative relationship, Miss Fray."

Clary gazed back at him for a moment; he was waiting for her to make the first move. She shuffled the canvases in her hands again, spun on her heel, and strode into the apartment. Magnus smiled and followed, closing the door behind them.

Clary stood impatiently in the living room. This apartment was like a penthouse – it took up the whole fourth floor. Magnus had been silently staring at the three completed pieces that she presented to him for the last forty-five minutes. He was in a trance-like state, not noticing anything she did. She already made three laps around the apartment, explored the various rooms (there were eight, which blew her mind – eight rooms in one apartment!), helped herself to a healthy dose of vodka and cranberry juice from the drink cart, and finally made her way back to where he was standing.

Her stomach growled. She looked at her watch. She tapped her foot. She made another lap around the apartment.

Circling back to Magnus, she noticed that he was gone. Looking around, she saw him standing next to the formal dining table in the next room, rooting through a bag.

"What are you looking for?" She asked as she approached.

"How much do you want for them?" He replied.


He looked up, arching his eyebrow. "Your paintings. How much?" He asked again, slowly, as though speaking to a child. "I want the abstract and the spinning room for clubs I'm going to open on the West Coast, and the man and woman will make a good backdrop for an addition to the club in Tribeca. So how much?"

Clary considered for a moment, not know what to say. "How much are you offering?" She asked hesitantly.

"Don't play this game with me." Magnus retorted, "I'm getting a headache and I just want a straight figure."

Clary tried to remember how much she sold Brooklyn by the Water at Night for, but couldn't recall. She was floundering.

"I want all three, so just give me one block price." Magnus suddenly looked up at her. "Actually, just sell me the rights to the artwork. I don't want anyone else using these. I have a very specific image in my mind, and no one else is allowed to infringe on that."

"And how much do you think that's worth," Clary asked shrewdly, trying to gauge his reaction. Truthfully, she would settle for a few hundred, but she wanted whatever she could get.

Magnus tilted his head back and forth, considering. "Well, exclusivity is a big deal." He cast a sharp glance at Clary, "And I would want entirely exclusive rights. No reproductions, no other sales, nothing. Your name is on it, but I own everything about these paintings."

Clary nodded and agreed. She had no use for them after the sale, so long as she received her money and could still say that she was the artist in case other clients wanted to see samples of her work.

"I'm going to say," Magnus drummed his fingers against his lips, deliberating for a few moments, "Six thousand." Clary's jaw dropped and she hastened to close it before Magnus picked up on her naiveté. "For each," he added.

Clary's eyes bugged out and she froze. Eighteen thousand dollars was more money than she had ever seen at one time in her life, and now he was offering her that sum as though it were pocket change.

Magnus noticed her hesitance and mistook it for reluctance. "Well, wait. Seven thousand for each."

Clary snapped out of her daze and answered quickly. "Deal."

Magnus grinned. "I'm going to call my lawyer right now. He can be here in an hour with the paperwork. Make yourself comfortable," he waved towards the couches in the other room, "I'm going to go get dressed." He turned and glided out, then called back over his shoulder, "I'll call my banker too and get him to cut a check. What bank do you use? He can probably just funnel the money directly to your account and not deal with all this nasty paper check business."

Clary answered him before she collapsed on the black leather couch; her eyes were wide and her breathing was rapid and uneven as she tried to process what just happened. She just made twenty-one thousand dollars. She could pay her rent for the next two years, fill her freezer and refrigerator for once, instead of scrimping by with just the basics. She could start a college fund for Mattie. She could buy more canvases and paints and maybe actually make a living.

Clary wasn't sure how much time had passed since she started hyperventilating, but suddenly, Magnus was in front of her, fully clothed, and peering down at her curiously. "What's wrong with you? You look like a dying fish."

"I feel kind of like a dying fish," She wheezed, trying to get a handle on herself so she didn't embarrass herself further.

"Why?" Magnus asked, looking at her as though she actually were a dying fish, flopping around on his expensive, imported carpet.

"That's a lot of money." She answered honestly.

"You think twenty-one thousand is a lot of money?" He asked disbelievingly.

"You don't?" She replied, looking up at him in shock. He crossed his arms over his chest and studied her for a long time. Clary stared back at him, not knowing what to do or say in the moment, almost hypnotized by the green in his irises.

Then, Magnus' eyes lit up and a devious smile cracked on his face. He looked, Clary thought, like he was the villain of a Disney movie about to unleash his evil plan on the innocent young princess. A thin bead of sweat broke on her forehead as she waited for the other shoe to drop.

"Clary, sweetheart," Magnus said as he sat down opposite her. "I run a chain of incredibly successful clubs. I come from old European money. I'm a millionaire. If I had any concept of money management, I would probably be a billionaire. Twenty-one thousand is a pittance to me, compared to what I will make off of your art."

"Well, that's pretty awesome for you, but why are you telling me this?" Clary asked, scrunching her eyebrows together in confusion.

"Because I'm about to make you a very wealthy woman," he answered with a smug grin.

"I have twenty-one thousand dollars," Clary stated with a blank expression, "I am a wealthy woman."

Magnus' bellowing laugh echoed across the room, sending the cat curled up by his feet running into the bedroom for cover. "My dear girl, that is not wealth." He leaned forward, steepling his fingers together under his chin. "I'm going to introduce you to my art dealer." His voice was excited, pitching with emotion. "She will keep you on a retainer agreement. Any time you paint something of worth, give it to her and she can sell it for you. She charges a fee of course, but it comes from the commission on the art and I can all but guarantee that every single one of your pieces will be sold." Magnus leaned back and stretched his long arms out on the back of the couch. "And she will sell them at quite the premium. Then, Clary, will you understand what wealth is."

Clary looked at him dumbly. "What do you get out of this?" She asked suspiciously.

Magnus smiled at her like a cat that just killed a bird. "This simply assures that I not only get the first pick of your art, but it also means that I can prevent my competitors from getting wind of you and taking advantage of your somewhat immense talent." He leaned forward again, "This will be profitable for both of us."

Clary's hackles raised. "Why does this seem too good to be true?" She asked, cocking her head to the side.

"Because for someone like you, it probably is." Magnus answered honestly before leaning back and examining his perfectly manicured nails. He glanced up and took her in, with her crossed arms and suspicious glare. "You're asking yourself why this is happening, because surely, this can't be that easy, right?"

Clary nodded once, still keeping an eye on him.

"I promise you, Clary, that I am not trying to cheat you. I don't cheat people that work for me. I treat them fairly, as long as they are loyal to me. I like your art and I want to continue working with you. I want to help you get the fame you deserve, but I'm not going to do it for free." He gave her a onceover. "I don't give out charity. You will work for what you earn, but I will make sure that you earn it. Keeping you on a retainer with my art dealer guarantees that I will get what I'm paying for, and it will make sure that other people don't get what I'm paying for. That's all there is to it. Capisce?"

Clary looked to the ground and thought long and hard about the arrangement. She ran through outcome after outcome, but in truth, she couldn't see a downside to this arrangement. She would get paid to paint, and that was all she had ever wanted to do with her life.

"This kind of sounds like I would only get paid for the paintings that you like." Clary slowly pointed out.

"No, I would pay for any paintings that I like, and the ones that I don't would get shown in her gallery." He answered coolly.

"I'll agree," Magnus' face lit up with her concession, but Clary continued, "But I want a lawyer to look at the agreement first," she finished proudly, knowing that she could afford a lawyer now, and that it was in her best interest to have someone looking out for her. It wasn't that she didn't trust Magnus – he had treated her more than fairly – but she wanted her bases covered.

"Fair enough," Magnus acknowledged. "I'll call Rebekah and have her bring over the agreement. She'll be by shortly. That will give us time to finish the transfer of rights for these three. Ernie can stay and look over the retainer agreement for you too." Magnus extended his right hand to her with an arched brow.

Clary nodded and clasped her hand in his. They shook once, twice, three times before Magnus smiled his cat's grin again.

"It will be a pleasure doing business with you, Clarissa Fray. A pleasure indeed."

Snow Day means another chapter!

No Clace interaction, but the next few chapters will have some.

I know it took forever, but I hope it was worth it. Once again, I would like to affirm that I won't give up on this story, but I will NOT have regular updates.

Please leave your thoughts, predictions, and reactions in the reviews! I love to read them and respond!