Chapter Text
It’s Clary’s first day at Magdalene Academy for girls and she’s fucking terrified.
They’d moved – Luke and her – after the disappearance of Clary’s mother. Packed up everything they owned and moved into the comfy, suburban land of California, all blazing sun and swaying palm trees hanging over beach boulevards. It was littered with pretty faces, penny boards, smirking hipsters, all things that would be laughed at where Clary came from. Luke quit the police force, opened his own bookstore by the beach, it boasted vintage books, surfing magazines and a surprising array of romance novels. Clary would read them at the café next door to his shop, at an outside table that overlooked the infinite roll of blue waves.
But summer ended.
Clary surveys herself in the mirror, quickly adjusts her ponytail, pulling a few ginger strands loose to frame her face. She runs her hands down her new uniform; red blazer with gold embroidering, the school logo, a cross surrounded by the sun, and a red tartan skirt that falls just above the knee. Her blouse is white and complete with a red ribbon that ties around the collar. She’s wearing red ankle socks and sensible black brogues. Under the school logo, in golden Latin, it reads “Caedite eos. Novit enim Dominus qui sunt eius.” Clary wonders if God would recognise her as His own. She concludes that He probably wouldn’t as she grabs her Italian leather satchel from her desk and heads out her bedroom door.
The house Luke and her share is modern – well-lit and minimalist with windows that drop from the roof to the ground, showing off the beach – but it doesn’t quite feel like home. It isn’t Brooklyn by any means, no traffic or skyscrapers but it’s nice, calm. Maybe that’s what Clary needs.
“How’re you feeling?” Luke asks her as she appears in the kitchen. He’s nervous. He’s felt slightly closed off from Clary since the disappearance of her mother. They haven’t talked about it, not openly, preferring to keep their feelings to themselves, but it’s obvious. They both miss her.
Clary grabs an apple from an abstract fruit bowl that sits on a polished, white countertop. “I’m fine, Luke,” she smiles, takes a bite from the apple. “I should be going though, I don’t want to be late on my first day.”
“You’re right,” he agrees, fidgeting with a ballpoint pen, turning it over in his hand. “Being late on the first day would be a horrible way to start the year,” he chuckles and Clary smiles but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Luke notices. “And, I’ll be at the bookstore if you need me at any point in the day,” Luke informs her, worry seeping into his usually well-guarded expression.
“I’ll remember,” Clary tells him gratefully. “And, hey! Don’t worry, it’ll be fine. I’ve got this.” Luke nods, reassured before standing quickly from his chair by the counter and pulling her into a hug.
“You have my number, just in case, okay?”
“It’s on speed dial,” Clary informs him, breaking the hug. “I will not hesitate to call my favourite cop.” She jokes and he relaxes, smiles down at her, bursting with pride at Jocelyn’s daughter.
“Okay, good! And we’re getting takeout tonight to celebrate your first day,” Luke says, sitting back down.
“I want pizza,” she tells him before waving him goodbye and disappearing through the front door, apple in hand, to the scorching sun.
Clary loves her car, a vintage red convertible that Luke got for her when they moved out here. “You’ll actually be able to drive out here,” he'd laughed. Driving in New York was impossible, and Clary never imagined she was missing much. But the first lesson, wind flowing through hair as she sped through the city was a high for her. She’d drive for hours, through the desert, Lana Del Rey blasting from the car and disappearing around her. This drive was different though, this drive had a destination. Magdalene Academy for girls. A catholic school for girls of exceptional talent. Clary had been accepted on a partial scholarship due to her artistic ability and she was determined to make the most of the situation.
Clary pulls up to Magdalene Academy just before half eight. Although school isn’t set to start for another half an hour, it’s already busy. Clary watches as cliques of girls wearing red blazers, form into huddles by benches outside the school, their heads bowed in conversation. A nineteenth century building of faded red bricks stands in front of Clary. The carpark was full of expensive cars and the girls walk with a rare sort of confidence that only develops through years of wealth.
She tries to keep her breathing steady and her posture firm as she walks through the red sea of Magdalene girls to the front doors of the building. Dark brown wood, gold detailing. The doors don’t quite reach the top of the wall and on the red bricks above the doors, a cross is nailed. The girls turn, watch in silence, as the doors swing open and Clary is ushered inside. Just before the doors fall completely shut, the girls burst into chatter.
“You’ll have to forgive them,” the headmistress tells Clary, noticing her uneasy expression. “They’ve been together since the age of eleven and we’ve never had a new student.” Fucking great, she thinks. It dawns on Clary instantly that there is no way she’s going to ever fit in here. Clary wasn’t used to being around so many girls at once, she wasn’t a try hard special snowflake or anything, it’s just that Clary’s best friend was a boy and she never really spent time with any other girls.
The headmistress, Professor Defoe as she introduced herself, led Clary past reception and into her office. A lushly decorated space – walls lined with brimming bookcases, a Persian rug hiding most of the dark wood floor, paintings hanging uniformly on the only free wall behind her desk – greets Clary. A white Persian cat sits upright on a stack of history books upon the professor’s desk. An empty china cup was also placed on the desk, along with stacks of paper and scattered Mont Blanc pens.
She gestures for Clary to sit down before making her way over to her desk, sitting down in the faded burgundy, leather armchair. “Sorry for the mess,” she announces, quickly gathering the pens into an empty gold pot and moving all the paperwork into one stack at the side of her desk. She reaches into her pocket, pulls out a key and moves to unlock a drawer behind her desk. It slams, clicks shut and she pockets the key before producing a file, the outside red and decorated with the school logo and quote.
“Clarissa Fairchild, yes?” The headmistress questions. Clary nods. “Lovely name,” she adds and begins flipping through the file. It’s for show, Clary notices. The edges of the paper are beginning to wear, this file has been flicked through numerous times before, probably memorised. “You know why you’re here with us at Magdalene, don’t you?”
Clary nods again. “Artistic ability,” she says. Defoe closes the file, looks up at Clary and beams. The file disappears back into the drawer.
“Here, at Magdalene Academy for girls, we pride girls with exceptional talent and you, Clarissa, have a gift. You have been enrolled into the fine arts classes here along with English, math, history, French and your preferred science, botany. And of course, our compulsory classes on religion and you will be expected to be here every morning at ten to nine for the church service before classes begin promptly at nine.” Clary nods, trying to absorb all the information that is being thrown at her.
“Oh,” the headmistress remembers suddenly, “You’ll also need to pick a sport, we offer lacrosse, tennis and fencing.” Clary sighs, she hates physical activity. “Ah, not a big fan of sport? I’ll put you down for fencing then, it requires the least amount of strain. I’ll get Isabelle to train you up in no time, don’t worry!”
“Isabelle?” Clary asks, wondering if she should know who this girl is, the way the headmistress throws her name around so casually.
“Isabelle Lightwood,” the professor begins. “Is the head girl, she’s also the leader of the fencing club. Lydia Branwell is in charge of the tennis club and Camille Belcourt is the leader of the lacrosse team.” Clary mentally notes these names down. “Camille is also the student guidance councillor, so if you have any concerns, she’s your girl.”
“Thank you,” Clary tells her. “For all your help.” The professor smiles.
“Any time, Clarissa.” She reaches into the stack of paperwork and pulls out a timetable, a map and bible bound in red leather with the school logo and beneath it, Clary’s initials. Clary is just putting the bible in her bag when there’s a knock at the door. “Come in,” the professor raises her voice and the door creaks open to reveal a tanned girl, who towers over Clary. She is dressed in the uniform too, except her blouse isn’t buttoned to the top and her red tartan skirt seems to be a bit higher than regulation. She wears knee high black socks with red ribbons on the sides, and her shoes have a slight heel. It’s total abuse of the school uniform. Clary’s eyes glance back up from the girls rule breaking heels to notice the gold badge pinned to blazer which reads “Head Girl”. This is Isabelle Lightwood.
“Ah, Isabelle,” the headmistress greets her.
“Headmistress,” Isabelle nods her head in respect and shuts the door behind her, stepping into the room.
“You’re aware of our new Magdalene girl, I’m sure? She’s due to join your fencing club,” the headmistress gestures towards Clary and Isabelle turns, meeting Clary's gaze and letting her eyes survey the new girl. She smiles and reaches her hand towards Clary, she takes it and shakes.
“Isabelle Lightwood,” she tells Clary, pronouncing each syllable with exaggerated importance. Names hold weight.
“Clary Fairchild,” Clary introduces herself, hoping she doesn't sound as nervous as she feels.
“Well, Clary, I’m here to escort you on a tour of our very own Magdalene Academy,” she tells Clary, warmth filling her brown eyes, they burn like the sun. Beautiful, but dangerous if one holds their gaze for too long. You could go blind looking at sun and the same was true for this girl. “Well then, headmistress, we’ll be off.” The headmistress nods at Isabelle as Clary rises from her chair and follows Isabelle from the office, tightly gripping her schedule and map in one hand.
She links her arm around Clary's free arm when they reach the corridor. “Thank goodness for you, Clary,” she tells her as they walk up the corridor. “You got me out of morning church service, and for that, I am eternally grateful.”