“I wouldn’t do it,” Simon said, but Isabelle has yet to take advice from anyone; she tried on different pairs of boots until one of them didn’t make Clary flinch, and agreed to go with her to the MOMA for the afternoon.
Isabelle is familiar with more parts of the mundane world than many shadowhunters, though museums that aren’t just monuments to battles against evil are something of a novelty. Clary’s eyes are wide with reverence as she walks from exhibit to exhibit, and Isabelle trails after her, watching the people as much as the artwork.
This isn’t exactly her idea of an afternoon of relaxation, but she enjoys the quiet, and the frozen moments of demons captured in photographs that the mundanes around them can’t see, the hints of iratzes in portraits of humans who weren’t as ordinary as they pretended to be. A gentle mixing of the world as Clary sees it, and the world as Isabelle does. The two views are aligning, but they’ll never quite cross over; Isabelle’s not sure she’d want them to.
Clary has her sketchbook, and she occasionally sits down to jot a note or two, sketch a shape across a page. Isabelle watches her work, tendrils of hair tickling her cheeks, lashes dark against her cheeks, looking up occasionally when she remembers Isabelle’s there. She grins, momentarily laces their fingers, goes back to her drawing.
“You’re not bored are you?” Clary asks later, frowning.
Isabelle shrugs. “I’ve had worse scenery,” she says.