Lord of Shadows The Dark Artifices 2

16

P

ASS THE

W

ANDERER

Mark made his way toward Kieran’s room, steeling himself to lie.

Uneasiness and exhaustion had driven Mark from the parlor. The others, equally tired, were scattering to their own bedrooms. Cristina had slipped away without Mark noticing—though he had felt her absence, as a sort of pang in his chest, after she was gone. Diana had decided to leave as soon as she could for Idris, and Julian and Emma had gone to see her off.

Mark had been a little shocked by Emma’s announcement that the pretense of their relationship was over; he knew what he’d said to her, back in Faerie, and that she’d only done as he asked. Still he felt slightly unmoored, alone, with no idea how to look in Kieran’s eyes and tell him untruths.

He didn’t like lying; he hadn’t done it in the Hunt, and he felt uncomfortable with the rhythms of it. He wanted to talk about it with Cristina, but he couldn’t imagine she’d want to hear about his complicated feelings for Kieran. Julian would be focused entirely on what was necessary and had to be done, no matter how painful. And now he could no longer talk to Emma. He hadn’t realized how close their relationship, however false, had brought them in actual friendship; he wondered, now, if he would lose that, too.

And as for Kieran—Mark leaned his head against the wall next to Kieran’s door. The corridors were papered in dulled gold leaf, trailing vines and trellises, cool against his forehead. Kieran was the person he could talk to least.

Not that banging his head on a wall was going to do any good. He straightened up and pushed the door open quietly; the room they’d set aside for Kieran was far away from the rest of the sleeping quarters, up a small flight of stairs, a room that looked as if it had likely once been used for storage. Narrow, arched windows looked out over the flat walls of other buildings. There was a massive four-poster bed in the middle of the room and an enormous wardrobe—though what they thought Kieran could possibly put in it, Mark had no idea.

The coverlet had been pulled off the bed and Kieran was nowhere to be seen. Mark felt a lurch of unease. Kieran had promised Cristina he would stay, in his own way: If he had decided not to honor his pledge to Cristina, there would be trouble.

Mark sighed, and closed his eyes. He felt stupid and vulnerable, standing in the middle of the room with his eyes shut, but he knew Kieran. “Kier,” he said. “I can’t see anything. Come out and talk to me.”

A moment later there were fierce hands on his sides, lifting him, tossing him back on the bed. Kieran’s weight pushed Mark down into the mattress; Mark opened his eyes and saw Kieran propped over him, savage and strange in his gentry clothes. The outline of Kieran’s bandages pressed against Mark’s chest, but otherwise Kieran’s weight was a familiar one. To his body, a welcome one.

Kieran was looking down at him, silver and black eyes like the night sky. “I love you,” Kieran said. “And I have made promises. But if I am to be constantly shamed and sent away, I will not answer for my actions.”

Mark smoothed back a lock of Kieran’s hair. The strands slipped through his fingers, heavy silk. “I’ll make sure they treat you with more respect. They just have to get used to you.”

Kieran’s eyes glittered. “I have done nothing to earn their distrust.”

Oh, but you have, Mark thought, you have, and everyone remembers it but you.

“They helped me rescue you,” he said instead. “Don’t be ungrateful.”

Kieran smiled at that. “I would rather imagine it was only you responsible.” He bent down to nuzzle Mark’s throat.

Mark half-closed his eyes; he could feel his own lashes tickle his cheeks. He could feel the shift of the weight of Kieran on top of him. Kieran smelled like ocean, as he usually did. Mark remembered a hill in a green country, a damp cairn of stones, tumbling with Kieran to the bottom of it. Hands in his hair and on his body when he hadn’t been touched in so long. He had burned and shivered. He shivered now. What was Kieran to him? What was he to Kieran? What had they ever been to each other?

“Kier,” Mark said. “Listen—”

“Now is not the time for talking,” said Kieran, and his lips were featherlight on Mark’s skin, moving along the pulse of his throat, along his jaw, to capture his mouth.

It was a moment that felt stretched out to forever, a moment in which Mark fell through stars that shattered all around him. Kieran’s lips were soft and cool and tasted like rain, and Mark clung to him in the dark and broken place at the bottom of the sky.

He tangled his fingers in Kieran’s hair, curled his fingertips in, heard Kieran exhale harshly against his mouth. His body pressed harder against Mark’s, and then Kieran’s fingers slid against the back of Mark’s neck and knotted in the chain that held his elf-bolt necklace.

It was like being shaken awake. Mark rolled over, taking Kieran with him, so they were lying side by side on the bed. The movement broke the kiss, and Kieran stared at him, half-annoyed and half-dazed. “Miach,” he said. His voice took the word and turned it into a beckoning caress, an invitation to faerie pleasures unimaginable.

“No,” said Mark. “Don’t call me that.”

Kieran inhaled. “There is something wrong between us, is there not? Mark, please tell me what it is. I sense the distance but do not understand its cause.”

“You don’t remember, but we had an argument. About me staying with my family. It’s why I gave you my elf-bolt necklace back.”

Kieran looked bewildered. “But I always knew you might stay with your family. I did not want it, but I must have come to accept it. I remember waking in the Unseelie Court. I do not remember feeling any anger toward you.”

“It wasn’t a bad fight.” Mark swallowed. “But I wasn’t expecting this—you, in my world. All the complications of these politics.”

“You don’t want me here?” Kieran’s face didn’t change, but his hair was suddenly streaked with white where it curled against his temples.

“It’s not that,” Mark said. “In the Wild Hunt, I thought I might die any night. Every night. I wanted everything, always, and risked anything, because no one depended on me. And then there was you, and we depended on each other, but . . .” He thought of Cristina. Her words came to him, and he couldn’t help using them, though it almost felt like a betrayal. Cristina, who he had kissed with joyous abandon for those few moments near the revel, before he had realized what she thought of him . . . someone she would only kiss when drunk or out of her mind . . .

“I have always needed you, Kieran,” he said. “I have needed you to live. I’ve always needed you so much, I never had a chance to think about whether we were good for each other or not.”

Kieran sat up. He was silent, though Mark saw—to his relief—that the white streaks in his hair had gone back to their more normal blue-black color. “That is honest,” he said finally. “I cannot fault you there.”

“Kieran—”

“How much time do you need?” Kieran had drawn himself up, and he was all proud prince of Faerie now. Mark thought of the times he’d seen Kieran at revels, at a distance; seen the smaller faeries scatter in front of him. Girls and boys who hung on his arms, hoping for a word or look, because the favor of even a disgraced prince was currency. And Kieran, granting neither those words nor those looks, because his words and looks were all for Mark. All for what they had between them when the Wild Hunt was looking away . . .

“Maybe a few days,” Mark said. “If you can be patient for that long.”

“I can be patient for a few days.”

“Why did you choose Cristina?” Mark said abruptly. “When you had to swear fealty to one of us. Why her? Did you do it to unsettle me?”

Kieran grinned. “Not everything is, as they say, about you, Mark.” He leaned back; his hair was very black against the stark white linens. “Shouldn’t you be going?”

“Don’t you want me to stay here?” Mark said. “With you?”

“While you weigh my merits as if I were a horse you were considering buying? No,” Kieran said. “Go back to your own room, Mark Blackthorn. And if loneliness keeps you from your rest, do not seek me out. Surely there must be a rune for sleeplessness.”

There wasn’t, but Mark didn’t feel like it would be a good idea to say so. Kieran’s eyes were glittering dangerously. Mark left, wondering if he’d made a horrible mistake.

* * *

Cristina’s room in the London Institute was much like the rooms she’d seen in pictures of other Institutes all over the world: plainly furnished with a heavy bed, wardrobe, dresser, and desk. A small bathroom, clean, with a shower that she’d already used. Now she lay on the lumpy mattress, the blankets pulled up to her chest, her arm aching.

She wasn’t sure why. She’d loved every moment of flying with the Wild Hunt; if she’d injured herself somehow, she had no memory of it. Not when she’d mounted the horse, or when they’d ridden, and surely she’d recall pain like that? And how could she have hurt herself any other way?

She rolled to the side and reached to touch her witchlight, on the nightstand table. It flared to a soft glow, illuminating the room—the enormous English bed, the heavy oak furniture. Someone had scrawled the initials JB+LH into the paint by the window.

She stared down at her right arm. Around her wrist was a band of paler skin, slightly reddened at the edges, like the scar left by a fiery bracelet.

* * *

“You’ll be all right?” Diana said. It was half declaration, half question.

Diana, Julian, and Emma stood in the entryway of the London Institute. The Institute doors were open and the dark courtyard was visible; it had rained earlier, and the flagstones were washed clean. Julian could see the arch of the famous metal gate that closed off the Institute, and the words worked into it: WE ARE DUST AND SHADOWS.

“We’ll be fine,” Julian said.

“Malcolm’s dead, again. No one’s trying to kill us,” said Emma. “It’s practically a vacation.”

Diana hoisted her bag higher on her shoulder. Her plan was to take a taxi to Westminster Abbey, where a secret tunnel accessible only to Shadowhunters led to Idris.

“I don’t like leaving you.”

Julian was surprised. Diana had always come and gone according to her own lights. “We’ll be fine,” he said. “Evelyn’s here, and the Clave is a phone call away.”

“Not a phone call you want to make,” said Diana. “I sent another message to Magnus and Alec, and I’ll keep in touch with them from Alicante.” She paused. “If you need them, send a fire-message and they’ll come.”

“I can handle this,” Julian said. “I’ve handled a lot worse for a lot longer.”

Diana’s eyes met his. “I would step in, if I could,” she said. “You know that. I’d take the Institute if it was possible. Put myself up against the Dearborns.”

“I know,” Julian said, and oddly enough, he did. Even if he didn’t know what prevented Diana from putting herself forward as a candidate, he knew it was something important.

“If it would make any difference,” Diana said. “But I wouldn’t even get through the interview. It would be futile, and then I wouldn’t be able to stay with you, or help you.”

She sounded as if she were trying to convince herself, and Emma reached her hand out, impulsive as always.

“Diana, you know we’d never let them take you away from us,” she said.

“Emma.” Julian’s voice was sharper than he’d intended. The anger he’d been shoving down since Emma had said she and Mark had broken up was rising again, and he didn’t know how long he could control it. “Diana knows what she’s talking about.”

Emma looked startled by the coldness in his tone. Diana flicked her eyes between them. “Look, I know it’s incredibly stressful, being kept from your home like this, but try not to fight,” she said. “You’re going to have to hold everything together until I get back from Idris.”

“It’s only a day or two,” said Emma, not looking at Julian. “And nobody’s fighting.”

“Stay in touch with us,” Julian said to Diana. “Tell us what Jia says.”

She nodded. “I haven’t been back to Idris since the Dark War. It’ll be interesting.” She leaned forward then, and kissed first Jules and then Emma, quickly, on the cheek. “Take care of yourselves. I mean it.”

She flipped the hood up on her jacket and stepped outside, swallowed up almost instantly by shadows. Emma’s arm pressed briefly against Julian’s as she raised her hand to wave good-bye. In the distance, Julian heard the clang of the front gate.

“Jules,” she said, without turning her head. “I know you said Diana refused to try to take the Institute, but do you know why . . . ?”

“No,” he said. It was a single word, but there was venom in it. “On the topic of confessions, were you planning on telling the rest of Mark’s family why you dumped their brother with no warning?”

Emma looked astonished. “You’re angry that Mark and I broke up?”

“I guess you’ve dumped two of their brothers, if we’re really counting,” he said as if she hadn’t spoken. “Who’s next? Ty?”

He knew immediately he’d gone too far. Ty was her little brother, just as he was Julian’s. Her face went very still.

“Screw you, Julian Blackthorn,” she said, spun on her heel, and stalked back upstairs.

* * *

Neither Julian nor Emma slept well that night, though each of them thought they were the only one troubled, and the other one was probably resting just fine.

* * *

“I think it’s time for you to get your first real Mark,” said Ty.

Only the three of them—Livvy, Ty, and Kit—were left in the parlor. Everyone else had gone to bed. Kit guessed from the quality of the darkness outside that it was probably three or four in the morning, but he wasn’t tired. It could be jet lag, or Portal lag, or whatever they called it; it could be the contagious relief of the others that they were all reunited again.

It could be an approximate six hundred cups of tea.

“I’ve had Marks,” said Kit. “You put that iratze on me.”

Livvy looked mildly curious but didn’t ask. She was sprawled in an armchair by the fire, her legs hooked over one side.

“I meant a permanent one,” said Ty. “This is the first real one we all get.” He held up his long-fingered right hand, the back toward Kit, showing him the graceful eye-shaped rune that identified all Shadowhunters. “Voyance. It clarifies Sight.”

“I can already see the Shadow World,” Kit pointed out. He took a bite out of a chocolate digestive biscuit. One of the few great foods England had to offer, in his opinion.

“You probably don’t see everything you could,” Livvy said, then held up her hands to indicate neutrality. “But you do what you want.”

“It’s the most painful rune to get,” said Ty. “But worthwhile.”

“Sure,” said Kit, idly picking up another biscuit—Livvy had sneaked a whole package from the pantry. “Sounds great.”

He looked up in surprise a moment later when Ty’s shadow fell across him; Ty was standing behind him, his stele out, his eyes bright. “Your dominant hand is your right,” he said, “so put that one out, toward me.”

Surprised, Kit choked on his cookie; Livvy sat bolt upright. “Ty,” she said. “Don’t; he doesn’t want one. He was just kidding.”

“I—” Kit started, but Ty had gone the color of old ivory and stepped back, looking dismayed. His eyes darted away from Kit’s. Livvy was starting to get up out of her chair.

“No— No, I do want one,” Kit said. “I would like the Mark. You’re right, it’s time I got a real one.”

The moment hung suspended; Livvy was half out of her chair. Ty blinked rapidly. Then he smiled, a little, and Kit’s heart resumed its normal beating. “Your right hand, then,” Ty said.

Kit put his hand out, and Ty was right: The Mark hurt. It felt like what he imagined getting a tattoo was like: a deep burning sting. By the time Ty was done, his eyes were watering.

Kit flexed his fingers, staring at his hand. He’d have this forever, this eye on the back of his hand, this thing that Ty had put there. He could never erase it or change it.

“I wonder,” Ty said, sliding his stele back into his belt, “where that house of Malcolm’s, in Cornwall, might be.”

“I can tell you exactly where it is,” said the girl standing by the fireplace. “It’s in Polperro.”

Kit stared. He was absolutely sure she hadn’t been standing there a moment ago. She was blond, very young, and—translucent. He could see the wallpaper right through her.

He couldn’t help himself. He yelled.

* * *

Bridget had led Emma to a bedroom she seemed to have picked out ahead of time, and Emma soon found out why: There were two height charts scribbled on the plaster, the kind you got by standing someone against a wall and drawing a line just above their head, with the date. One was marked Will Herondale, the other, James Carstairs.

A Carstairs room. Emma hugged her elbows and imagined Jem: his kind voice, his dark eyes. She missed him.

But that wasn’t all; after all, Jem and Will could have done their height charts in any room. In the nightstand drawer, Emma found a cluster of old photographs, most dating from the early 1900s.

Photographs of a group of four boys, at various stages of their lives. They seemed a lively bunch. Two of them—one blond, one dark-haired—were together in almost every photo, their arms slung around each other, both laughing. There was a girl with brown hair who looked a great deal like Tessa, but wasn’t Tessa. And then there was Tessa, looking exactly the same, with a gorgeously handsome man in his late twenties. The famous Will Herondale, Emma guessed. And there was a girl, with dark red hair and brown skin, and a serious look. There was a golden sword in her hands. Emma recognized it instantly, even without the inscription on the blade: I am Cortana, of the same steel and temper as Joyeuse and Durendal.

Cortana. Whoever the girl was in the photograph, she was a Carstairs.

On the back, someone had scrawled what looked like a line from a poem. The wound is the place where the Light enters you.

Emma stared at it for a long time.

* * *

“There’s really no need for you to yell,” said the girl crossly. Her accent was very English. “I’m a ghost, that’s all. You act as if you haven’t seen one before.”

“I haven’t,” Kit said, nettled.

Livvy was on her feet. “Kit, what’s going on? Who are you talking to?”

“A ghost,” said Ty. “Who is it, Kit?”

“My name is Jessamine,” said the girl. “And just because you didn’t see me before doesn’t mean I wasn’t trying.”

“Her name is Jessamine,” Kit reported. “She says she’s been trying to get our attention.”

“A ghost,” said Ty, looking toward the fireplace. It was clear he couldn’t see Jessamine, but also clear he had a good idea where she was standing. “They say a ghost saved the London Institute during the Dark War. Was that her?”

Kit listened and repeated. “She says she did. She looks very smug about it.”

Jessamine glared.

“She also says she knows where Malcolm lived,” said Kit.

“She does?” Livvy moved over to the desk, grabbing a pen and a notebook. “Will she tell us?”

“Polperro,” said Jessamine again. She was very pretty, with blond hair and dark eyes. Kit wondered if it was weird to think a ghost was attractive. “It’s a small town in southern Cornwall. Malcolm used to talk about his house plans sometimes, when he was in the Institute.” She waved a translucent hand. “He was very proud of the house—right on top of some famous caves. Dreadful he’s turned out to be a villain. And poor Arthur,” she added. “I used to look after him sometimes when he slept. He had the most awful nightmares about Faerie and his brother.”

“What’s she saying?” Livvy asked, her pen poised over her paper.

“Polperro,” said Kit. “Southern Cornwall. He was very proud of the location. She’s sorry he turned out to be an asshole.”

Livvy scribbled it down. “I bet she didn’t say asshole.”

“We need to go to the library,” Ty said. “Find an atlas and train schedules.”

“Ask her something for me,” said Livvy. “Why didn’t she just tell Evelyn where Malcolm’s house was?”

After a moment, Kit said, “She says Evelyn can’t really hear her. She often just makes things up and pretends Jessamine’s said them.”

“But she knows Jessamine’s here,” said Ty. “She must be a faint spirit, if none of the rest of us can see her.”

“Humph!” said Jessamine. “Faint spirit indeed; it’s clear none of you have practice observing the undead. I have done everything to get your attention outside of smacking one of you in the head with a Ouija board.”

“I just saw you,” said Kit. “And I’ve never practiced being a Shadowhunter at all.”

“You’re a Herondale,” said Jessamine. “They can see ghosts.”

“Herondales can usually see ghosts,” said Ty, at the same time. “That’s why I wanted you to get the Voyance Mark.”

Kit swiveled to look at him. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“It might not have worked,” said Ty. “I didn’t want you to feel bad if it didn’t.”

“Well, it did work,” said Livvy. “We should go wake up Julian and tell him.”

“The older boy, with the brown curly hair?” said Jessamine. “He’s awake.” She chuckled. “It’s nice to see those lovely Blackthorn eyes again.”

“Julian’s up,” Kit said, deciding not to mention that the ghost might have crush on him.

Ty joined Livvy at the door. “Are you coming, Kit?”

Kit shook his head, surprising himself. If you’d asked him a few weeks ago if he’d be pleased to be left alone with a ghost, he would have said no. And he wasn’t pleased, exactly, but he wasn’t bothered, either. There was nothing terrifying about Jessamine. She seemed older than she looked, a little wistful, and not at all dead.

She was, though. She drifted in the waft of air from the closing door, her long white fingers resting on the mantel. “You needn’t stay,” she said to Kit. “I’ll probably disappear in a minute. Even ghosts need rest.”

“I had a question,” Kit said. He swallowed hard; now that it had come to the moment, his throat was dry. “Have you—have you ever seen my father? He just died a little while ago.”

Her brown eyes filled with pity. “No,” she said. “Most people don’t become ghosts, Christopher. Only those with unfinished business on earth, or who have died feeling they owe someone something.”

“My father never thought he owed anyone anything,” muttered Kit.

“It’s better that I haven’t seen him. It means he’s gone on. He’s at peace.”

“Gone on where?” Kit raised his head. “Is he in Heaven? I mean, it seems so unlikely.”

“Christopher!” Jessamine sounded shocked.

“Seriously,” said Kit. “You didn’t know him.”

“I don’t know what comes after death,” Jessamine said. “Tessa used to come and ask me too. She wanted to know where Will was. But he didn’t linger—he died happy and at peace, and he went on.” Her hands fluttered helplessly. “I am not like Charon. I am no ferryman. I cannot say what lies on the other side of the river.”

“It could be awful,” said Kit, making a fist, feeling his new Mark sting. “It could be torture forever.”

“It could be,” Jessamine said. There was wisdom in her featherlight voice. “But I don’t think so.”

She bent her head. The firelight glinted off her pale blond hair, and then she was gone, and Kit was alone in the room. There was something in his hand, though, something that crackled when he moved.

It was a folded piece of paper. He opened it, scanning the words quickly; they had been sketched in a delicate, feminine hand.

If you steal any of the books from the library, I will know, and you’ll be sorry.

It was signed, with several flourishes: Jessamine Lovelace.

* * *

When Livvy came into Julian’s room, he was lying flat on the bed, like a dropped piece of toast. He hadn’t even bothered to change his clothes or get under the covers.

“Jules?” Livvy said, hovering in the doorway.

He sat up, fast. He’d been trying to sort through his thoughts, but the sight of his younger sibling—in his room, this late at night—banished everything but immediate, atavistic panic. “Is everything all right? Did something happen?”

Livvy nodded. “It’s good news, actually. We figured out where Malcolm’s house is—the one in Cornwall.”

“What?” Julian scrubbed his hands through his hair, rubbing at his eyes to wake himself up. “Where’s Ty?”

“In the library.” She sat down on the corner of Julian’s bed. “Turns out there’s a house ghost. Jessamine. Anyway, she remembered Malcolm and knew where his house was. Ty’s checking on it, but there’s no reason to think she wouldn’t be right. Evelyn’s been talking to her for days, we just didn’t think she really existed, but Kit—”

“Can see ghosts. Right,” said Julian. He felt more alert now. “All right. I’ll go tomorrow, see what I can find out.”

“And we’ll go to Blackthorn Hall,” Livvy said. Blackthorn Hall was one of the Blackthorn family’s two land properties: They had a manor in Idris, and a large home in Chiswick, on the Thames. It had once belonged to the Lightwoods, a long time ago. “See if there’s any papers, anything about Annabel. Kieran can’t really leave the Institute, so Mark can stay here with him and Cristina and they can look in the library.”

“No,” said Julian.

Livvy set her jaw. “Jules—”

“You can go to Blackthorn Hall,” he said. “You’ve certainly earned that much, you and Ty, and Kit, too. But Mark goes with you. Kieran can amuse himself weaving daisy chains or making up a ballad.”

Livvy’s mouth twitched. “It seems wrong to make fun of the Fair Folk.”

“Kieran’s fair game,” said Julian. “He’s annoyed us in the past.”

“I guess Cristina can watch him.”

“I was going to ask her to come to Cornwall,” said Julian.

“You and Cristina?” Livvy looked baffled. Julian couldn’t blame her. It was true that their group fell into established patterns based on age and acquaintance. Jules and Emma, or Jules and Mark, made sense. Jules and Cristina didn’t.

“And Emma,” Julian added, cursing silently. The thought of extended time with Emma, especially now, was—terrifying. But it would be considered bizarre if he went without her, his parabatai. Never mind that Emma wouldn’t sit still for it. Not a chance.

Bringing Cristina would help, though. Cristina would be a buffer. Having to put someone between himself and Emma made him feel sick, but the memory of the way he’d snapped at her in the entryway made him feel sicker.

It had been like watching someone else talking to the person he loved the most in the world; someone else, hurting his parabatai on purpose. He had been able to do something with his feelings while she’d been with Mark—twist and crumple them, shove them far underneath his skin and consciousness. He had felt them there, bleeding, like a tumor slicing open his internal organs, but he hadn’t been able to see them.

Now they were there again, laid out before him. It was terrifying to love someone who was forbidden to you. Terrifying to feel something you could never speak of, something that was horrible to almost everyone you knew, something that could destroy your life.

It was in some ways more terrifying to know that your feelings were unwanted. When he had thought Emma loved him back, he had not been completely alone in his hell. When she was with Mark, he could tell himself that it was Mark keeping them apart. Not that she would rather be with no one than be with him.

“Cristina knows a great deal about the Black Volume,” Julian said. He had no idea if this was true or not. Graciously, Livvy didn’t pursue it. “She’ll be helpful.”

“Blackthorn Hall, here we come,” said Livvy, and slid off the bed. She looked to Julian like a little girl from an old illustration in a picture book, in her puffed-sleeve blue dress. But maybe Livvy would always look like a little girl to him. “Jules?”

“Yes?”

“We know,” she said. “We know about Arthur, and what was wrong with him. We know you ran the Institute. We know it was you doing all of it since the Dark War.”

Julian felt as if the bed were tilting under him. “Livia . . .”

“We’re not angry,” she said quickly. “I’m here by myself because I wanted to talk to you alone, before Ty and Dru. There was something I wanted to say to you.”

Julian still had his fingers in the bedspread. He suspected he was in some kind of shock. He’d thought of how this moment might go for so many years that now that it was happening, he had no idea what to say.

“Why?” he managed finally.

“I realized something,” she said. “I want to be like you, Jules. Not this second, not right now, but someday. I want to take care of people, other Shadowhunters, people who need me. I want to run an Institute.”

“You’d be good at it,” he said. “Livvy—I didn’t tell you because I couldn’t. Not because I didn’t trust you. I didn’t even tell Emma. Not until a few weeks ago.”

She only smiled at him, and came around the side of the bed to where he was sitting. She bent down, and he felt her kiss him softly on the forehead. He closed his eyes, remembering when she’d been small enough for him to lift her in his arms, when she’d followed him, holding her hands out to him: Julian, Julian, carry me.

“There’s nobody else I’d rather be like than you,” she said. “I want you to be proud of me.”

He opened his eyes at that and hugged her awkwardly, one-armed, and then she pulled away and ruffled his hair. He complained, and she laughed and headed for the door, saying she was exhausted. She flipped off the light as she went out of the room, leaving him in darkness.

He rolled under the blanket. Livvy knew. They knew. They knew, and they didn’t hate him. It was a weight off him he had almost forgotten he’d been carrying.