Also by Cassandra Clare

Emma shouldered open the door to Julian’s studio, trying hard not to spill any liquid out of the
two overflowing mugs of soup she was carrying.
There were two rooms in Julian’s studio: the one Julian let people see, and the one he didn’t. His
mother, Eleanor, had used the larger room as a studio and the smaller one as a darkroom to develop
photographs. Ty had often voiced the question of whether the developing chemicals and setup were
still intact, and whether he could use them.
But the second studio room was the only issue on which Julian didn’t bend to the will of his
younger siblings or offer to give up what was his for them. The black-painted door stayed closed and
locked, and even Emma wasn’t allowed inside.
Nor did she ask. Julian had so little privacy, she didn’t want to begrudge him the bit he could
claim.
The main studio was beautiful. Two of the walls were glass, one facing the ocean and one the
desert. The other two walls were painted creamy taupe, and Julian’s mother’s canvases—abstracts in
bright colors—still adorned them.
Jules was standing by the central island, a massive block of granite whose surface was covered
with sheafs of paper, boxes of watercolors, and piled tubes of paint with lyrical names: alazarin red,
cardinal purple, cadmium orange, ultramarine blue.
He raised one hand and put a finger to his lips, glancing to the side. Seated at a small easel was
Tavvy, armed with a box of open nontoxic paints. He was smearing them over a long sheet of butcher
paper, seeming pleased with his multicolored creation. There was orange paint in his brown curls.
“I just got him calmed down,” Julian said as Emma approached and set the mugs on the island.
“What’s going on? Has anyone talked to Mark?”
“His door’s still locked,” Emma said. “The others are in the library.” She pushed one of the mugs
toward him. “Eat,” she said. “Cristina made it. Tortilla soup. Although she says we have the wrong
chiles.”
Julian picked up a mug and knelt down to place it next to Tavvy. His little brother looked up and
blinked at Emma as if he’d just noticed she was there. “Did Jules show you the pictures?” he
demanded. Blue had joined the orange and yellow in his hair. He looked like a sunset.