Also by Cassandra Clare

“Which pictures?” Emma asked as Julian straightened up.
“The ones of us. The card ones.”
She raised an eyebrow at Jules. “The card what?”
He flushed. “Portraits,” he said. “I did them in the Rider-Waite style, like the tarot.”
“The mundane tarot?” Emma said as Jules reached for a portfolio book. Shadowhunters tended to
eschew the objects of mundane superstition: palmistry, astrology, crystal balls, tarot cards. They
weren’t forbidden to own or touch, but they were associated with unsavory dwellers on the fringes of
magic, like Johnny Rook.
“I made some changes to it,” Julian said, opening the book to show a flutter of papers, each
sporting a colorful, distinctive illustration. There was Livvy with her saber, hair flying, but instead of
her name beneath, it read THE PROTECTOR. As always, Julian’s paintings seemed to reach out, a direct
line to her heart, making her feel as if she understood what Julian had felt while he was painting.
Looking at the picture of Livvy, Emma felt a flash of admiration, love, a fear of loss, even—Julian
would never speak of it, but she suspected he was watching Livvy and Ty become adults with more
than a little terror.
Then there was Tiberius, a death’s-head moth fluttering on his hand, his pretty face turned down
and away from the viewer. The painting gave Emma a sense of fierce love, intelligence, and
vulnerability mixed together. Beneath him it said THE GENIUS.
Then there was THE DREAMER—Dru with her head in a book—and THE INNOCENT, Tavvy in his
pajamas, sleepy head cradled in his hand. The colors were warm, affectionate, caressing.
And then there was Mark. Arms crossed over his chest, hair as blond as straw, he wore a shirt that
bore the design of spread wings. Each wing sported an eye: one gold, one blue. A rope circled his
ankle, trailing out of the frame.
THE PRISONER, it said.
Jules’s shoulder brushed against Emma’s as she leaned in to study the image. Like all Julian’s
drawings, it seemed to whisper to her in a silent language: loss, it said, and sorrow, and years that
you could not recapture.
“Is this what you were working on in England?” she asked.
“Yes. I was hoping to do the whole set.” He reached back and scrubbed at his tangled brown curls.
“I might have to change the title of Mark’s card,” said Julian. “Now that he’s free.”
“If he stays free.” Emma brushed the drawing of Mark aside and saw that the next portrait was of
Helen, standing among ice floes, her pale hair covered by a knitted cap. THE SEPARATED, it said. There
was another card, THE DEVOTED, for her wife, Aline, whose dark hair made a cloud around her. She
wore the Blackthorn ring on her hand. And the last was of Arthur, sitting at his desk. A red ribbon ran
along the floor beneath him, the color of blood. There was no title.
Julian reached out and shuffled them back into the notebook. “They’re not finished yet.”
“Am I going to get a card?” Emma teased. “Or is it just Blackthorns and Blackthorns-bymarriage?”
“Why don’t you draw Emma?” Tavvy asked, looking at his brother. “You never draw Emma.”
Emma saw Julian tense. It was true. Julian rarely drew people, but even when he did, he’d stopped
sketching Emma years ago. The last time she remembered him drawing her was the family portrait at
Aline and Helen’s wedding.
“Are you all right?” she said, her voice low enough that she hoped Tavvy couldn’t hear.
He exhaled, hard, and opened his eyes, his muscles unclenching. His eyes met hers and the curl of
anger that had begun unfurling in her stomach vanished. His gaze was open, vulnerable. “I’m sorry,”