Also by Cassandra Clare

“Hold still,” she said.
“As my lady requests.”
She ran the comb through his hair and began to cut, careful to keep the length even. As she snipped
away the weight of his silvery-blond mane, it sprang free in adorable curls like Julian’s. They twined
up against the back of his neck as if they wanted to be close to him.
She remembered touching Diego’s hair; it had been thick under her fingers, dark and textured.
Mark’s was fine, like corn silk. It fell like gleaming chaff, catching the witchlight.
“Tell me about the faerie Court,” she said. “I’ve always heard stories. My mother told me some,
and my uncle.”
“We didn’t see it much,” he said, sounding very ordinary for a moment. “Gwyn and the Hunters
aren’t part of any Court. He keeps himself to himself. We joined the Courts and the gentry only on
nights when there were revels. But those were—”
He was silent for so long she wondered if he had fallen asleep or was perhaps simply deathly
bored.
“If you had been to one you would not forget it,” he said. “Great sparkling caves or deserted
copses in woodlands full of will-o’-the-wisp lights. There are still some parts of this world that are
undiscovered by all but the Folk. There was dancing to wear your feet down, and there were beautiful
boys and girls, and kisses were cheaper than wine but the wine was sweet and the fruit sweeter. And
you would wake up in the morning and it would all be gone, but you could still hear the music in your
head.”
“I think I would find it very frightening.” She moved around to stand in front of him. He looked up
at her with his curious two-colored eyes and she felt a tremor run through her hand, one she’d never
felt when she cut Diego’s hair or his brother Jaime’s or any of her little cousins’. Of course, they’d
been twelve when she’d clipped their hair, showing off what her mother had taught her, so maybe it
was different when you were older. “Everything so glamorous and beautiful. How can a human
compare?”
He looked surprised. “But you would be lovely in the Court,” he said. “They would turn leaves and
flowers into jeweled crowns and sandals for you. You would sparkle and be admired. The Folk love
nothing more than mortal beauty.”
“Because it fades,” she said.
“Yes,” he admitted. “It is true that eventually you will become gray and bent and withered, and it is
possible that hair will sprout from your chin. And there is also the issue of warts.” He caught her
glare. “But that time is a long time away,” he added hastily.
Cristina snorted. “I thought faeries were meant to be charming.” She slid a hand under his chin to
steady his head as she snipped away the last unruly strands. That was different too; his skin was as
smooth as hers, no hint of stubble or roughness. His eyes narrowed, their color thinning to a gleam as
she set the scissors aside and cleared her throat. “There,” she said. “Would you like to see?”
He straightened up in the chair. Cristina was bending down; their heads were on a level. “Lean
closer,” he said. “For years I have had no mirror; I have learned to make do. The eyes of another can
be a mirror more effective than water. If you will look at me, I can see my reflection in yours.”
I have had to make do. Whose eyes had he been looking into, all those years? Cristina wondered
as she leaned forward. She didn’t know why she did it, exactly; maybe it was the way his eyes stayed
fixed on hers, as if he couldn’t imagine anything more fascinating than looking at her. His gaze didn’t
stray, either, not to the V of her shirt or her bare legs or even her hands, as she opened her eyes wide
and looked directly back at him.