Also by Cassandra Clare

a few windows glowed—Julian’s studio, the bright spot of the attic, the square that was the kitchen.
Frowning, Cristina went directly there, wondering if Emma had returned yet from her mysterious
errand. If the others had managed to clean up the mess they’d made.
At first glance the kitchen seemed deserted, only a single light on. Dishes were piled in the sink,
and though someone had clearly scrubbed the walls and counters, there was still food crusted onto the
stove, and two large trash bags, stuffed full and half-spilling their contents, propped against the wall.
“Cristina?”
She blinked into the dimness, though there was no mistaking the voice.
Mark.
He was sitting on the floor, his legs crossed. Tavvy was asleep beside him—on him, really, his
head resting in the crook of Mark’s arm, his small legs and arms curled up like a potato bug’s. Mark’s
T-shirt and jeans were covered with powdered sugar.
Cristina slowly unwound her scarf and placed it on the table. “Has Emma returned yet?”
“I don’t know,” Mark said, his hand carefully stroking Tavvy’s hair. “But if she has, she’s probably
gone to sleep.”
Cristina sighed. She’d probably have to wait until tomorrow to see Emma, find out what she’d
been doing. Tell her about Diego’s phone call, if she could get up the nerve.
“Could you—if you don’t mind—get me a glass of water?” Mark asked. He looked down halfapologetically
at the boy in his lap. “I don’t want to wake him.”
“Of course.” Cristina went to the sink, filled a glass, and returned, sitting down cross-legged
opposite Mark. He took the glass with a grateful expression. “I’m sure Julian isn’t that angry with
you,” she said.
Mark made an inelegant noise, finishing the water and setting the glass down.
“You could pick up Tavvy,” Cristina suggested. “You could carry him to bed. If you want him to
sleep.”
“I like him here,” Mark said, looking down at his own long, pale fingers tangled in the little boy’s
brown curls. “He just— They all left, and he fell asleep on me.” He sounded amazed, wondering.
“Of course he did,” Cristina said. “He’s your brother. He trusts you.”
“Nobody trusts a Hunter,” Mark said.
“You are not a Hunter in this house. You are a Blackthorn.”
“I wish Julian agreed with you. I thought I was keeping the children happy. I thought that’s what
Julian would have wanted.”
Tavvy shifted in Mark’s arms and Mark moved too, so that the edge of his boot was touching the tip
of Cristina’s. She felt the contact like a small shock.
“You have to understand,” she said. “Julian does everything for these children. Everything. I have
never seen a brother who is so much like a parent. He cannot only tell them yes, he has to tell them no.
He must deal in discipline and punishment and denial. Whereas you, you can give them anything. You
can have fun with them.”
“Julian can have fun with them,” Mark said a little sulkily.
“He can’t,” said Cristina. “He is envious because he loves them but he cannot be their brother. He
must be their father. In his mind, they dread him and adore you.”
“Julian’s jealous?” Mark looked astonished. “Of me?”
“I think so.” Cristina met his eyes. At some point, in knowing him, the mismatch between his blue
and his golden one had stopped seeming strange to her. The same way it had stopped seeming strange
to be in the Blackthorns’ kitchen, speaking English, instead of at home, where things were warm and