Also by Cassandra Clare

growing out of a field and let her hair, which reached her waist, out of its usual ponytail. She’d
shot up like a weed in the past year, and she nearly reached Jace’s shoulder when he came over to
congratulate her and Julian.
She’d had the worst crush of all time on Jace when she was twelve and she still felt a little
awkward around him. He was nearly nineteen years old now, and even better-looking than he had
been—taller, broader, tanned, and with his hair bleached from sunlight, but more than anything
else, happier-looking. She remembered a tense-looking, beautiful boy who burned with revenge
and heavenly fire, and now he looked at ease with himself.
Which was nice. She was happy for him, and for Clary, who smiled and waved at her across the
room. But she no longer got butterflies in her stomach when he smiled at her, or wanted to crawl
under something and die when he hugged her and told her she looked pretty in her new dress.
“You’ve got a lot of responsibility now,” he said to Julian. “You’ll have to make sure she winds up
with a guy who deserves her.”
Julian was strangely white-faced. Maybe he was feeling the effects of the ceremony, Emma
thought. It had been strong magic, and she still felt it sizzling through her blood like champagne
bubbles. But Jules looked as if he were getting sick.
“What about me?” Emma said quickly. “Don’t I have to make sure Jules winds up with someone
who deserves him?”
“Absolutely. I did it for Alec, Alec did it for me—well, actually, he hated Clary at first, but he
came around.”
“I bet you didn’t like Magnus much, either,” said Julian, still with the same odd, stiff look on his
face.
“Maybe not,” said Jace, “but I never would have said so.”
“Because it would have hurt Alec’s feelings?” Emma asked.
“No,” said Jace, “because Magnus would have turned me into a hat rack,” and he wandered
back toward Clary, who was laughing with Alec, both of them looking happy.
Which was as it should be, Emma thought. One’s parabatai should be friends with the person you
loved, your spouse or boyfriend or girlfriend, because that was how it worked. Though when she
tried to imagine the person she’d be with, someone she might marry and stay with forever, there
was only a sort of blurry space. She couldn’t picture the person at all.
“I have to go,” Julian said. “I need some air.” He brushed the back of his hand across Emma’s
cheek before making for the double doors of the Hall. It was a ragged touch: His nails were bitten
down to the edges.
Later that night Emma woke up from a dream of fiery circles, her skin burning hot, the sheets
tangled around her legs. They had been put up in the old Blackthorn manor house, and Julian was
far away, down corridors she didn’t know like she knew the hallways of the Institute. She went to
the window. It was a short drop down to the garden path. She kicked her feet into slippers and
climbed outside.
The path curved around the gardens. Emma made her way along it, breathing in the cool, clean
air of Idris, untouched by smog. The sky above was brilliant with a million stars, totally free of
light pollution, and she wished Julian was with her so she could show it to him, and then she heard
voices.
The Blackthorn manor had burned down quite a long time ago and been rebuilt near to the
Herondale manor. Emma wandered down a number of pretty paths until she found a wall.
There was a gate set into the wall. As Emma approached it, she could hear the murmured voices