Also by Cassandra Clare

“I’m sorry,” Julian said.
“You’re sorry? All of this, Jules, the convoy— If I hadn’t told Cristina about Gwyn’s cloak—”
“They would have found something else to punish you with,” said Julian. “Kieran wanted to hurt
you. You hurt him, so he wanted to hurt you. I’m sorry—sorry about Kieran, because I can see you
cared about him. I’m sorry I didn’t know you’d left anyone you cared about behind. I’m sorry that for
years I thought you were the one who had freedom, that you were enjoying yourself in Faerie while I
killed myself here trying to raise four kids and run the Institute and keep Arthur’s secrets. I wanted to
believe you were okay—I wanted to believe one of us was okay. So much.”
“You wanted to believe I was happy, just as I wanted to believe the same about you,” Mark said. “I
had thought about whether you were happy, thriving, living. I had never stopped to wonder what kind
of man you might have grown up to be.” He paused. “I am proud of you. I have had little hand in the
shaping of you, but I am proud nonetheless to call you my brother—to call all of you my brothers and
sisters. And I will not leave you again.”
Julian’s eyes widened, their color Blackthorn bright in the gloom. “You won’t go back to Faerie?”
“No matter what happens,” Mark said, “I will stay here. I will always, always stay here.”
He put his arms around Julian and held him tightly. Julian exhaled, as if he were letting go of
something heavy that he had carried for a long time, and leaning on Mark’s shoulder, he let his older
brother bear just a little of his weight.
Emma dreamed about her parents.
They were in the small white-painted Venice house they had lived in when she was a child. She
could see the faint glimmer of the canals from the window. Her mother sat at the kitchen island, a
cloth spread out in front of her. On the cloth lay an array of knives, sorted from smallest to largest.
The largest was Cortana, and Emma gazed at it hungrily, drinking in the smooth goldness, the sharp
glow of the blade.
Compared to the brilliance of the weapon, her mother seemed a shadow. Her hair glowed, and her
hands, as she worked, but the edges of her were indistinct, and Emma was terrified that if she reached
for her mother she would disappear.
Music rose around them. Emma’s father, John, came into the kitchen, his violin tucked against his
shoulder. Usually he played with a shoulder rest but not now. The violin poured forth music like
water and—
The sharp crack of a whip, pain like fire.
Emma gasped. Her mother lifted her head.
“Is something wrong, Emma?”
“I—no, nothing.” She turned toward her father. “Keep playing, Dad.”
Her father gave his gentle smile. “You sure you don’t want to try?”
Emma shook her head. Whenever she touched bow to strings, it made the sound of a strangled cat.
“Music is in the blood of the Carstairs,” he said. “This violin once belonged to Jem Carstairs.”
Jem, Emma thought. Jem, who had helped her through her parabatai ceremony with gentle hands
and a thoughtful smile. Jem, who had given her his cat to watch over her.
Pain that went through skin like a blade. Cristina’s voice saying, “Emma, oh, Emma, why did
they hurt you so much?”
Her mother lifted Cortana. “Emma, I’m sure you’re a thousand miles away.”
“Maybe not quite that far.” Her father lowered his bow.
“Emma.” It was Mark’s voice. “Emma, come back. For Julian, please. Come back.”