Also by Cassandra Clare

surprise. She could feel his heart beating, smell his soap and paint and cloves scent. His hair was soft
against her cheek.
“What are you doing?” she said.
“I need you to come with me.” His voice was tight, as if he were screwing his courage up to do
something horrible. “I need you to see something.”
“You make it sound like you’re a serial killer with a freezer full of arms,” Emma muttered as he
shouldered open the door.
“The Clave would probably be happier about that.”
Emma wanted to rub her cheek against his, feel the roughness of his stubble. He was entirely a
mess, actually, his shirt on inside out and his feet bare. She felt a rush of affection and wanting so
intense that her whole body tightened.
“You can put me down,” she said. “I’m fine. I don’t need to be princess-carried.”
He laughed, a short, choked laugh. “I didn’t know that was a verb,” he said, but he set her on her
feet. Carefully and slowly, and they leaned into each other, as if neither of them could stand the fact
that in a moment, they would no longer be touching.
Emma’s heart began to pound. It pounded as she followed Julian down the empty corridor, and it
pounded as they started up the back staircase and went into his studio. It pounded as she leaned
against the paint-covered island, and Julian went to take a key from a drawer by the window.
She saw him breathe in, his shoulders rising. He looked the way he had when he was steeling
himself to be whipped.
Having gathered his courage, he went to the door of the locked room, the one that no one but him
ever entered. He turned the key in the lock with a decisive click and the door sprang open.
He stood aside. “Go in,” he said.
Years of ingrained habit and respect for Julian’s privacy held Emma back. “Are you sure?”
He nodded. He was pale. She drew away from the island and crossed the room with a sense of
apprehension. Maybe he did have bodies in there. Whatever it was, it had to be something awful.
She’d never seen him look like he did now.
She stepped inside the room. For a moment she thought she’d stepped into a funhouse of mirrors.
Reflections of herself stared back from every surface. The walls were covered with tacked-up
sketches and paintings, and there was an easel as well, set up in one corner near the single window,
with a half-finished drawing on it. Two countertops ran the length of the east and west walls, and
those, too, were covered in art.
Every image was of her.
There she was training, holding Cortana, playing with Tavvy, reading to Dru. In one watercolor,
she was sleeping on the beach, her head pillowed on her hand. The details of the slope of her
shoulder, the individual grains of sand stuck to her skin like sugar, had been rendered so lovingly that
she felt almost dizzy. In another, she rose above the city of Los Angeles. She was naked, but her body
was transparent—one could see only the outlines of it, and the stars of the night sky shone through her.
Her hair tumbled down like brilliant light, illuminating the world.
She remembered what he’d said to her when they were dancing. I was thinking about painting
you. Painting your hair. That I’d have to use titanium white to get the color right, the way it
catches light and almost glows. But that wouldn’t work, would it? It’s not all one color, your hair,
it’s not just gold: It’s amber and tawny and caramel and wheat and honey.
She reached up to touch her hair, which she’d never thought of as anything but ordinary blond, and
then stared at the painting clipped to the easel. It was half-finished, an image of Emma striding out of