Also by Cassandra Clare

“You made it,” she said. “For my birthday. I was thirteen.”
He leaned forward, hands on his knees. “Do you miss home, Cristina?” he asked. “Even a little
bit?”
“Of course I miss it,” she said. The line of his back was smooth, unbroken. She remembered
digging her nails into his shoulder blades when they kissed. “I miss my family. I miss even the traffic
in the D.F.—not that it’s much better here. I miss the food, you wouldn’t believe what they call
Mexican food here. I miss eating jicaletas in the park with you.” She remembered lime and chile
powder on her hands, a little bit sour and a little bit hot.
“I miss you,” he said. “Every day I miss you.”
“Diego . . .” She slid from the chair onto the bed and reached for his right hand. It was broad and
warm in hers, and she felt the pressure of his family ring against her hand—both of them wore the ring
of the Rosales family, but hers had the pattern of the Mendozas on the inside, and his the Rocios. “You
saved my life,” she said. “I regret that I was so unforgiving. I should have known better. Should have
known you better.”
“Cristina . . .” His free hand found her hair, her cheek. His fingertips brushed her skin lightly. He
leaned toward her, giving her ample time to back away. She didn’t. When his mouth found hers, she
tipped her head up for the kiss, her heart expanding with the strange feeling that she was moving
toward both her future and her past at the same time.
Somewhere, Mark thought. It was somewhere in the house. Julian had told him that he’d boxed up
everything in Mark’s room and put it into the eastern storage area. It was past time for him to reclaim
his old belongings and make his room look like someone lived in it. Which meant he had to find the
storage space.
Mark would have just asked Julian where it was, but he hadn’t been able to find him. Maybe he
was hiding himself somewhere, scribbling away on Institute business. It seemed more than strange to
Mark that things were going to go back to the way they had been, with Julian running the Institute and
the Clave never knowing.
Surely there must be some way to help take the burden off his brother. Certainly now that he and
Emma knew, it would be easier on Jules. The time had probably come to tell the younger ones too.
Silently, Mark vowed he would stand by his brother through that. It was easier to live in truth than a
lie, Kieran had always said.
Mark flinched at the thought of Kieran and yanked a door open. A music room. Clearly not one that
anyone used much—there was a dusty piano, a series of stringed instruments hung on the wall, and a
violin case. The violin case, at least, looked polished. Emma’s father had played the violin, Mark
recalled. The faerie Courts’ obsession with those who could play music had kept Mark far away from
any interest in melody.
“Mark?”
He jumped and turned. Ty was behind him, barefoot in a black sweater and dark jeans. The dark
colors made him look even thinner.
“Hello, Tiberius.” Mark liked the long version of his little brother’s name. It seemed to suit him
and his solemn demeanor. “Were you looking for something?”
“I was looking for you,” said Ty in his direct way. “I tried last night, but I couldn’t find you, and
then I fell asleep.”
“I was saying good-bye to Kieran,” said Mark.
“Good-bye?” Ty hunched his shoulders up. “Does that mean you’re staying here definitely?”