Also by Cassandra Clare

Julian looked up at her. The sun was shining directly into his eyes, overlaying the blue-green with
gold, making them look like the patina that shone on the Roman glass Arthur collected. “Em,” he said.
“However much we might joke about it, you know I take this seriously. It’s your parents. You deserve
to know what happened.”
She felt a sudden lump in her throat. “This just feels different,” she whispered. “I know how many
times I’ve thought I found out something and it was nothing, or I’ve followed a false lead, but this
feels like something else, Jules. This feels real.”
Her phone rang. She looked away from Jules, fishing it out of her pocket. When she saw the name
flash up on-screen she made a face and shoved it back. Jules raised an eyebrow, his expression
neutral.
“Cameron Ashdown?” he said. “Why aren’t you picking up?”
“Just not in the mood.” The words came out almost to her surprise; she wondered why she wasn’t
telling him. Cameron and I broke up.
The front door banged open. “Emma! Jules!”
It was Drusilla and Tavvy, both still in pajamas. Tavvy had a lollipop in one hand and was sucking
on it industriously. When he saw Emma, his eyes lit up and he ran toward her. “Emma!” he said
around the candy.
She pulled him close and wrapped her arms around his round little-boy middle, squeezing until he
giggled.
“Tavvy!” Julian said. “Don’t run with lollipops in your mouth. You could choke.”
Tavvy removed the lollipop and stared at it the way someone might stare at a loaded gun. “And
die?”
“Hideously,” Julian said. “Fatally, fatally die.” He turned to Drusilla, who had her hands on her
hips. Her black pajamas were decorated with cartoon drawings of chain saws and skeletons. “What’s
up, Dru?”
“It’s Friday,” Drusilla said. “Pancake day? You remember? You promised?”
“Oh, right, I did.” Julian tugged affectionately on one of his little sister’s braids. “You go wake up
Livvy and Ty, and I’ll—”
“They’re already awake,” Dru said. “They’re in the kitchen. Waiting.” She looked at him pointedly.
Julian smiled. “Okay. I’ll be right there.” He picked Tavvy up and deposited him back in the
entryway. “You two scoot along to the kitchen and reassure the twins before they get desperate and
start trying to do the cooking themselves.”
They scampered off, giggling. Julian turned back to Emma with a sigh. “I have been lollipoped,” he
said, indicating where Tavvy had managed to leave a blue sugar circle at the collar of his shirt.
“Badge of honor.” Emma laughed. “See you in the kitchen. I need to shower.” She darted up the
steps, pausing at the open front door to look down at him. Framed against the blue sea and blue sky,
his eyes looked like bits of the landscape. “Jules—was there something you wanted to ask me?”
He glanced away, shaking his head. “No. Nothing at all.”
Someone was shaking Cristina by the shoulder. She woke up slowly, blinking. She’d been dreaming
about home, about the heat of summer, the shade of the cool gardens of the Institute, the roses her
mother cultivated in a climate not always friendly to the delicate flower. Yellow roses were
preferred, because they had been the favorite flower of her most beloved writer, but roses of any
color were necessary to illuminate the proud name of Rosales.
Cristina had been walking in a garden, about to turn a corner, when she heard the murmur of