Also by Cassandra Clare

face.
“I . . . won’t?” Cristina assured him, puzzled.
“Tavvy,” Julian groaned. He was pouring batter from a white ceramic pitcher into the frying pan on
the stove. The room filled with the smell of butter and pancakes. “Get up and set the table, you
useless layabouts—not you, Cristina,” he added, looking embarrassed. “You’re a guest.”
“I’ll be here for a year. I’m not really a guest,” Cristina said, and went with the rest of them to get
cutlery and plates. There was a buzz of pleasant activity, and Cristina felt herself relax. If she had to
admit it, she’d been dreading the Blackthorns descending, disrupting the pleasant rhythm of her life
here with Emma and Diana. Now that the family was here, here and real, she felt guilty for having
resented them.
“First pancakes are up,” Julian announced.
Ty put down his book and picked up a plate. Cristina, reaching into the refrigerator for more butter,
heard him say to Julian, “I thought you forgot it was pancake day.” There was accusation in his voice,
and something else besides—a slight edge of nervousness? She remembered Emma saying in passing
that Ty got upset when his routine was interrupted.
“I didn’t forget, Ty,” Julian said gently. “I was distracted. But I didn’t forget.”
Ty seemed to relax. “All right.”
He went back over to the table, and Tavvy bounded up after him. They were organized, the
Blackthorns, in the unconscious way that only a family could be: knowing who got pancakes first (Ty),
who wanted butter and syrup (Dru), who wanted just syrup (Livvy), and who wanted sugar (Emma).
Cristina ate hers plain. It was buttery and not too sweet, crisp around the edges. “These are good,”
she said to Julian, who had finally sat down on a bench seat beside Emma. Up close she could see
lines of tiredness at the edges of his eyes, lines that seemed out of place on the face of a boy so young.
“Practice.” He smiled at her. “I’ve been making them since I was twelve.”
Livvy gave a bounce in her seat. She was wearing a black tank dress and reminded Cristina of the
stylish mundane girls in Mexico City, striding purposefully around Condesa and Roma in their sheath
dresses and delicate strappy heels. Her brown hair was streaked liberally with gold where the sun
had bleached it. “It’s so good to be back,” she said, licking syrup off her finger. “It just wasn’t the
same at Great-Aunt Marjorie’s without you two looking after us.” She pointed at Emma and Julian. “I
see why they say you shouldn’t separate parabatai, you just go together, like—”
“Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson,” said Ty, who had gone back to reading.
“Chocolate and peanut butter,” said Tavvy.
“Captain Ahab and the whale,” said Dru, who was dreamily drawing patterns in the syrup on her
empty plate.
Emma choked on her juice. “Dru, the whale and Captain Ahab were enemies.”
“True,” Julian agreed. “The whale without Ahab is just a whale. A whale with no problems. A
stress-free whale.”
Dru looked mutinous. “I heard you guys talking,” she said to Emma and Julian. “I was out on the
lawn, before I went back in to get Tavvy. About Emma finding a body?”
Ty looked up immediately. “Emma found a body?”
Emma glanced a little worriedly at Tavvy, but he appeared absorbed in his food. She said, “Well,
while you guys were gone, there’ve been a series of murders—”
“Murders? How come you didn’t say anything to Julian or us about it?” Ty was bolt upright now,
his book dangling from his hand. “You could have sent an e-mail or a fire-message or a postcard—”
“A murder postcard?” said Livvy, wrinkling up her nose.