Also by Cassandra Clare

“Oh, you have,” she said. “We all have. And so has Mark.”
Ty looked agitated. “But the room is dusty,” he said. “We threw out his things. He’ll think we forgot
him, that we don’t care.”
Julian winced. “I kept his things. They’re in one of the storerooms on the ground floor.”
“Good.” Cristina brought her hands together sharply. “He’ll need them. And more. Clothes to
replace the ones he’s wearing. Anything of his that was kept. Anything that’ll seem familiar. Photos,
or things he might remember.”
“We can get those,” said Livvy. “Me and Ty.”
Ty looked relieved to have been given a specific task. He and Livvy headed downstairs, their
voices a low murmur.
Julian, looking after them, exhaled raggedly—mingled tension and relief. “Thanks for giving them
something to do.”
Emma reached out to squeeze Cristina’s hand. She felt oddly proud, as if she wanted to point to
Cristina and say: “Look, my friend knows exactly what to do!”
“How do you know exactly what to do?” she asked aloud, and Cristina blinked.
“This is my field of study, remember,” Cristina said. “Faerie and the results of the Cold Peace. Of
course the Folk have returned him to you with demands, that is part of their cruelty. He needs time to
recover, to begin to recognize this world and his life again. Instead they would thrust him back into it
as if it would be easy for him to be a Shadowhunter again.”
Julian leaned back against the wall beside the door. Emma could see the dark fire in his eyes,
banked under his lowered eyelids. “They injured him,” he said. “Why?”
“So you would do what you did,” said Emma. “So you would get a stele.”
He cursed, short and harsh. “So I would see what they did to him, how he hates me?”
“He doesn’t hate you,” said Cristina. “He hates himself. He hates that he is Nephilim, because they
would have taught that to him. Hate for hate. They are an old people and that is their idea of justice.”
“How is Mark?” It was Diana, emerging at the top of the stairs. She hurried toward them, her skirts
whispering around her ankles. “Is someone in there with him?”
As Julian explained what had happened, Diana listened silently. She was buckling on her weapons
belt. She had put on boots, and her hair was tied back. A leather satchel was slung over her shoulder.
“Hopefully he can rest,” she said when Julian finished. “Kieran said the journey here took them
two days through Faerie, no sleep, he’s probably exhausted.”
“Kieran?” said Emma. “It’s weird calling gentry faeries by their first names. He is gentry, right?”
Diana nodded. “Kieran’s a prince of Faerie; he didn’t say so, but it’s obvious. Iarlath is from the
Unseelie Court, not a prince, but some sort of Court member. You can tell.”
Julian glanced toward the door of his brother’s room. “I should go back in there—”
“No,” Diana said. “You and Emma are going to Malcolm Fade’s.” She fished into her satchel and
came out with the faerie documents that Kieran had given to her earlier. Up close Emma could see
that they were two sheets of parchment, thin as onionskin. The ink on them looked as if it had been
carved there. “Take this to him. See what he can make of it.”
“Now?” Emma said. “But—”
“Now,” said Diana flatly. “The Folk have given you—given us— three weeks. Three weeks with
Mark to solve this. Then they take him back.”
“Three weeks?” Julian echoed. “That’s not nearly enough time.”
“I could go with them,” Cristina said.
“I need you here, Cristina,” said Diana. “Someone has to watch over Mark, and it can’t be one of