Arthur put his hand to his head, as if it pained him. “If I’ve been deceived,” he said, “then let Julian explain it.”

Robert’s hard gaze swept over their group and fastened on Diego. “Centurion,” he said. “Step forward.”

Julian tensed. Diego. He hadn’t factored him in, but Diego was a Centurion, and as such, sworn to tell the truth to the Clave. Of course Robert would want to talk to Diego instead of him.

He knew there was no real reason for Robert to want to talk to him at all. He didn’t run the Institute. Arthur did. Never mind that he’d been answering Robert’s letters for years and recognized Robert’s way of doing things better than anyone else here; never mind that in official correspondence, at least, they knew each other well. He was just a teenage boy.

“Yes, Inquisitor?” Diego said.

“Speak to us of Malcolm Fade.”

“Malcolm isn’t who you think,” Diego said. “He has been responsible for countless deaths. He was responsible for the deaths of Emma’s parents.”

Robert shook his dark head. “How is that possible? The Carstairs were murdered by Sebastian Morgenstern.”

At the sound of Sebastian’s name, Clary went pale. She looked immediately over at Jace, who matched her glance—a look woven through with years of shared history. “No,” Clary said. “They weren’t. Sebastian was a murderer, but Emma has never believed that he was responsible for her parents’ deaths, and neither have Jace or I.” She turned to look at Emma. “You were right,” she said. “I always thought you would be proved right someday. But I’m sorry it was Malcolm. He was your friend.”

“And mine,” said Magnus, his voice strained. Clary moved toward him, placing her hand on his arm.

“He was also the High Warlock,” said Robert. “How did this happen? What do you mean he’d been murdering people?”

“A series of killings in Los Angeles,” said Diego. “He was convincing mundanes to commit murder and then harvesting their bodies for parts he could use in necromancy.”

“The Clave should have been called in.” Robert sounded furious. “The Clave should have been called in the moment a faerie convoy approached you—”

“Inquisitor,” said Diego. He sounded tired. The whole right shoulder of his gear was dark red with blood. “I am a Centurion. I answer directly to the Council. I didn’t report what was happening either, because once things were in motion, reporting would have meant slowing things down.” He didn’t look at Cristina. “The Clave would have begun the investigation over again. There was no time, and the life of a child hung in the balance.” He put his hand to his chest. “If you wish to strip me of my medallion, I would understand. But I will maintain to the end that the Blackthorns did what was right.”

“I am not going to strip you of your medallion, Diego Rocio Rosales,” said Robert. “We have few Centurions, and you are one of the best.” He looked at Diego critically, at his bloody arm and exhausted face. “The Council will expect a report from you tomorrow, but for now, see to your wounds.”

“I’ll go with him,” Cristina said.

She helped Diego up the stairs, him leaning on her slender frame. Mark looked up at them and then away as they disappeared past the witchlight, into the shadows.

“Robert,” said Jace when they were gone. “When Julian was twelve he testified in front of the Council. It’s been five years. Let him talk now.”

Despite the look of clear reluctance on his face, Robert nodded. “Very well,” he said. “Everyone wants to hear you speak, Julian Blackthorn. So speak.”

Julian spoke. Calmly and without flourishes, he began to describe the investigation, from the first bodies found to their realization that evening of Malcolm’s guilt.

Emma watched her parabatai as he spoke, and wondered how things would have turned out differently if Sebastian Morgenstern hadn’t attacked the L.A. Institute five years ago.

In Emma’s mind, for years now, there had been two Julians. Julian before the attack, who was like everyone else—loving his family but annoyed by them too; a brother among brothers and sisters with whom he squabbled and argued and teased and laughed.

And Julian after. Julian, still a child, teaching himself how to feed and change a baby, cooking four different meals for four younger siblings who liked and disliked different things; Julian hiding his uncle’s sickness from a mass of adults who would have taken his children away from him; Julian waking up from screaming nightmares that something had happened to Ty or Livvy or Dru.

Emma had been there to hold him, but she had never quite understood—how could she have, when she didn’t know about Arthur, didn’t know how alone Julian truly was? She only knew that the nightmares had faded and a quiet strength had settled over Jules, a hard determination before which the softness of childhood gave way.

He hadn’t been a boy in a long, long time. It had been that boy that Emma had thought could be her parabatai. She would never have fallen in love with that Julian. But she had fallen in love with this one, without knowing it, because how could you fall in love with someone you only half-guessed existed?

She wondered if Mark recognized the same dissonance in some way, if he saw the strangeness in how Julian stood and spoke to the Inquisitor now, as if they were two adults together. If he saw the care with which Julian told the story of what had happened: the key details he left out, the way he made it seem natural, inevitable, that they hadn’t told the Clave what they were doing. The way he left out Kit and Johnny Rook. He wove a tale of a series of events that was nobody’s fault, that no one could have foreseen or prevented, and he did it without a shred of guile ever showing on his face.