“The important thing is that we stay together, Emma. That’s what matters—”

She raised herself up on her tiptoes and kissed him. A long, slow, intoxicating kiss that made him groan low in his throat.

When she drew away, he was staring at her. “How do people handle these feelings?” He seemed honestly bewildered. “How are they not all over each other all the time if they’re, you know, in love?”

Emma swallowed against the sudden urge to cry. In love. He hadn’t said it before.

I love you, Julian Blackthorn, she thought, looking at him there in her room, as he had been a million times before and yet it was completely different now. How could anything be so safe and familiar and yet so terrifying and all-encompassing and new at the same time?

She could see the faint pencil scratch markings on the doorframe behind him where they had once recorded their heights each year. They’d stopped doing it when he’d gotten taller than her, and the highest of the marks, now, was far below Julian’s head.

“I’ll see you on the beach,” she whispered.

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded and walked out of the room. There was a strange feeling of foreboding in her chest as she watched him go—how would he react to what Malcolm had told her? Even if he dismissed it as lies, how could you plan a life of hiding and sneaking around as if it were a happy thing? She’d never really understood the point of engagement parties and the like before (though she was happy for Isabelle and Simon) but she got it now: When you were in love you wanted to tell people about it, and that was exactly what they couldn’t do.

At least she could reassure him, though, that she loved him. That she always would. That no one could take his place.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud buzzing. Her phone. She padded over to the bureau to pick it up, using her thumb to open the home screen.

A text message was displayed there, in bold red letters.

EMERGENCY

PLEASE COME NOW

PLEASE

KIT ROOK

“Cristina?”

Cristina uncurled herself slowly. Her back and legs ached; she’d fallen asleep in the chair beside her bed. She could, she supposed, have curled up on the floor, but it would have been more difficult to keep an eye on Diego that way.

The wound to his shoulder had been much worse than she’d thought: a deep cut surrounded by the red blister-burn of dark magic that made healing runes nearly ineffective. She’d cut his bloody gear off him and the shirt under it as well, soaked through with sweat and blood.

She’d brought towels and padded the bed under him with them, wetted some of them down to sponge the blood from his face and neck. She’d given him painkilling rune after painkilling rune, healing rune after healing rune. Still, he’d tossed and turned much of the night, his storm-black hair tangled against the pillows.

Not since she’d left Mexico had she so clearly and painfully remembered what they had been to each other when they were younger. How much she had loved him. Her heart had felt torn to pieces when he cried out for his brother, pleading with him. Jaime, Jaime, ayúdame. Help me. And then he had cried out for her, and that was worse. Cristina, no me dejes. Regresa.

Cristina, don’t leave me. Come back.

I’m here, she’d told him. Estoy aquí, but he hadn’t woken up, and his fingers had clawed at the sheets until he’d fallen into an uneasy slumber.

She didn’t remember how long after that she’d fallen asleep herself. She’d been able to hear the sound of voices from downstairs, and then footsteps in the hall. Emma had ducked in to check on her and Diego, had hugged her and gone to sleep when Cristina had assured her that everything was all right.

But there was light streaming through the window now, and Diego was looking at her with eyes clear of pain and fever.

“?Estás bien?” she whispered, her throat dry.

He sat up, and the sheet fell away from him. It was, Cristina thought, rather a sudden reminder that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. She focused on the fact that there was a mark on his chest where Malcolm’s magic had struck him. It was over his heart, like a marriage rune would be, and it was a more intense violet than a bruise. It was almost the color of Malcolm’s eyes.

“Yes, I am,” he said, sounding a little surprised. “I am all right. Were you with—” He looked down, and for a moment he was very much the little boy Cristina remembered, trailing in Jaime’s disastrous wake, weathering trouble and scoldings in quiet silence. “I dreamed you stayed with me.”

“I did stay with you.” She resisted the urge to lean forward and push his hair back.

“And everything’s all right?” he asked. “I don’t remember much after we returned.”

She nodded. “It worked out surprisingly well.”

“This is your room?” Diego said, glancing around. His gaze lit on something past her left ear and he smiled. “I remember that.”

Cristina turned to look. Perched on a shelf by the bed was an árbol de vida, a tree of life—a delicate pottery framework hung all over with ceramic flowers, moons, suns, lions, mermaids, and arrows. The angel Gabriel rested at the bottom, his back against the tree, his shield across his knee. It was one of the few reminders of home she’d brought with her when she left.

“You made it,” she said. “For my birthday. I was thirteen.”