She froze, and for a moment of fear he thought it was because of him. But she was looking past him. He turned and saw Kieran in the doorway, leaning against it, gazing very steadily at them both.

Mark tensed. In a moment of delayed clarity he realized he had been stupid, alarmingly stupid to have done what he was doing. But none of it was Cristina’s fault. If Kieran brought his temper to bear on her—

But when Kieran spoke, it was lightly. “Mark,” he said. “You really have no idea, do you? You should show her how it is properly done.”

He walked toward them, a true prince of Faerie in all his grace. He wore a white shirt and breeches and his black hair fell partway to his shoulders. He reached the middle of the room and held a hand out to Cristina. “My lady,” he said, and bowed. “Favor me with a dance?”

Cristina hesitated a moment, and then nodded.

“You don’t have to,” Mark said in a whisper. She only gave him a long look, and then followed Kieran out to the middle of the floor.

“Now,” Kieran said, and he began to move.

Mark didn’t think he’d ever danced with Kieran before, not at a revel; they had always tried to conceal their relationship in front of the greater world of Faerie. And Kieran, if he could not dance with his chosen partner, would not dance with anyone.

But he was dancing now. And if Cristina had moved like fire, Kieran moved like lightning. After a moment of hesitation, Cristina followed him—he drew her into his arms—caught her, lifted her up into the air with easy faerie strength, whirling her around him. She gasped, and her face lit up with the pleasure of the music and the movement.

Mark stood where he was, feeling awkward and startled in equal measure. What was Kieran doing? What was he thinking? Was this a reproach of some sort? But it didn’t seem to be one. How much had Kieran seen? The kissing, or just the dancing?

He heard Cristina laugh. His eyes widened. Incredible. She and Kieran were like stars whirling together, just touching at the edges, but flaring up into a rain of sparks and fire when they did. And Kieran was smiling, actually smiling. It changed his face, made him look as young as he actually was.

The music ended. Cristina stopped dancing, looking suddenly shy. Kieran lifted his hand to touch her long dark hair, sweeping it back over her shoulder so he could lean in and kiss her cheek. Her eyes widened in surprise.

Only then, when he had drawn back, did he look at Mark. “There,” he said. “That is how the blood of Faerieland can dance.”

*

“Wake up.”

Kit groaned and rolled over. He’d finally been sleeping, and dreaming something pleasant about being at the beach with his dad. Not that his dad had ever actually taken him to the beach, but that was what dreams were for, weren’t they?

In the dream, his father had touched his shoulder and said, I always knew you’d make a good Shadowhunter.

Never mind that Johnny Rook would rather that his son became a serial killer than one of the Nephilim. Struggling up out of sleep, Kit remembered his father’s knowing smile and the last time he had seen it, on the morning when Malcolm Fade’s demons had torn Johnny Rook to shreds.

“Didn’t you hear me?” The voice rousing Kit out of sleep became more urgent. “Wake up!”

Kit opened his eyes. His room was full of the pale glow of witchlight, and there was a shadow hovering over his bed. With memories of Mantid demons fresh at the edge of his consciousness, he bolted upright.

The shadow moved swiftly backward, barely avoiding colliding with Kit. The witchlight beamed upward, illuminating Ty, his soft black hair a mess, as if he’d rolled out of bed and come to Kit’s room without brushing it. He wore a gray hoodie Julian had given him before he left for Cornwall, likely half for convenience and half for comfort. The cord of his headphones trailed from his pocket to wrap around his neck.

“Watson,” he said. “I want to see you.”

Kit groaned and scrubbed at his eyes. “What? What time is it?”

Ty spun the witchlight in his fingers. “Did you know that the first words ever spoken on the telephone were ‘Watson, come here, I want to see you’?”

“Totally different Watson, though,” Kit pointed out.

“I know,” said Ty. “I just thought it was interesting.” He tugged at the cord of his headphones. “I did want to see you. Or at least, I have something I have to do, and I’d rather you came with me. It was actually something you said that gave me the idea to do the research.”

Kit kicked the covers off. He’d been sleeping in his clothes anyway, a habit instilled in him during the times when some deal his father had been involved in had gone wrong, and they’d slept fully dressed for days in case they had to pick up and run. “Research?” he asked.

“It’s in the library,” Ty said. “I can show it to you before we go. If you want.”

“I’d like to see it.”

Kit slid out of bed and kicked on his shoes, grabbing up a jacket before following Ty down the hall. He knew he ought to feel exhausted, but there was something about Ty’s energy, the brightness and concentration of his focus, that worked on Kit like caffeine. It woke him up inside with a sense of promise, as if the moments in front of him suddenly held endless possibilities.

In the library, Ty had taken over one of the tables with the notes Emma and Julian had sent from Cornwall and printouts of Annabel’s drawings. It still looked like the same mess to Kit, but Ty glided his witchlight over the pages with confidence.

“Remember when we were talking about how a raven carried messages between Malcolm and Annabel? On the boat? And you said it seemed unreliable?”

“I remember,” said Kit.

“It gave me an idea,” said Ty. “You’re good at giving me ideas. I don’t know why.” He shrugged. “Anyway. We’re going to Cornwall.”

“Why? Are you going to exhume the bird and interrogate it?”

“Of course not.”

“That was a joke, Ty—” Kit broke off, the impact of Ty’s words hitting him belatedly. “What? We’re going where?”

“I know it was a joke,” said Ty, picking up one of the printouts of the drawings. “Livvy told me that when people tell jokes that aren’t that funny, the polite thing is to ignore them. Is that not true?”

He looked anxious, and Kit wanted to hug him, the way he had the other night on the roof. “No, it’s true,” he said, hurrying after Ty as they left the library. “It’s just that humor is subjective. Not everyone agrees the same things are funny, or not funny.”

Ty looked at him with sincere friendliness. “I’m sure many people find you hilarious.”

“They absolutely do.” They were hurrying down a set of steps now, into shadows. Kit wondered why they were going, but it almost didn’t matter—he felt excitement sparking at the tips of his fingers, the promise of adventure. “But Cornwall, seriously? How? And what about Livvy?”

Ty didn’t turn around. “I don’t want to bring her tonight.”

They’d reached the bottom of the steps. A door swung out from here into a massive open stone-bound room. The crypt of the cathedral. The floor and walls were made of massive dark slabs of stone, filed to smoothness, and there were brass fixtures attached to stone pillars that had probably once held lamps. Now the light came from Ty’s rune-stone, spilling between his cupped fingers.

“What are we doing, exactly?” said Kit.

“Remember when I stayed at the shop to talk to Hypatia Vex?” Ty said. “She told me there’s a permanent Portal down here. An old one, maybe one of the first ever, made around 1903. It only goes to the Cornwall Institute. The Clave doesn’t know about it or regulate it.”

“An unregulated Portal?” said Kit. Ty was moving around the room, shining his witchlight against the walls, into cracks and corners. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

Ty didn’t say anything. Long tapestries hung against the walls at intervals. He was glancing behind each one, running the light up and down the wall. It bounced off the stone, lighting up the room like fireflies.

“That’s why you didn’t want Livvy to come,” said Kit. “It is dangerous.”

Ty straightened up. His hair was a mess. “She already got hurt,” he said. “Because of me.”