Kit and Dru exchanged a startled look. It hadn’t occurred to Kit before that Ty might feel not just disappointed but as if he had let others down.

“Don’t be sorry,” Dru said. “Some things aren’t possible.” She put her hand out, a little shyly. “If you feel bad, I’ll watch movies all night with you in the TV room. I can make cookies, too. That always helps.”

There was a long pause. Ty reached out to take Dru’s hand. “That would be nice.”

Kit felt a wash of relief so enormous he almost staggered. Ty had remembered he had a sister. Surely that was something. He had expected much worse: a disappointment he couldn’t calculate, a hurt so deep nothing he could have said would touch it.

“Come on.” Dru tugged on Ty’s hand, and together they started back toward the Institute.

Kit followed, pausing as they began to scramble up the first of the rock walls that blocked the way across the beach. As Ty and Dru climbed, he looked back over his shoulder and saw Shade watching them from the darkness of his cave entrance. He shook his head at Kit once before vanishing back into the shadows.

*

The wind was blowing from the desert; Cristina and Mark sat near the statues Arthur Blackthorn had imported from England and placed among the cacti of the Santa Monica Mountains. The sand was still warm from the sunlight of the day, and soft under Mark, like the deep pile of a carpet. In the Wild Hunt, he and Kieran would have found this a very fine bed.

“I am worried,” Cristina said, “that we hurt Kieran earlier today.”

She was barefoot in the sand, wearing a short lace dress and gold earrings. Looking at her made Mark’s heart hurt, so he glanced up at the statue of Virgil, his old friend of frustrated nights. Virgil stared back impassively, without advice.

“His worries are my worries too,” said Mark. “It is difficult to ease his fears when I cannot ease my own.”

“You don’t have to ease other people’s fears to share yours, Mark.” Cristina was playing with her medallion, her long fingers caressing the etching of Raziel. Mark wanted badly to kiss her; instead, he dug his fingers into the sand.

“I could say the same to you,” he said. “You have been tense as a bowstring all day. You are fearful too.”

She sighed and poked his leg lightly with her bare foot. “Fine. You tell me, and I’ll tell you.”

“I have been worried about my sister,” Mark said.

Cristina looked puzzled. “That isn’t what I thought you would say.”

“My sister was exiled because of her faerie blood,” said Mark. “You know the story—all of it. You know it better than most.” He couldn’t help it; he put his hand over hers in the sand. “All of my family has suffered because we have faerie parentage. Our loyalty has always been questioned. How much worse would it be for her and for Aline if I were with Kieran and he were the King of the Unseelie Court? It sounds so strange to say, and so selfish—”

“It is not selfish.”

They both looked up; Kieran stood in the space between two statues, pale as a statue himself. His hair was black raven wings in the darkness, which washed all the blue from its color.

“You are worried about your family,” said Kieran. “That is not selfish. It is what I have learned from you and from Julian. To want to protect others more than you want your own happiness—” He glanced sideways. “Not that I wish to assume that being with me would bring you happiness.”

Mark was speechless, but Cristina stretched out her arms. Gold bracelets shimmered against her brown skin as she beckoned to Kieran. “Come and sit with us.”

Kieran was also barefoot; faeries often were. He prowled like a cat through the sand, his steps kicking up no dust, his movements silent as he sank to his knees opposite Cristina and Mark.

“It would make me happy,” Mark said. “But as you said—” He took a handful of sand and let it sift through his fingers. “There are other considerations.”

“I might not become King,” said Kieran.

“But you might,” said Cristina. “I, too, am afraid. I spoke to my mother today. Someone had said something nasty to her about me. That I was involved with faeries. That I was a—a dirty girl, besmirched by Downworlders. You know I don’t care what anyone says about me,” she added hastily. “And my mother could withstand it as well, but—it is a bad time to be a Rosales. Our history of friendship with faeries has already brought us trouble. Jaime and Diego are in jail. What if I bring further trouble on them?”

“Now I will tell you something selfish,” Kieran said. “I was afraid you both regretted what happened last night. That you both regretted—me.”

Mark and Cristina looked at each other. She shook her head, the wind lifting her dark hair.

“There is no regret,” said Mark. “Only—”

“I know,” Kieran said. “I knew it when Gwyn came and told me I should be King. I knew what it would mean. Even what it would mean for me to be involved in the Court at all, as it seems I must be. The Clave wants to control access to the Courts. They always have. For two Shadowhunters they do not control to have the ear of the King would be anathema to them.”

“But, Kieran—” Cristina said.

“I am not a fool,” Kieran said. “I know when something is impossible.” His eyes were shields of metal: one tarnished, one new. “I have always been an unquiet soul. In my father’s Court, and then in the Hunt, I raged and stormed inside my heart.” He bent his head. “I knew when I met Mark that I had found the person who gave my soul peace. I did not think I would find that in anyone else again, but I have. If I could just sit here quietly with both of you before this gathering storm, it would mean a great deal to me.”

“And to me,” Cristina said. She held out her small hand and took one of Kieran’s gently. He raised his head as Mark took the other, and Mark and Cristina joined hands as well, completing the circle. None of them spoke: There was no need. It was enough to be together.

*

Emma still felt jittery when she walked into the kitchen in the morning, as if she’d drunk too many cups of the coffee she despised.

The hammer beat of Diana’s words in Thule echoed in her head. She hadn’t gone to Julian last night to tell him about Zara but had reluctantly woken up Helen and Aline to warn them instead. Then she’d headed back to the training room, in the hopes that kicking and punching and falling onto the hard mats on the floor would make her forget about the burning of her rune. About the parabatai of Thule. About the words of the Queen.

Later, when she’d fallen asleep, she’d dreamed about the parabatai rune in the Silent City, and about blood on the hilt of Cortana, and a ruined city where monstrous giants stalked the horizon. She still felt uneasy, as if she were half-trapped in nightmares.

She was glad to see the kitchen full of people. In fact, there were far too many to fit into the small eating area. Someone had had the brilliant idea of supplementing the existing table with an overturned weapons crate from the training room, and folding chairs had been dragged in from all over the house.

She’d been worried the morning would be grim as everyone rushed around getting ready to invade Alicante. She couldn’t help but feel resentful that she and Julian wouldn’t be going. It was their fight too. Besides, she needed the distraction. The last thing she wanted was to be left in the Institute with Julian and minimal supervision.

But the assembled group seemed anything but grim. If not for the space where Livvy should have been, the scene was almost perfect—Helen and Aline smiling at the kids over their coffee mugs. Mark between Kieran and Cristina, as if Mark had never been torn away from his family in the first place. Jace and Clary visiting the way the family had never really been able to have casual visitors when Arthur was in charge. Kit being the missing piece they had never known Ty needed, stealing a potato from Ty’s plate and making him smile. Diana radiating her steady calm, bringing a level head to a family prone to dramatics. Even Kieran, who seemed to make both Mark and Cristina happier when he was around, had folded into the group at last: He was showing Tavvy and Dru the joys of dunking strawberries in maple syrup.

And Julian, of course, standing over the kitchen range, flipping pancakes with the ease of an expert.

“One pancake at a time, Tavvy,” Helen was saying. “Yes, I know you can get three in your mouth, but that doesn’t mean you should.”

Emma’s eyes met Julian’s. She saw the tension in his shoulders, his mouth, as he looked at her. Be normal, she thought. This is a happy, ordinary meal with family.

“You made pancakes?” she said, keeping her tone cheerful. “What brought that on?”

“Sometimes when you start a war, you want to make pancakes,” Julian said, slipping two pancakes onto a plate and holding it out to Emma.

Jace choked on his toast. “What did you say, Julian?”