“I believe you deserve to be happy,” Emma said. “You’re the bravest and most loving person I know.”

“And I believe you deserve to be happy,” said Julian. “So how about I believe it for you, and you believe it for me? We can believe it for each other.”

Emma glanced toward the window. She could see the first traces of sunlight in the sky. Morning was breaking.

She looked up at Julian. Dawn touched the edges of his hair and eyelashes with gold. “Do you have to go back to your room?” she whispered.

He smiled down at her. “No,” he said. “We don’t have to lie or pretend now. We don’t have to lie or pretend ever again.”

*

It was the first time Emma had been in the Council Hall since Livvy had died.

It wasn’t the only reason she was desperate for the meeting to be over, but it was certainly part of it. The blood might have been scrubbed out of the dais, but she would always see it there. She knew it was the same for Julian; he tensed beside her as they went in through the doors with the rest of the Blackthorns. The whole family was quiet, even Tavvy.

The Hall was filled to bursting. Emma had never seen it so full: Shadowhunters were smashed together on the rows of seats, and the aisles were filled with those who were standing; some were Projecting in from distant Institutes, their half-transparent shimmering forms glowing along the back wall. Emma recognized Isabelle and Simon among them and waved.

Thankfully, seats had been kept for the Blackthorns by Jaime and Diego. Jaime had held an entire row by lying across it; he popped up when they approached and let them all slide in, winking at several glaring Shadowhunters who had been hoping to find a seat.

People stared at all the Blackthorns, but especially Emma and Julian, as they took their seats. It had been the same at the house the day before: strangers gawking, wide-eyed. Emma remembered what she had thought about Jace and Clary at the war council meeting: So this is what it’s like to be heroes. To be the ones with angel blood, the ones who’ve literally saved the world. People look at you as if . . . almost as if you’re not real.

As it turned out, it made you wonder yourself how real you were.

Emma wound up sitting between Cristina and Julian, her fingertips touching Julian’s discreetly on the seat between them. Now that she and Julian were no longer parabatai, all she wanted was to get home and start their new life. They would discuss their travel year and plan all the places they would go. They would visit Cristina in Mexico, and Jace and Clary in New York, and Great-Aunt Marjorie in England. They would go to Paris and stand in front of the Eiffel Tower holding hands and there would be nothing wrong with it and nothing forbidden.

Maybe it would be a short meeting? She glanced around the room, noting the serious expressions on everyone’s faces. Knots of those who had been friendly to the Cohort, but had not fought with them on the field, huddled together on benches, whispering. Dearborn sympathizers like Lazlo Balogh, who had remained in the city for the duration of the battle, hadn’t been arrested—only those who had raised weapons against other Nephilim would stand trial.

“People look grim,” she murmured to Julian.

“No one wants to sentence the Cohort,” he said. “A lot of them are young. It feels brutal, I think.”

“Zara deserves sentencing,” Emma muttered. “She stabbed me and she totally upset Cristina with that whole fake engagement.”

Julian looked over at Cristina, who had her head on Mark’s shoulder. “I think Cristina has moved on,” he said. “And Diego, too.”

Emma darted a look at where Diego—his cheek bandaged—was sitting and chatting with a glowing Divya, who had been thrilled Anush had fought on their side on the field. Interesting.

There was a rustle and a flourish as the guards closed the side doors and Jia entered through the back of the Hall. The room hushed as she moved down to the dais, her robes sweeping the steps. Behind her, wearing the flame-colored tunics of prisoners, were the captured Cohort members. There were perhaps fifty or sixty of them, many of them young, just as Julian had said. So many had been recruited through the Scholomance and its outreach. Vanessa Ashdown, Manuel Villalobos, Amelia Overbeck, and Zara herself, her expression defiant.

They filed onto the dais behind Jia, the guards guiding them into rows. Some were still bandaged from the battle. All bore iratzes. Their tunics were printed with runes meant to keep them trapped in the city. They could not pass the gates of Alicante.

Flame to wash away our sins, Emma thought. It was odd to see prisoners with their hands unbound, but even if each of them had been freely bearing two longswords, they would hardly have been a match for the hundreds of other Shadowhunters in the Council Hall.

She saw Diego lean over to whisper something to Jaime, who shook his head, his face troubled.

“We come together in a time of grief and healing,” announced Jia, her voice echoing off the walls. “Thanks to the bravery of so many Shadowhunters, we have fought nobly, we have found new allies, we have preserved our relationships with Downworlders, and we have opened a new way forward.”

Zara made a horrible face at the phrase “preserved our relationships.” Emma hoped she would be sentenced to cleaning toilets for the rest of eternity.

“However,” said Jia. “I am not the leader who can take us on that path.”

Murmurs ran through the room; was Jia really saying what they thought she was saying? Emma bolted upright in her seat and looked over at Aline, but she seemed as shocked as the rest of the room. Patrick Penhallow, though, seated in the front row, seemed unsurprised.

“I will preside over the sentencing of the Cohort,” Jia continued, unfazed. “It will be my last act as Consul. After that there will be an open election for a new Consul and a new Inquisitor.”

Helen whispered to Aline, who took her hand. Emma felt a chill go through her. This was a surprise and the last thing she wanted was a surprise. She knew it was selfish—she remembered Jem saying that Jia was ill—but still, Jia was a known quantity. The unknown loomed.

“And when I say an open election,” Jia continued, “I mean an open election. Everyone in this Hall will have a vote. Everyone will have a voice. No matter their age; no matter if they are Projecting from their home Institute. No matter,” she added, “if they are members of the Cohort.”

A roar went through the room.

“But they are criminals!” shouted Joaquin Acosta Romero, head of the Buenos Aires Institute. “Criminals do not have a vote!”

Jia waited patiently for the roar to die down into quiet. Even the Cohort were staring at her in puzzlement. “Look how full this Council Hall is,” she said. People twisted around in their seats to stare at the overflowing rows of seats, the hundreds of Projections in the back of the room. “You’re all here because over the past week, and especially since the battle, you have realized how urgent this situation always was. The Clave was nearly taken over by extremists who would have driven us into isolation and self-destruction. And everyone who stood back and allowed this to happen—through inattention, through apathy and overconfidence—” Her voice shook. “Well. We are all guilty. And therefore we will all vote, as a reminder that every voice counts, and when you choose not to use your voice, you are letting yourself be silenced.”

“But I still don’t see why criminals should vote!” yelled Jaime, who had apparently taken the “no matter their age” portion of the speech to heart.

“Because if they don’t,” said Diana, rising to her feet and addressing the room, “they will always be able to say that whoever the new Consul is, they were elected because the majority had no voice. The Cohort has always flourished by telling the lie that they speak for all Shadowhunters—that they say the words that everyone would speak if they could. Now we will test that lie. All Shadowhunters will speak. Including them.”

Jia assented gravely. “Miss Wrayburn is correct.”

“So what will be done with the prisoners, then?” called Kadir. “Will they walk among us, free?”

“The Cohort must be punished! They must be!” The voice was a raw scream. Emma turned and flinched; she felt Julian’s hand tighten on hers. It was Elena Larkspear. She was alone; her husband had not come to the meeting. She looked as haggard as if she had aged fifty years in the past week. “They used our children—as if they were trash—to do the things too filthy or dangerous for them to do! They murdered my daughter and my son! I demand reparations!”