“Well, she doesn’t have to make breakfast,” said Dru. “We could make our own.”

Helen hurried over with the plate of toast and set it on the table. Dru stared at it blankly. “Come on, Dru,” she said. “Just eat the bread.”

Dru stiffened all over. “Don’t tell me what to eat and not eat,” she said.

Helen flinched. Tavvy reached for the jam and upended it, shaking it until sticky jelly splattered all over his plate, the table, and his hands. He giggled.

“Don’t—no!” Helen said, grabbing the jam out of his hands. “Tavvy, don’t do that!”

“I don’t have to listen to you,” Tavvy said, his small face flushing. “I don’t even know you.”

He pushed his way past Dru and bolted from the kitchen. After a moment, Dru shot Helen a reproachful look and darted after him.

Helen stood where she was, holding the empty plastic jam jar, tears running down her face. Cristina’s heart went out to her. All she wanted was to please her siblings, but they couldn’t forgive her for not being Julian.

She moved toward Helen, but Mark was already there, putting his arms around his sister, getting jam on his shirt. “It’s all right,” Cristina heard him say. “When I first got back, I was always messing things up. I got everything wrong. . . .”

Feeling like an intruder, Cristina slipped out of the kitchen; some family scenes were private. She headed down the hall slowly (she was sure there was a second coffeemaker in the library), half her mind on what Mark had said to Helen. She wondered if he really felt that way. She remembered the first time she’d seen him, crouched against the wall of his bedroom as the wind blew the curtains around him like sails. The bond she had felt with him had been immediate—she hadn’t known him before the Hunt had taken him, and had no expectations of what he was like or who he should be. It had tied them together as strongly as the binding spell, but what if everything had changed? What if what they had was broken and could never be repaired?

“Cristina!”

She spun around. Mark was behind her, flushed; he’d been running to catch up to her. He stopped when she turned and hesitated a moment, looking like someone about to take a step off a high cliff.

“I have to be with Helen now,” he said. “But I need to talk to you. I’ve needed to talk to you since—for a long time. Meet me in the parking lot tonight, when the moon is high.”

She nodded, too surprised to say anything. By the time it occurred to her that “when the moon is high” wasn’t very helpful—what if it was cloudy?—he’d already vanished down the hall. With a sigh, she headed off to send Catarina Loss a fire-message.

*

It had been only a few days since Robert Lightwood’s death, but Horace Dearborn had already completely redecorated his office.

The first thing Emma noticed was that the tapestry of the Battle of the Burren was missing. The fireplace was lit now, and over it Alec Lightwood’s image had been replaced by Zara Dearborn’s. It was a portrait of her in gear, her long blond-brown hair falling to her waist in two braids like a Viking’s. ZARA DEARBORN, CLAVE HERO, said a gold plaque on the frame.

“Subtle,” Julian muttered. He and Emma had just come into Horace’s office; the Inquisitor was bent over and poking around in his desk, seemingly ignoring them. The desk at least was the same, though a large sign hung behind it that announced: PURITY IS STRENGTH. STRENGTH IS VICTORY. THEREFORE PURITY IS VICTORY.

Dearborn straightened up. “?‘Clave hero’ might be a bit simple,” he said thoughtfully, making it quite clear he’d heard Julian’s comment. “I was thinking ‘Modern Boadicea.’ In case you don’t know who she was—”

“I know who Boadicea was,” said Julian, seating himself; Emma followed. The chairs were new as well, with stiff upholstery. “A warrior queen of Britain.”

“Julian’s uncle was a classical scholar,” said Emma.

“Ah yes, so Zara told me.” Horace dropped heavily into his own seat, behind the mahogany desk. He was a big man, rawboned, with a nondescript face. Only his size was unusual—his hands were enormous, and his big shoulders pulled at the material of his uniform. They must not have had time to make one up for him yet. “Now, children. I must say I’m surprised at you two. There has always been such a . . . vibrant partnership between the Blackthorn and Carstairs families and the Clave.”

“The Clave has changed,” said Emma.

“Not all change is for the worse,” said Horace. “This has been a long time coming.”

Julian swung his feet up, planting his boots on Horace’s desk. Emma blinked. Julian had always been rebellious at heart, but rarely openly. He smiled like an angel and said, “Why don’t you just tell us what you want?”

Horace’s eyes glinted. There was anger in them, but his voice was smooth when he spoke. “You two have really fucked up,” he said. “More than you know.”

Emma was jolted. Shadowhunter adults, especially those in positions of authority, rarely swore in front of anyone they considered children.

“What do you mean?” she said.

He opened a desk drawer and took out a black leather notebook. “Robert Lightwood’s notes,” he said. “He took them after every meeting he had. He took them after the meeting he had with you.”

Julian went white; he clearly recognized the notebook. Robert must have written in it after Emma had left his office with Manuel.

“I know what you told him about your relationship,” Dearborn said with relish. “Parabatai in love. Disgusting. And I know what you wanted from him. Exile.”

Though the color had left his face, Julian’s voice was steady. “I still think you should tell us what you want from us.”

“To fall in love with your parabatai is, shall we say, a breach of contract. The contract you’ve made as Nephilim, with the Clave. It desecrates our holiest of holy bonds.” He set the notebook back in its drawer. “But I am not an unreasonable man. I’ve come up with a mutually beneficial solution to all our little problems. And a few of the big ones.”

“Solutions aren’t usually mutually beneficial when one party has all the power,” said Julian.

Dearborn ignored him. “If you agree to be sent on a mission to the Land of Faerie, if you promise to find and to kill Annabel Blackthorn there and bring back the Black Volume of the Dead, I’ll honor the terms Robert set out. Exile and secrecy. No one will ever know.”

“You can’t be sure she’s in Faerie—” Julian began.

“You have got to be kidding,” Emma said at the same time.

“My sources say she’s in the Unseelie Court, and no, I am not ‘kidding,’?” said Dearborn. “I would swear it on the Mortal Sword, if Carstairs hadn’t broken it.”

Emma flushed. “Why do you want the Black Volume? Planning on raising some dead?”

“I have no interest in some warlock’s pitiable book of necromantic amusements,” said Horace, “save keeping it out of the hands of Annabel Blackthorn and the King of Unseelie. Do not even consider trying to fob me off with imitations or fakes. I will know, and I will punish you. I want the Black Volume in the control of Nephilim, not Downworlders.”

“You must have older, more capable people who can do this?” said Julian.

“This mission must be carried out with the utmost secrecy,” Dearborn snapped. “Who has a better reason to keep it a secret than you?”

“But time works differently in Faerie,” said Julian. “We could wind up coming back ten years from now. That won’t help you much.”

“Ah.” Dearborn sat back. There was a pile of cloth behind him, in one corner of the room: Emma realized with a jolt that it was the tapestry of the Battle of the Burren, thrown away like so much trash. Strange for a man who claimed to value Nephilim history. “A long time ago, three medallions were given to the Clave by the Fair Folk. They prevent time slippage in Faerie. One is missing, but you’ll be given one of the remaining two. You can return it when you yourselves come back.”

A medallion? Emma remembered Cristina’s necklace, its power to control time in Faerie. One of them is missing. . . .

“And how are we supposed to get back?” Emma said. “It’s not as if returning from Faerie is easy for a human.”

“You will use the map we give you to locate a place called Bram’s Crossroads,” said Horace. “There you will find a friend ready to bring you home.” He steepled his fingers together. “I will conceal the fact that you are not in Alicante by placing guards around the Princewater house. The word will be that you are under house arrest until the matter of the Mortal Sword is cleared up. But I must insist that you find the book and return within four days. Otherwise I may assume you decided to strike out on your own, in which case I will have no choice but to reveal your secret.”

“What makes you think we can do this in four days?” said Julian.