Emma stared harder at both of them. Izzy looked tired, Simon tense, but that wasn’t surprising. She could only imagine how she looked herself.

“My brothers and sisters—” Julian began, his voice tight, and Emma glanced at him; she remembered what he’d said about climbing up the pyre after Ty; it was atavistic, the need to protect him, there was no conscious thought to it.

“Nothing like that,” said Simon. “Jace and Clary didn’t come back at the appointed time.”

Speechless, Emma sank into a chair opposite Simon.

“That’s interesting,” Julian said. “What do you think happened?”

Simon looked at him oddly. Isabelle nudged him with her knee, and through her surprise and worry Emma heard her mutter something about how Julian’s sister just died, he was probably still in shock.

“Maybe they’re just late because of the time being different in Faerie,” said Emma. “Or did they get one of the medallions?”

“They’re not affected by the time magic in Faerie, because of their angel blood,” said Isabelle. “That’s why the Clave chose to send them. Their runes still work, even in the blighted lands.” She frowned. “What medallions?”

“Oh.” Emma exchanged a look with Julian. “The Clave has medallions that prevent time slippage in Faerie. Dearborn gave us one.”

Isabelle and Simon exchanged a bewildered glance. “What? Why would they give you—?”

“The favor that Dearborn asked us to do,” said Julian. “It involved traveling to Faerie.”

Simon straightened up. His face had gone tight-jawed, in a way that reminded Emma that he wasn’t just Isabelle Lightwood’s mild-mannered fiancé. He was a hero in his own right. He’d faced down the Angel Raziel himself. Few besides Clary could say that. “He did what?”

“I’ll explain,” said Julian, and he did, with a dry economy uncolored by emotion. Nevertheless, when he was done, both Isabelle and Simon looked furious.

“How dare he,” said Simon. “How can he think—”

“But he’s the Inquisitor now. He’d know Clary and Jace haven’t come back,” interrupted Isabelle. “The Clave knows it’s dangerous, especially now. Why would he send you?”

“Because Annabel escaped into Faerie, and he thinks Annabel is our problem,” said Emma.

“It’s ridiculous; you guys are just kids,” Simon said.

Isabelle kicked him lightly. “We did a lot when we were kids.”

“Because we had to,” said Simon. “Because we had no choices.” He turned back to Emma and Julian. “We can get you out of here. We can hide you.”

“No,” Julian said.

“He means that we don’t have choices either,” said Emma. “There’s too much chance of the Black Volume being put to terrible use, either by Annabel or the Unseelie King. There’s no telling who might get hurt, and we have the best chance of finding the book. No one else has dealt with Annabel for centuries—in a weird way, Julian knows her the best.”

“And we can look for Jace and Clary. It’s not like Horace is going to send anyone else to find them,” said Julian.

Isabelle looked flinty. “Because he’s a jerk, you mean?”

“Because he doesn’t like the support they have, or the way people look up to them and Alec and you guys,” said Julian. “The longer they’re gone, the better for him. He wants to consolidate power—he doesn’t need heroes coming back. I’m sure Jia will try to help, but he won’t make it easy for her. He can always throw delays in her path.”

Julian was very pale, and his eyes looked like the blue sea glass in his bracelet. Her parabatai might not be feeling anything himself, Emma thought, but he still understood other people’s feelings, almost too well. He had made the one argument Simon and Isabelle wouldn’t be able to push back against: Clary and Jace’s safety.

Still, Simon tried. “We can figure out something ourselves,” he said. “Some way to look for them. The offer to hide you still stands.”

“They’ll take it out on my family if I disappear,” Julian said. “This is a new Clave.”

“Or maybe just what was always hiding under the old one,” said Emma. “Can you swear you won’t tell anyone, not even Jia, about us going to Faerie?”

No one can know. If Jia confronts Horace, he’ll tell her our secret.

Simon and Isabelle looked troubled, but they both promised. “When are they asking you to leave?” said Isabelle.

“Soon,” said Julian. “We just came back here to pack our things.”

Simon muttered a curse. Isabelle shook her head, then bent down and unclipped a chain from one slender ankle. She held it out to Emma. “This is blessed iron. Poisonous to faeries. Wear it and you can pack a hell of a kick.”

“Thanks.” Emma took the chain and wrapped it twice around her wrist, fastening it tightly.

“Do I have anything iron?” Simon looked around wildly, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small miniature figure of an archer. “This is my D&D character, Lord Montgomery—”

“Oh my God,” said Isabelle.

“Most figurines are pewter, but this one’s iron. I got it on Kickstarter.” Simon held it out to Julian. “Just take it. It could be helpful.”

“I don’t understand about half of what you just said, but thanks,” said Jules, pocketing the toy.

There was an awkward silence. It was Isabelle who broke it, her dark gaze passing from Julian to Emma, and back again. “Thank you,” she said. “Both of you. This is an incredibly brave thing to do.” She took a deep breath. “When you find Clary and Jace, and I know you will, tell Jace about Robert. He should know what’s happened to his family.”

7

STONE FLOWERS

It was a clear California night, with a warm wind blowing inland from the desert, and the moon was bright and very definitely high in the sky when Cristina slipped out the back door of the Institute and hesitated on the top step.

It had been an odd evening—Helen and Aline had made spaghetti and left the pot on the stove so anyone who liked could come along and serve themselves. Cristina had eaten with Kit and Ty, who were bright-eyed and distant, caught up in their own world; at some point Dru had come in with bowls and put them in the sink. “I had dinner with Tavvy in his room,” she’d announced, and Cristina—feeling completely at sea—had stammered something about how she was glad they’d eaten.

Mark hadn’t appeared at all.

Cristina had waited until midnight before putting on a dress and denim jacket and going to see Mark. It was strange to have her own clothes back, her room with its árbol de vida, her own sheets and blankets. It wasn’t quite coming home, but it was close.

She paused at the top of the stairs. In the distance, the waves swayed and crashed. She’d stood here once and watched as Kieran and Mark kissed each other, Kieran holding Mark as if he were everything in the world.

It felt like a long time ago now.

She moved down the steps, the wind catching at the hem of her pale yellow dress, making it bell out like a flower. The “parking lot” was really a large rectangle of raked sand where the Institute’s car spent its time—at least the Centurions didn’t seem to have set it on fire, which was something. Near the lot were statues of Greek and Roman philosophers and playwrights, glowing palely under the stars, placed there by Arthur Blackthorn. They seemed out of place in the scrubby chaparral of the Malibu hills.

“Lady of Roses,” said a voice behind her.

Kieran! she thought, and turned. And of course, it wasn’t Kieran—it was Mark, tousled pale blond hair and blue jeans and a flannel shirt, which he’d buttoned slightly wrong. The Markness of him made her flush, partly at his nearness and partly that she’d thought for a moment that he might be someone else.

It was just that Kieran was the only one who called her Lady of Roses.

“I cannot bear all this iron,” Mark said, and he sounded more tired than she had ever heard anyone sound. “I cannot bear these inside spaces. And I have missed you so much. Will you come into the desert with me?”

Cristina remembered the last time they were in the desert and what he had said. He had touched her face: Am I imagining you? I was thinking about you, and now here you are.

Faeries couldn’t lie, but Mark could, and yet it was his painful honesty that caught at Cristina’s heart. “Of course I will,” she said.

He smiled, and it lit up his face. He cut across the parking lot, Cristina beside him, following a nearly invisible trail between tangled scrub and fern-shrouded boulders. “I used to walk here all the time when I was younger,” he said. “Before the Dark War. I used to come here to think about my problems. Brood about them, whatever you want to call it.”

“What problems?” she teased. “Romantic ones?”

He laughed. “I never really dated anyone back then,” he said. “Vanessa Ashdown for about a week, but just—well, she wasn’t very nice. Then I had a crush on a boy who was in the Conclave, but his family moved back to Idris after the Mortal War, and now I don’t remember his name.”

“Oh dear,” she said. “Do you look at boys in Idris now and think ‘that might be him’?”