“Nope.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

She didn’t press him further. Isabelle never had pushed, not about any of Alec’s secrets. That was one of the many reasons Alec trusted his sister.

On the other end of the line came the sounds of a scuffle. “Shove off, Jace!” Isabelle hissed.

“Actually,” Alec said, “could I talk to Jace for a second?”

There was something he wanted to ask, and he did not feel comfortable talking about this stuff with his sister.

“Oh, fine,” said Isabelle. “Here he is.”

There was another rustle, and then Jace cleared his throat and said casually, as if he had not been fighting Isabelle for the phone a minute ago, “Hey.”

Alec smiled. “Hey.”

He could visualize Jace, who had asked Alec to be his parabatai and then always pretended as if he did not need one. Alec was not fooled.

Jace had lived in the New York Institute with them since Alec was eleven. Alec had always loved Jace, found him so familiar and so dear that for a while he’d been confused about what kind of love it was. Thinking of Jace now, he realized whom the warlock woman Tessa had reminded him of.

Her expression, serious but with a quiet light behind it, was exactly Jace’s when he was playing the piano.

Alec shook off the strange thought.

“How’s Paris?” asked Jace idly. “If you’re not having fun, you could come back early.”

“Paris is nice,” said Alec. “How are things?”

“Well, my business is looking great and fighting demons, and business is good,” said Jace.

“Cool. Um, Jace, can I ask you something? If you want something to happen, and you feel like it could but maybe the other person is waiting for you to give a signal that you’re ready—that you’re maybe ready—no, that you’re definitely ready, maybe, what should you do? In this hypothetical scenario.”

There was a pause.

“Hmm,” said Jace. “Good question. I’m glad you came to me with this. I think you should go ahead and give a signal.”

“Great,” said Alec. “Yes, that’s what I was wondering. Thanks, Jace.”

“Hard to work out signals on the phone,” Jace said thoughtfully. “I’ll think about various signals and show you when you get home. Like, one signal is for ‘there is a demon creeping up behind you and you should stab it,’ right? But there should be a different signal for if a demon is creeping up behind you, but I have it in my sights. That just makes sense.”

There was another silence.

“Put Isabelle back on the phone,” said Alec.

“Wait, wait,” said Jace. “When are you coming home?”

“Isabelle!” said Alec.

There were sounds of another scuffle as Isabelle repossessed her phone.

“Sure you don’t want me to come help out? Or do you and Magnus prefer to be alone?”

“We prefer to be alone,” he said firmly. “And actually, I should get back. Love you, Isabelle.”

“Love you,” said Isabelle. “Wait! Jace says he needs the phone back. He says he thinks he may have misunderstood your question.”

MAGNUS WAS IN THE SAME position he’d been in when Alec left. It seemed he hadn’t moved at all, but the cyclone of paper, photos, and books that surrounded him was about twice as large and twice as messy. “Alec!” he said brightly, his mood seemingly much improved. “How is Paris?”

“If I were a Shadowhunter based in Paris,” Alec said, “I would have to train twice as hard to make up for all the times I stopped for a coffee and a little something to eat.”

“Paris,” Magnus declared, “is the single greatest city on earth in which to stop for a coffee and a little something to eat.”

“I brought you some pain au chocolat,” Alec said, holding up a now slightly wilted white paper bag.

Magnus parted the wall of books and papers like a curtain and gestured Alec within. “I’ve found something,” he said. “Come in.” Alec went to put down the bag and Magnus shook his head. “Bring the pain au chocolat with you.”

Alec took a hesitant step inside and stood next to Magnus. The warlock fished a pastry out of Alec’s bag with one hand and beckoned at one of the frozen images with the other, drawing it down in front of them. It was an image of a glum, green-skinned, white-haired warlock wearing a potato sack, sitting at a wooden table filled with tin mugs.

That was Ragnor Fell, Alec thought. Magnus had his picture on the wall. Magnus had mentioned casually, several days after Ragnor’s death, that he and the dead warlock had been friends. It was becoming very clear that they had been close. Alec wondered why Magnus had not said so when Ragnor died, but they had been in the middle of a war. Alec and Magnus had still been working out what they were to each other.

Magnus had not kept it from him, exactly.

Across the table from Ragnor Fell was a shirtless Magnus, who had both of his hands open, palms out. He seemed to be trying to enchant a bottle.

Magnus flipped his fingers and the photo wavered and then grew in size. He swallowed.

“I remember this night in detail. We were playing a drinking game. We had previously literally lost our shirts to several cheesemongers who turned out to be gifted amateur cardsharps. Somewhere between the fourth and ninth pitcher of gl?gg, we got into a deep discussion about the meaning of life, or more specifically how much easier life would be if there was a way we could openly use our powers without mundanes always soiling themselves and trying to burn us at the stake every time they saw a little sparkle of magic.”