He was all in black and looked exhausted. The red ring around his wrist drew Cristina’s eye; involuntarily, she touched her own wrist, the healing skin of the binding wound.

“I followed you here,” he said to Cristina. “There’s still enough of the binding spell left to allow me to do that. I thought you’d be with Kieran.”

Kieran said nothing. He looked like a faerie prince in a painting: remote, unassailable, distant.

“My lord Kieran,” Mark said formally. “Can we talk?”

* * *

They looked like a painting, both of them kneeling, Cristina’s dark hair falling to hide her face. Kieran, opposite her, was a study in contrasts of black and white. Mark stood in the doorway of the Sanctuary for a moment, just watching them, his heart feeling as if it were being compressed inside his chest.

He really did have a thing for dark hair, he thought.

At that moment he heard Cristina say his name and realized he was eavesdropping. Coming into the Sanctuary felt like entering a cold, harsh place: It was bound all around with iron. Kieran must have felt it too, though the look on his face gave no sign. It gave no sign he felt anything at all.

“My lord Kieran,” Mark said. “Can we talk?”

Cristina rose to her feet. “I should go.”

“You need not.” Kieran had leaned back to lounge among the spilled cushions. Faeries did not lie with their words, but they lied with their faces and voices, the gestures of their hands. Right now anyone looking at Kieran would think he felt nothing but boredom and dislike.

But he hadn’t left. He was still in the Institute. Mark clung to that.

“I must,” Cristina said. “Mark and I are not meant to be near each other as the binding spell wears off.”

Mark moved closer to her, though, as she went to the door. Their hands brushed. Had he thought she was beautiful the moment he met her? He remembered coming awake to the sound of her voice, seeing her sitting on the floor of his room with her knife open. How grateful he had been that she was someone he had never known before the Hunt, someone who would have no expectations of him.

She looked at him once and was gone. He was alone with Kieran.

“Why are you here?” Kieran demanded. “Why lower yourself to come before someone you hate?”

“I don’t hate you. None of this was because I hated you or wanted to hurt you. I was angry with you—of course I was. Can’t you understand why?”

Kieran didn’t meet Mark’s eyes. “This is why Emma dislikes me,” he said. “And Julian.”

“Iarlath whipped them both. The whipping he gave Emma would have killed a mundane human.”

“I remember,” said Kieran miserably, “and yet it seems distant.” He swallowed. “I knew I was losing you. I was afraid. There was more to it, as well. Iarlath had hinted you would not be safe in the Shadowhunters’ world. That they were planning to lure you back, only to execute you on some trumped-up charge. I was a fool to believe him. I know it now.”

“Oh,” said Mark. The knowledge unfolded in him, realization edged with relief. “You thought you were saving my life.”

Kieran nodded. “It makes no difference, though. What I did was wrong.”

“You will have to make your own apology to Emma and Julian,” said Mark. “But for my sake, Kieran, I have forgiven you. You returned when you did not have to—you helped us save Tavvy—”

“When I sought refuge here, I was blinded by rage,” Kieran said. “All I could think was that you had lied to me. I thought you had come to the Court to save me because you—” His voice cracked. “Because you loved me. I cannot bear to think on my own stupidity.”

“I do love you,” Mark said. “But it is not an easy or restful sort of love, Kier.”

“Not like what you feel for Cristina.”

“No,” said Mark. “Not like what I feel for Cristina.”

Kieran’s shoulders sagged slightly. “I am glad you admit it,” he said. “I could not tolerate a lie now, I think. When first I loved you, I knew I was loving something that could lie. I told myself it would not matter. But it matters more than I ever thought.”

Mark closed the distance between them. He was half-certain that Kieran would back away from him, but the other boy didn’t move. Mark approached until there were only inches of space between them, until Kieran’s eyes had widened, and then Mark knelt, cold marble against his knees.

It was a gesture he had seen before, in the Hunt and at revels. One faerie kneeling to another. Not submission, but an apology. Forgive me. Kieran’s eyes were like saucers.

“It does matter,” Mark said. “I wish that I could not lie, so that you would believe me: All these days, I have not held back from affection with you because I was angry at you, or sickened. I wanted you just as I did in the Hunt. But I could not be with you, touch you, with all of it shadowed by lies. It would not have felt true or honest. It would not have felt as if you were choosing me, because to make a true choice, we must have true knowledge.”

“Mark,” Kieran whispered.

“I do not love you as I love Cristina. I love you as I love you,” said Mark. He bent his head. “I wish that you could see my heart. Then you would understand.”

There was a rustling sound. Kieran had sunk to his own knees, level with Mark. “Would you have told me?” he said. “After the testimony?”

“Yes. I couldn’t have stood it otherwise.”

Kieran half-closed his eyes. Mark could see crescents of black and silver beneath his lids, fringed by his dark lashes. His hair had paled to almost a pewter color. “I believe you.” He opened his eyes, looked directly into Mark’s. “Do you know why I trust you?”

Mark shook his head. He could hear the water rushing in the fountain behind them, reminding him of a thousand rivers they had ridden over together, a thousand streams they had slept beside.

“Because of Cristina,” said Kieran. “She would not have agreed to a dishonorable plan. I understand you were trying to help your family, your sister. I understand why you were desperate. And I believe you would not have deceived me longer than you needed.” Something behind his eyes suddenly seemed very old. “I will testify,” he said.

Mark started up. “Kieran, you don’t—”

Kieran’s hands came up to cup Mark’s face. His touch was gentle. “I am not doing it for you,” he said. “This will be what I do for Emma and the others. Then that debt will be paid. You and I, our debts are paid already.” He leaned forward and brushed his lips against Mark’s. Mark wanted to chase the kiss, the warmth of it, the familiarity. He felt Kieran’s hand come down to splay itself over his chest—over the elf-bolt that hung there, below his collarbone. “We will be done with each other.”

“No,” Mark whispered.

But Kieran was on his feet, the warmth of his hands gone from Mark’s skin. His eyes were dark, his whole body tense. Mark shot to his feet after, meaning to demand that Kieran explain what he had meant by done—just as a terrible noise split the air.

It was a noise that came from outside the Institute, though not very far at all. Not nearly far enough. A memory flashed through Mark’s mind, of watching from horseback as a forest of trees was destroyed by lightning. Fire had flashed beneath him, the wrenching crash of branches and trunks like shrieks in his head.