“Why?” he asked. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Not even a little.” She looked at him for a moment with her wise and thoughtful eyes; there was a soft happiness in Livvy that drew Kit, but not in a romantic way. She was right, and he knew it. “Everything’s great. Ty even says he thinks we should be parabatai, after all this is cleared up.” Her face glowed. “I hope you’ll come to the ceremony. And you’ll always be my friend, right?”

“Of course,” he said, and only later did he stop to think that she had said my friend, and not our friend, hers and Ty’s. Right now he was just relieved that he didn’t feel hurt or bothered by her decision. He felt instead a pleasant anticipation of getting through this Council meeting and going home—back to Los Angeles—where he could start his training and have the twins to help him through the rough parts. “Friends always.”

* * *

Julian felt a twist of apprehension in his stomach as he entered the library. Part of him half-expected Annabel to have vanished, or to be drifting around the stacks of books like a long-haired ghost in a horror movie. He’d seen one once where the ghost of a girl had crawled out of a well, her pale face hidden behind masses of wet, dark hair. The memory gave him shivers even now.

The library was well illuminated by its rows of green banker’s lamps. Annabel sat at the longest table, the Black Volume in front of her, her hands clasped in her lap. Her hair was long and dark, and half-hid her face, but it wasn’t wet and there wasn’t anything obviously uncanny about her. She looked—ordinary.

He sat down across from her. Magnus must have brought her something to wear from the storage room: She was in a very plain blue dress, a little short in the sleeves. Jules guessed she had been around nineteen when she died, maybe twenty.

“That was quite a trick you pulled,” he said, “with the note in the church. And the demon.”

“I didn’t expect you to burn the church down.” That pronounced accent was back in her voice, the strangeness of a way of speaking long outdated now. “You surprised me.”

“And you’ve surprised me, coming here,” Julian said. “And saying you’d only talk to me. You don’t even like me, I thought.”

“I came because of this.” She drew the folded paper from the book and held it out to him. Her fingers were long, the joints strangely misshapen. He realized he was looking at evidence that her fingers had been broken, more than once, and that the bones had knit back together oddly. The visible remnants of torture. He felt a little sick as he took the letter and opened it.

To: Annabel Blackthorn

Annabel,

You might not know me, but we are related. My name is Tiberius Blackthorn.

My family and I are looking for the Black Volume of the Dead. We know you have it, because my brother Julian saw you take it from Malcolm Fade.

I’m not blaming you. Malcolm Fade is not our friend. He tried to hurt our family, to destroy us if he could. He’s a monster. But the thing is, we need the book now. We need it so that we can save our family. We’re a good family. You would like us if you knew us. There’s me—I’m going to be a detective. There is Livvy, my twin, who can fence, and Drusilla, who loves everything scary, and Tavvy, who likes stories read to him. There is Mark, who is part faerie. He’s an excellent cook. There is Helen, who was exiled to guard the wards, but not because she did anything wrong. And Emma, who isn’t strictly a Blackthorn but is like our extra sister anyway.

And there is Jules. You might like him the best. He is the one who takes care of us all. He is the reason we’re all okay and still together. I don’t think he knows we know that, but we do. Sometimes he might tell us what to do or not listen, but he would do anything for any of us. People say we’re unlucky because we don’t have parents. But I think they’re unlucky because they don’t have a brother like mine.

Julian had to stop there. The pressure behind his eyes had built to a shattering intensity. He wanted to put his head down on the table and burst into unmanly, undignified tears—for the boy he had been, scared and terrified and twelve years old, looking at his younger brothers and sisters and thinking, They’re mine now.

For them, their faith in him, their expectation his love would be unconditional, that he wouldn’t need to be told he was loved back because of course he was. Ty thought this about him and probably thought it was obvious. But he had never guessed.

He forced himself to stay silent, to keep his face expressionless. He laid the letter down on the table so that the shaking of his hand was less visible. There was only a little writing left.

Don’t think I’m asking you to do us a favor for nothing in return. Julian can help you. He can help anyone. You can’t want to be running and hiding. I know what happened to you, what the Clave and Council did. Things are different now. Let us explain. Let us show you how you don’t have to be exiled or alone. You don’t have to give us the book. We just want to help.

We’re at the London Institute. Whenever you want to come, you’d be welcome.

Yours,

Tiberius Nero Blackthorn

“How does he know what happened to me?” Annabel didn’t sound angry, only curious. “What the Inquisitor and the others did to me?”

Julian got to his feet and went across the room to where the aletheia crystal rested on a bookcase. He brought it back and gave it to her. “Ty found this in Blackthorn Hall,” he said. “These are someone’s memories of your—trials—in the Council chamber.”

Annabel raised the crystal to eye level. Julian had never seen the expression of someone looking into an aletheia crystal before. Her eyes widened, tracking back and forth as she gazed at the scene moving before her. Her cheeks flushed, her lips shook. Her hand began to jerk uncontrollably, and she flung the crystal away from her; it hit the table, denting the wood without breaking.

“Oh God, is there to be no mercy?” she said in an empty voice. “Will there never be any mercy or forgetfulness?”

“Not while this is still an injustice.” Julian’s heart was beating hard, but he knew he showed no outward signs of agitation. “It will always hurt as long as they haven’t recompensed you for what they did.”

She raised her eyes to his. “What do you mean?”

“Come with me to Idris,” Julian said. “Testify in front of the Council. And I will see to it that you get justice.”

She turned pale and swayed slightly. Julian half-rose from his chair. He reached for her and stopped; maybe she wouldn’t want to be touched.

And there was some part of him that didn’t want to touch her. He’d seen her when she was a skeleton held together with a fragile cobwebbing of yellowed skin and tendon. She looked real and solid and alive now, but he couldn’t help but feel his hand would pass through her skin and strike crumbling bone beneath.

He drew his hand back.

“You cannot offer me justice,” she said. “You cannot offer me anything I want.”

Julian felt cold all over, but he could not deny the excitement sparking through his nerves. He saw the plan, suddenly, in front of him, the strategy of it, and the excitement of that overrode even the chill of the razor’s edge he was walking.