Robert looked up at the tapestry that hung over his mantel. At Alec. He touched the Lightwood ring on his finger; a likely unconscious gesture. “I trust Magnus,” he said. “And I owe him a great deal.”

His gaze was distant. Emma wasn’t sure if he was thinking about the past or considering the future; she and Julian sat tensely while he considered. Finally, he said, “All right. Give me a few days—the two of you will have to remain in Alicante while I look into managing the exile ceremony, and you must stay in separate houses. I need to see a good faith effort to avoid each other. Is that clear?”

Emma swallowed hard. The exile ceremony. She hoped Jem could be there: Silent Brothers were the ones who presided over ceremonies, and even though he no longer was one, he had been at her parabatai ceremony with Julian. If he could be there for this, she would feel a little less alone.

She could see Julian’s expression: He looked much as she felt, as if relief and dread were warring inside him. “Thank you,” he said.

“Thank you, Inquisitor,” she echoed, and Robert looked surprised. She suspected no one had ever thanked him for a sentence of exile before.

* * *

Cristina had never been in the Gard’s Council Hall before. It was a horseshoe-shaped space, rows of benches marching toward a slightly raised dais; a second balcony level, containing more benches and seats, rose high above. Above the dais hung a huge golden clock, gorgeously made with delicate scrollwork and a repeated Latin phrase, ULTIMA THULE, marching around the rim. Behind the dais was an incredible wall of windows, giving out onto a view of Alicante below. She raised herself a little bit on tiptoe, to see the winding streets, the blue slashes of the canals, the demon towers rising like clear needles against the sky.

The Hall was beginning to fill. Annabel and Kieran had been taken to a waiting room, along with Magnus. The rest of them had been allowed in early and had claimed two rows of benches near the front. Ty, Kit, and Livvy were sitting, engaged in conversation. Dru sat quietly on her own, seeming lost in thought. Cristina was about to start toward her when she felt a light tap on her shoulder.

It was Mark. He had dressed carefully for the Council visit, and she felt a pang as she looked at him—he was so gorgeous in his pressed, old-fashioned clothes, like a marvelously colored old photograph. The dark jacket and waistcoat fit him well, and he had brushed his blond hair so that it covered the tips of his ears.

He had even shaved, and nicked himself slightly on the chin—which was ridiculous because Mark had no facial hair to speak of. He looked to Cristina like a little boy wanting to make a good impression on the first day of school. Her heart went out to him—he cared so much about the good opinion of a group of people who had agreed to abandon him to the Wild Hunt despite the pleas of his family, just because of who he was.

“Do you think Kieran will be all right?” Mark said. “They ought to treat an envoy from the Court with more honor. Instead they practically ran to put the wards back up as soon as we arrived.”

“He’ll be fine,” Cristina reassured him. Both Kieran and Mark, she thought, were stronger than the other one could believe, maybe because they’d been so vulnerable in the Hunt. “Though I can’t imagine Annabel is much of a conversationalist. At least Magnus is with them.”

Mark gave a strained smile as a low murmur swept through the room. The Centurions had arrived in full dress. They wore their uniforms of red, gray, and silver, with their silver pins on display. Each carried a staff of solid adamas. Cristina recognized some from Los Angeles, like Zara’s friend Samantha, with her thin, nasty face, and Rayan, looking around the room with an expression of concern.

Zara led the procession, her head held high, her mouth a slash of bright red. Her lips curled in distaste as she passed Mark and Cristina. But why wasn’t Diego beside her? Had he not come with them? But no, there he was, almost at the end of the line, looking gray and tired, but definitely present.

He paused in front of Mark and Cristina as the other Centurions passed by. “I got your message,” he said to Cristina, in a low voice. “If it’s what you want—”

“What message?” Mark said. “What’s going on?”

Zara appeared at Diego’s side. “A reunion,” she said. “How nice.” She smiled at Cristina. “I’m sure you’ll all be pleased to hear how well everything went in Los Angeles after you left.”

“Very impressive of you, killing Malcolm,” said Mark. His eyes were flat and glittering. “It seems to have resulted in quite a bit of advancement. Well-earned, I’m sure.”

“Thank you.” Zara laughed breathlessly, laying her hand on Diego’s arm. “Oh,” she said, with a sharply artificial enthusiasm. “Look!”

More Shadowhunters had entered the room. They were a mix of ages, from old to young. Some wore Centurion uniforms. Most wore gear or ordinary clothes. What was unusual about them was that they were carrying placards and signs. REGISTER ALL WARLOCKS. DOWNWORLDERS MUST BE CONTROLLED. PRAISE THE COLD PEACE. APPROVE THE REGISTRY. Among them was a stolid brown-haired man with a bland sort of face, the kind of face where you could never really remember the features later. He winked at Zara.

“My father,” she said proudly. “The Registry was his idea.”

“What interesting signs,” said Mark.

“How wonderful to see people expressing their political views,” said Zara. “Of course the Cold Peace has truly created a generation of revolutionaries.”

“It is unusual,” said Cristina, “for a revolution to call for fewer rights for people, not more.”

For a moment Zara’s mask slipped, and Cristina saw through the artifice of politeness, the breathy little-girl voice and demeanor. There was something cold behind it all, something without warmth or empathy or affection. “People,” she said. “What people?”

Diego took hold of her arm. “Zara,” he said. “Let’s go sit down.”

Mark and Cristina watched them go in silence.

* * *

“I hope Julian’s right,” Livvy said, staring at the empty dais.

“He usually is,” Ty said. “Not about everything, but about this sort of thing.”

Kit sat between the twins, which meant they were talking over him. He wasn’t entirely sure how he’d ended up in this position. Not that he minded or even noticed at the moment. He was stunned into near silence—something that never happened—by where he was: in Alicante, the heart of the Shadowhunters’ country, gazing at the legendary demon towers.

He’d fallen in love with Idris at first sight. He hadn’t expected that at all.

It was like walking into a fairy tale. And not the sort he’d grown used to at the Shadow Market, where faeries were another kind of monster. The kind he’d seen on TV and in books when he was little, a world of magnificent castles and lush forests.

Livvy winked at Kit. “You’ve got that look on your face.”

“What look?”

“You’re impressed by Idris. Admit it, Mr. Nothing Impresses Me.”

Kit was going to do no such thing. “I like the clock,” he said, pointing up at it.

“There’s a legend about that clock.” She wiggled her eyebrows at him. “For a second, when it chimes the hour, the gates to Heaven open.” Livvy sighed; a rare wistfulness flashed across her face. “As far as I’m concerned, Heaven is just the Institute being ours again. And all of us going home.”