“It is better that you go,” he said, “that I might forget your fair, cruel face, and heal my heart.”

Emma had looked stunned; Cristina, saying something in a low voice to Mark that sounded like unnecessary, had hauled Emma off toward the car.

Ty and Livvy were the last to come to say good-bye to Jules; Livvy embraced him fiercely, and Ty gave him a soft, shy smile. Julian wondered where Kit was. He’d been glued to Ty’s and Livvy’s sides the whole time they’d been in London, but he appeared to have vanished for the family farewell.

“I’ve got something for you,” Ty said. He held out a box, which Julian took with some surprise. Ty was absolutely punctual about Christmas and birthday presents, but he rarely gave gifts spontaneously.

Curious, Julian popped open the top of the box to find a set of colored pencils. He didn’t know the brand, but they looked pristine and unused. “Where did you get these?”

“Fleet Street,” said Ty. “I went out early this morning.”

An ache of love pressed against the back of Julian’s throat. It reminded him of when Ty was a baby, serious and quiet. He hadn’t been able to go to sleep for a long time without someone holding him, and though Julian had been very small himself, he remembered holding Ty while he fell asleep, all round wrists and straight black hair and long lashes. He’d felt so much love for his brother even then it had been like an explosion in his heart.

“Thanks. I’ve missed drawing,” Julian said, and tucked the box into his duffel bag. He didn’t fuss; Ty didn’t like fuss, but Julian made his tone as warm as he could, and Ty beamed.

Jules thought of Livvy, the night before, the way she’d kissed his forehead. Her thank-you. This was Ty’s.

“Be careful at Blackthorn Hall,” he said. He was nervous that they were going but tried not to show it; he knew he was being unreasonable. “Go during the day. During the day,” he insisted, when Livvy made a face. “And try not to get Drusilla and Tavvy into trouble. Remember, Mark is in charge.”

“Does he know that?” said Livvy.

Julian sought Mark in the crowd on the steps. He was standing with his hands behind his back, exchanging a mistrustful look with a carved stone gnome. “Your pretense does not fool me, gnome,” he muttered. “My eye will be upon you.”

Julian sighed. “Just do what he says.”

“Julian!” Emma called. She was standing beside the car, Cortana—glamoured to be invisible to mundanes—glittering just over her right shoulder. “We’re going to miss the train.”

Julian nodded and held up two fingers. He made his way across the steps to Mark and gripped his shoulder. “You going to be okay?”

Mark nodded. Julian thought about asking where Kieran was, but decided there was no point. It would probably just stress Mark out more. “Thanks for trusting me to be in charge,” said Mark. “After what happened before, with the kitchen.”

In Los Angeles, Julian had left Mark for a night to look after their siblings. Mark had managed to destroy the kitchen, cover Tavvy in sugar, and almost give Jules a nervous breakdown.

“I do trust you.” Unspeaking, Julian and Mark looked at each other. Then Julian grinned. “Besides,” he added, “this isn’t my kitchen.”

Mark laughed softly. Julian headed down the stairs as Emma and Cristina piled into the car. He went around the back to toss his bag into the trunk and came to a stop. Wedged into the space beside the luggage was a small figure in a smudged white T-shirt.

Tavvy looked up at him, wide-eyed. “I want to go too,” he announced.

Julian sighed and began to roll up his sleeves. A brother’s work was never done.

* * *

One of the benefits of being a Shadowhunter that was rarely talked about, Emma thought, was easy parking at places like train stations and churches. Often a place had been set aside for Shadowhunters to leave their cars, glamoured to appear to mundanes as something they would ignore—a construction site or a pile of trash bins. Bridget pulled the rattling black Austin Metro to a stop on Praed Street, mere feet from Paddington Station, and the Shadowhunters piled out to retrieve their bags while she locked up the vehicle.

They’d packed fast and light, just enough for a few days. Weapons, gear, and few clothes besides the ones on their backs, though Emma had no doubt that Cristina would look elegant all the time anyway. Demurely, Cristina tucked her knife into her pocket and bent to sling her backpack over her shoulder. She winced.

“Are you all right?” Emma asked, sliding into step beside her. She was enormously glad to have Cristina there between her and Jules, something to smooth the prickly and dangerous roads of their conversations.

They passed into the station, which was brightly lit and modern, the walkways lined with stores like the Body Shop and Caffè Nero. She glanced ahead at Julian, but he was deep in discussion with Bridget. Julian had an amazing ability to make conversation with literally anyone. She wondered what he could possibly find to talk to Bridget about. Evelyn’s odd habits? London history?

“Have you gotten a chance to talk to Mark at all about, you know, the kiss?” asked Emma as they passed an Upper Crust bakery that smelled like butter and cinnamon, mixed with the smoke of the station. “Especially with the whole Kieran thing going on now.”

Cristina shook her head. She looked drawn and pale, as if she hadn’t slept well. “Kieran and Mark have history. Like Diego and me. I can’t find fault with Mark for being drawn to his history. It was the reason I was drawn to Diego, and I did that without all the pressures that are on Mark now.”

“I don’t know how it’ll play out. Mark’s not much of a liar,” said Emma. “I say this as someone who isn’t great at it myself.”

Cristina gave a pained smile. “You are terrible. Watching you and Mark pretend to be in love was like watching two people who kept falling over and then hoping nobody noticed.”

Emma giggled. “Very flattering.”

“I am only saying that for the good of us all, Kieran must believe in Mark’s feelings,” said Cristina. “A faerie who thinks they have been scorned or spited can be very cruel.”

She gasped suddenly, bending almost double. Emma caught her as she sank down. In a blind panic, she dragged Cristina into a corner between two shops. She didn’t dare scream; she wasn’t glamoured, mundanes would hear her. But she glanced toward Julian and Bridget, still deep in conversation, and thought as hard as she could.

Jules, Julian, I need you, right now, come right now, please!

“Emma—” Cristina had her arms crossed, hugging her stomach as if it pained her, but it was the blood on her shirt that terrified Emma.

“Cristina—sweetheart—let me see, let me see.” She pulled frantically at Cristina’s arms until the other girl let go.

There was blood on her right hand and sleeve. Most of it seemed to be coming from her arm and to have transferred itself to her shirt. Emma breathed a little easier. A wound to the arm was less serious than one to the body.

“What’s going on?” It was Julian’s voice. He and Bridget had reached them; Jules was white-faced. She saw the terror in his eyes and realized what had caused it: He’d thought something had happened to Emma.