"He doesn't remember the whipping, what happened with Jules and Emma--?"
"He doesn't remember it happening, or that I left him over it," Mark said grimly. "He said he knew I would come for him. As if we were still--what we were."
"What were you?" Cristina realized she'd never asked. "Did you exchange promises? Did you have a word for it, like novio?"
"Boyfriend?" Mark echoed. "No, nothing like that. But it was something and then it was nothing. Because I was angry." He looked at Cristina wretchedly. "But how can I be angry at someone who doesn't even remember what he did?"
"Your feelings are your feelings. Kieran did do those things. He did them even if he does not remember them." Cristina frowned. "Do I sound harsh? I don't mean to. But I sat with Emma, after. I helped bandage her whip cuts."
"Now you've helped bandage Kieran." Mark took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Cristina. This must seem-- I can't even imagine what you're thinking. Having to sit here with me, with him--"
"You mean because of--" Cristina blushed. Because of the way we kissed at the revel? She searched inside her heart, looking for jealousy, for bitterness, for anger at Mark. There was nothing. Not even the fury she'd felt at Diego at the appearance of Zara.
How far away that seemed now. How distant and how unimportant. Zara was welcome to Diego; she could have him.
"I'm not angry," she said. "And you shouldn't be worrying about what I'm feeling, anyway. We should be concentrating on the fact that Kieran is safe, that we can return."
"I can't stop worrying about what you're feeling," Mark said. "I can't stop thinking about you at all."
Cristina felt her heart thump.
"It would be a mistake to think of the Seelie Court as safe ground where we can rest. There is an old saying that the only difference between Seelie and Unseelie is that the Unseelie do evil in the open, and the Seelie hide it." Mark glanced down. Kieran was breathing softly, evenly. "And I don't know what we will do with Kieran," he said. "Send him back to the Hunt? Call for Gwyn? Kieran will not understand why I would want to be parted from him now."
"Do you? Want to be parted from him now?"
Mark said nothing.
"I understand," she said. "I do. You have always needed Kieran so badly, you never had the chance to think about what you wanted with him before."
Mark made a short noise under his breath. He took her hand and held it, still looking at Kieran. His grip was tight, but she didn't pull away.
*
Julian sat on Fergus's massive bed. He could see nothing of Emma behind the high hedge that blocked the rock pool, but he could hear her splashing, a sound that echoed off the shining walls.
The sound made his nerves crank tighter. When she was done with the pool, she'd come out, and she'd get in bed with him. He'd shared beds with Emma a hundred times. Maybe a thousand. But it had meant nothing when they were children, and later, when they weren't, he had told himself it still meant nothing, even when he was waking up in the middle of the night to watch the way strands of her hair tickled her cheek while she slept. Even when she started to leave early in the morning to run on the beach, and he'd curl up in the warmth she left against the sheets and inhale the rose-water scent of her skin.
Breathe. He dug his hands into the velvet pillow he'd pulled onto his lap. Think about something else.
It wasn't as if he didn't have plenty of other things to think about. Here they were in the Seelie Court, not quite prisoners and not quite guests. Faerie was just as hard to escape as it was to enter, and yet they had no plan for how to leave.
But he was exhausted; this was the first time he'd been alone in a bedroom with Emma since she'd ended things, and for this rare instant, his heart was doing the thinking, not his brain.
"Jules?" she called. He remembered the brief days when she had called him Julian, the way the sound of the word in her mouth had made his heart shatter with pleasure. "Nene left me a dress, and it's . . ." She sighed. "Well, I guess you'd better see."
She came out from behind the hedge that hid the pool, her hair down, wearing the dress. Faerie clothes were usually either very ornate or very simple. This dress was simple. Thin straps crisscrossed her shoulders; it was made of a silky white material that clung to her wet body like a second skin, outlining the curves of her waist and hips.
Julian felt his mouth go dry. Why had Nene left her a dress? Why couldn't Emma be coming to bed in filthy gear? Why did the universe hate him?
"It's white," she said, frowning.
For death and mourning, the color's white. White was funerals for Shadowhunters: There was white gear for state funerals, and white silk was placed over the eyes of dead Shadowhunters when their bodies were burned.
"White doesn't mean anything to faeries," he said. "To them, it's the color of flowers and natural things."
"I know, it's just . . ." She sighed and began to pad barefoot up the stairs to the dais where the bed was centered. She stopped to examine the enormous mattress, shaking her head in wonderment. "Okay maybe I didn't immediately warm to Fergus when we met," she said. Her face was glowing from the heat of the water, her cheeks pink. "But he would run an awesome bed-and-breakfast, you have to admit. He'd probably slip a mint tenderly under your pillow every night."
The gown fell away slightly as she climbed onto the bed, and Julian realized to his horror that it was slit up the side almost to her hip. Her long legs flashed against the material as she settled herself onto the bedspread.
The universe didn't just hate him, it was trying to kill him.
"Give me some more pillows," Emma demanded, and snatched several of them from beside Julian before he could move. He kept firm hold of the one on his lap and looked at Emma levelly.
"No stealing the covers," he said.
"I would never." She pushed the pillows behind her, making a pile she could lean against. Her damp hair adhered to her neck and shoulders, long locks of pale wet gold.
Her eyes were red-rimmed, as if she'd been crying. Emma rarely cried. He realized her chatter since she'd come into the bedroom was false cheer, something he ought to have known--he, who knew Emma better than anyone.
"Em," he said, unable to help himself, or the gentleness in his voice. "Are you all right? What happened at the Unseelie Court--"
"I just feel so stupid," she said, the bravado draining from her voice. Under the artifice was Emma, his Emma, with all her force and intelligence and bravery. Emma, sounding shattered. "I know faeries play tricks. I know they lie without lying. And yet the phouka said to me--he said if I came into Faerie, I would see the face of someone I had loved and lost."
"Very Fair Folk," said Julian. "You saw his face, your father's face, but it wasn't him. It was an illusion."
"It was like I couldn't process it," she said. "My whole mind was clouded. All I could think was that I had my father back."
"Your mind probably was clouded," said Julian. "There are all sorts of subtle enchantments that can blur your thoughts here. And it happened so quickly. I didn't suspect it was an illusion either. I've never heard of one so strong."
She didn't say anything. She was leaning back on her hands, her body outlined by the white gown. He felt a flash of almost-pain as if there were a key embedded under his flesh, tightening his skin every time it was turned. Memories attacked his mind ruthlessly--what it was like to slide his hands over her body, the way her teeth felt against his lower lip. The arch of her body fitting into the arch of his: a double crescent, an unraveled infinity sign.
He'd always thought desire was meant to be a pleasurable feeling. He'd never thought it could cut like this, like razors under his skin. He'd thought before that night on the beach with Emma that he wanted her more than anyone had ever wanted. He'd thought the wanting might kill him. But now he knew imagination was a pale thing. That even when it bled from him in the form of paint on canvas, it couldn't capture the richness of her skin on his, the sweet-hot taste of her mouth. Wanting wouldn't kill him, he thought, but
knowing what he was missing might.
He dug his fingernails into his palms, hard. Unfortunately, he'd bitten them down too far to do much damage.
"Seeing that thing turn out not to be my father--it made me realize how much of my life was an illusion," Emma said. "I spent so much time looking for revenge, but finding it didn't make me happy. Cameron didn't make me happy. I thought all these things would make me happy, but it was all an illusion." She turned toward him, her eyes wide and impossibly dark. "You're one of the only real things in my life, Julian."
He could feel his heart beating through his body. Every other emotion--his jealousy of Mark, the pain of separation from Emma, his worry for the children, his fear of what the Seelie Court held for them--faded. Emma was looking at him and her cheeks were flushed and her lips were parted and if she leaned toward him, if she wanted him at all, he would give up and break down and apart. Even if it meant betraying his brother, he would do it. He would pull her toward him and bury himself in her, in her hair and her skin and her body.
It would be a thing he would remember later with agony that felt like white-hot knives. It would be a further reminder of everything he could never really have. And he would hate himself for hurting Mark. But none of that would stop him. He knew how far his willpower went, and he had reached its limit. Already his body was shaking, his breath quickening. He had only to reach out--
"I want to be parabatai again," she said. "The way we were before."
The words exploded like a blow inside his head. She didn't want him; she wanted to be parabatai, and that was it. He'd been sitting there thinking of what he wanted and how much pain he could take, but it didn't matter if she didn't want him. How had he been so stupid?
He spoke evenly. "We'll always be parabatai, Emma. It's for life."
"It's been weird ever since we--ever since I started dating Mark," she said, holding his gaze with her own. "But it's not because of Mark. It's because of us. What we did."
"We'll be fine," he said. "There's no rule book for this, no guidance. But we don't want to hurt each other, so we won't."
"There've been parabatai in the past who started hating each other. Think of Lucian Graymark and Valentine Morgenstern."
"That won't happen to us. We chose each other when we were children. We chose each other again when we were fourteen. I chose you, and you chose me. That's what the parabatai ceremony is, really, isn't it? It's a way of sealing that promise. The one that says that I will always choose you."
She leaned against his arm, just the lightest touch of her shoulder against his, but it lit up his body like fireworks over the Santa Monica Pier. "Jules?"
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
"I will always choose you, too," she said, and, laying her head on his shoulder, shut her eyes.
*
Cristina woke out of an uneasy sleep with a start. The room was dim; she was curled on the foot of the bed, her legs drawn up under her. Kieran was sleeping a drugged sleep propped against pillows, and Mark was on the floor, tangled in blankets.
Two hours, Nene had said. She had to check on Kieran every two hours. She looked again at Mark, decided she couldn't wake him, sighed, and rose to a sitting position, edging up the bed toward the faerie prince.
Many people looked calm in their sleep, but not Kieran. He was breathing hard, eyes darting back and forth behind his eyelids. His hands moved restlessly over the bedcovers. Still, he did not wake when she leaned forward to push up the back of his shirt with awkward fingers.
His skin was fever-hot. He was achingly lovely so close, though: His long cheekbones matched his long eyes, their thick lashes feathering down, his hair a deep blue-black.
She quickly changed out the poultice; the old one was half-soaked with blood. As she leaned forward to pull his shirt back down, a hand clamped around her wrist like a vise.
Black and silver eyes gazed up at her. His lips moved; they were chapped and dry.
"Water?" he whispered.
Somehow, one-handedly, she managed to pour water from a pitcher on the nightstand into a pewter cup and give it to him. He drank it without letting go of her.
"Maybe you do not remember me," she said. "I am Cristina."
He put the cup down and stared at her. "I know who you are," he said, after a moment. "I thought--but no. We are in the Seelie Court."
"Yes," she said. "Mark is asleep," she added, in case he was worried.
But his mind seemed far away. "I thought I would die this night," he said. "I was prepared for it. I was ready."
"Things do not always happen when we think they will," Cristina said. It didn't seem that convincing a remark to her, but Kieran appeared comforted. Exhaustion was sweeping over his face, like a curtain sliding across a window.
His grip tightened on her. "Stay with me," he said.
Jolted by surprise, she would have replied--perhaps even refused--but she did not get the chance. He was already asleep.
*
Julian lay awake.
He wanted to sleep; exhaustion felt as if it had soaked into his bones. But the room was full of dim light and Emma was maddeningly close to him. He could feel the heat from her body as she slept. She had pushed away part of the bedspread that covered her, and he could see her bare shoulder where the dress she wore had slipped down, and the shape of the parabatai rune on her arm.
He thought of the storm clouds outside the Institute, the way she'd kissed him on the Institute steps before Gwyn had come. No, best to be truthful with himself. Before she'd pulled away and said his brother's name. That had been what ended it.
Perhaps it was just too easy to fall back into inappropriate emotion when they were already so close. Part of him wanted her to forget him and be happy. Part of him wanted her to remember the way he remembered, as if the memory of what they had been like together were a living part of his blood.
He ran his hands restlessly through his hair. The more he tried to bury such thoughts, the more they bubbled up, like water in the rock pool. He wanted to reach down and draw Emma toward him, capture her mouth with his--kiss the real Emma and erase the memory of the leanansidhe--but he would have settled for curling her close against his side, holding her through the night and feeling her body expand and contract as she breathed. He would have settled for sleeping through the night with only their smallest fingers touching.
"Julian," said a soft voice. "Awaken, son of thorns."
He sat up straight. Standing at the foot of the bed was a woman. Not Nene or Cristina: a woman he'd never seen before in person, though she was familiar from pictures. She was thin to the point of gauntness, but still beautiful, with full lips and glass-blue eyes. Red hair rippled to her waist. Her dress looked as if it had been made for her in a time before she had been so starved, but it was still lovely: deep blue and white, patterned with a delicate tracery of feathers, it wrapped her body in a downed softness. Her hands were long and white and pale, her mouth red, her ears slightly pointed.
On her head was a golden circlet--a crown, of intricate faerie-work.
"Julian Blackthorn," said the Queen of the Seelie Court. "Wake now and come with me, for I have something to show you."
14
THROUGH DARKENED GLASS
The Queen was silent as she walked, and Julian, barefoot, hurried to keep up with her. She moved purposefully down the long corridors of the Court.
It was hard to wrap one's mind around the geography of Faerie, with its ever-changing terrain, the way huge spaces fitted inside smaller ones. It was as if someone had taken the philosopher's question of how many angels could fit on the head of a pin and turned it into a landscape.
They passed other members of the gentry as they went. Here in the Seelie Court, there was less dark glamour, less viscera and bone and blood. Green livery echoed the color of plants and trees and grass. Everywhere there was gold: gold doublets on the men, long gold dresses on the women, as if they were channeling the sunshine that couldn't reach them
below the earth.
They turned at last from the corridor into a massive circular room. It was bare of any furniture, and the walls were smooth stone, curving up toward a crystal set into the peak of the roof. Directly below the crystal was a great stone plinth, with a golden bowl resting on top of it.
"This is my scrying glass," said the Queen. "One of the treasures of the fey. Would you look into it?"
Julian hung back. He didn't have Cristina's expertise, but he did know what a scrying glass was. It allowed you to gaze into a reflective surface, usually a mirror or pool of water, and see what was happening somewhere else in the world. He itched to use it to check on his family, but he would take no gifts from a faerie unless he had to.
"No, thank you, my lady," he said.
He saw anger flash in her eyes. It surprised him. He would have thought her better at controlling her emotions. The anger was gone in a moment, though, and she smiled at him.
"A Blackthorn is about to put their own life in grave danger," she said. "Is that not a good enough reason for you to look in the glass? Would you be ignorant of harm coming to your family, your blood?" Her voice was almost a croon. "From what I know of you, Julian, son of thorns, that is not in your nature."
Julian clenched his hands. A Blackthorn putting themselves in danger? Could it be Ty, throwing himself into a mystery, or Livvy, being willful and reckless? Dru? Tavvy?
"You are not easily tempted," she said, and now her voice had grown softer, more seductive. Her eyes gleamed. She liked this, he thought. The chase, the game. "How unusual in one so young."
Julian thought with an almost despairing amusement of his near breakdown just now around Emma. But that was a weakness. Everyone had them. Years of denying himself anything and everything he wanted for the sake of his family had forged his will into something that surprised even him sometimes.
"I can't reach through and change what happens, can I?" he said. "Wouldn't it just be torture for me to watch?"
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