It was Mark who reached for her, usually—for the small, quiet things, the hand on the shoulder, the brushing away of a stray eyelash, a quick embrace. There was an exquisite pain in watching that, more than there would have been in seeing them passionately embracing. After all, when you were dying of thirst, it was the sip of water you dreamed about, not the whole reservoir.
But now—the feel of holding Emma was so close, the taste of her still on his mouth, her rose-water scent on his clothes. He would play back the scene of their kiss over and over in his head, he knew, until it faded and fragmented and came apart like a photograph folded and unfolded too many times.
But it was too close now, like a just-delivered wound. And seeing Emma in Mark’s arms was a sharp splash of acid on raw skin, a brutal reminder: He couldn’t afford to be sentimental, or to think of her as possibly his, even in an imaginary someday. To consider possibilities was to open yourself up to pain. Reality had to be his focus—reality and his responsibilities to his family. Otherwise he would go insane.
“Do you think he’ll come back?” Emma drew back from Mark. Julian thought she cast him an anxious sideways glance, but he wasn’t sure. And there was no point wondering. He crushed his curiosity down, brutally.
“Gwyn?” said Mark. “No. I refused him. He won’t beg and he won’t return.”
“Are you sure?” Julian said.
Mark gave him a wry look. “Do not let Gwyn fool you,” he said. “If I do not help him, he will find someone else to do it, or he will do it himself. Kieran will come to no harm.”
Emma made a relieved noise. Julian said nothing—he was wondering about Kieran himself. He remembered how the faerie boy had gotten Emma whipped bloody, and broken Mark’s heart. He remembered also how Kieran had helped them defeat Malcolm. Without him they would have had no chance.
And he remembered what Kieran had said to him before the battle with Malcolm. You are not gentle. You have a ruthless heart.
If he could have saved Kieran by risking his own safety, he would have. But he would not risk his brother. If that made him ruthless, so be it. If Mark was right, Kieran would be fine anyway.
“Diana,” said Emma. Their tutor was leaning against the closed front door, looking down at her palm. “What did Gwyn throw at you?”
Diana held out her hand; glimmering on her brown skin was a small golden acorn.
Mark looked surprised. “That is a fair gift,” he said. “Should you crack open that acorn, Gwyn would be summoned to aid you.”
“Why would he give Diana something like that?” asked Emma.
The ghost of a smile touched Mark’s mouth as he began to mount the stairs. “He admired her,” he said. “It is rare I have seen Gwyn admire a woman before. I had thought perhaps his heart was closed to that sort of thing.”
“Gwyn has a crush on Diana?” Emma inquired, her dark eyes brightening. “I mean, not that you’re not very attractive, Diana, it just seems sudden.”
“Faeries are like that,” said Julian. He almost felt for Diana—he had never seen her look so rattled. She was worrying at her lower lip with her teeth, and Julian remembered that Diana really wasn’t very old—only twenty-eight or so. Not that much older than Jace and Clary.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” she said. “And besides, we have more important things to think about!”
She dropped the acorn into Mark’s hand just as the front door flew open and the Centurions poured in. They looked wind-tossed and soaking wet, every one of them drenched. Diana, seeming relieved to no longer be talking about her love life, went off to find blankets and towels (drying runes notoriously worked well to dry your skin, but didn’t do much for your clothes).
“Did you find anything?” Emma asked.
“I think we’ve located the likely spot where the body sank,” said Manuel. “But the sea was too rough for us to dive for it. We’ll have to try again tomorrow.”
“Manuel,” Zara said warningly, as if he’d revealed the secret passcode that would open the gates to Hell under their feet.
Manuel and Rayan rolled their eyes. “It’s not like they don’t know what we’re looking for, Zara.”
“The Scholomance’s methods are secret.” Zara thrust her damp jacket into Diego’s arms and turned back to Emma and Julian. “Right,” she said. “What’s for dinner?”
* * *
“I can’t tell any of them apart,” said Kit. “It’s the uniforms. It makes them all look the same to me. Like ants.”
“Ants don’t all look the same,” said Ty.
They were sitting at the edge of the second-floor gallery overlooking the main Institute entryway below. Wet Centurions scurried to and fro; Kit saw Julian and Emma, along with Diana, trying to make conversation with the ones who hadn’t wandered off to the dining room, and the fireplace there, to get warm.
“Who is everyone again?” said Kit. “And where are they from?’
“Dane and Samantha Larkspear,” said Livvy, indicating two dark-haired Centurions. “Atlanta.”
“Twins,” said Ty.
“How dare they,” said Livvy, with a grin. Kit had been worried she wouldn’t be thrilled with Ty’s plan to absorb Kit into his detecting plans, but she’d just given a wry smile when they’d come over to her in the training room and said, “Welcome to the club.”
Livvy pointed. “Manuel Casales Villalobos. From Madrid. Rayan Maduabuchi, Lagos Institute. Divya Joshi, Mumbai Institute. Not everyone’s connected with an Institute, though. Diego’s not, Zara isn’t, or her friend Jessica, who’s French, I think. And there’s Jon Cartwright and Gen Whitelaw, and Thomas Aldertree, all Academy graduates.” She tilted her head. “And not one of them has the sense to come in out of the rain.”
“Tell me again why you think they’re up to something?” said Kit.
“All right,” said Ty. Kit had noticed already that Ty responded directly to what you said to him, and much less so to tone or intonation. Not that he couldn’t use a refresher on why they were halfway up a building, staring at a bunch of jerks. “I was sitting in front of your room this morning when I saw Zara go into Diana’s office. When I followed her, I saw that she was going through papers there.”
“She could have had a reason,” said Kit.
“To be sneaking through Diana’s papers? What reason?” said Livvy, so firmly that Kit had to admit that if it looked scurrilous, it probably was scurrilous.
“I texted Simon Lewis about Cartwright, Whitelaw, and Aldertree,” said Livvy, resting her chin on the lower crossbar of the railing. “He says Gen and Thomas are solid, and Cartwright is kind of a lunk, but basically harmless.”
“They might not all be involved,” said Ty. “We have to figure out which of them are, and what they want.”
“What’s a lunk?” said Kit.
“Sort of a combination of hunk and lump, I think. As in, large but not that smart.” Livvy grinned her quick grin as a shadow rose up over them—Cristina, her hands on her hips, her eyebrows quirked.
“What are you three doing?” she asked. Kit had a healthy respect for Cristina Rosales. Sweet as she looked, he’d seen her throw a balisong fifty feet and hit her target exactly.
“Nothing,” said Kit.
“Making rude comments about the Centurions,” said Livvy.
For a moment, Kit thought Cristina was going to scold them. Instead she sat down next to Livvy, her mouth curling up into a smile. “Count me in,” she said.
Ty was resting his forearms on the crossbar. He flicked his storm-cloud-gray eyes in Kit’s direction. “Tomorrow,” he said quietly, “we follow them to see where they go.”
Kit was surprised to find he was looking forward to it.
* * *
It was an uncomfortable evening—the Centurions, even after drying off, were exhausted and reluctant to talk about what they’d done that day. Instead they descended on the dining room and the food laid out there like ravenous wolves.