Kit, Ty, and Livvy were nowhere to be seen. Emma didn’t blame them. Meals with the Centurions were an increasingly uncomfortable affair. Though Divya, Rayan, and Jon Cartwright tried their best to hold up a friendly conversation about where everyone planned to spend their travel year, Zara soon interrupted them with a long description of what she’d been doing in Hungary before she’d arrived at the Institute.
“Bunch of Shadowhunters complaining that their steles and seraph blades stopped working during a fight with some faeries,” she said, rolling her eyes. “We told them it was just an illusion—faeries fight dirty, and they should be teaching that at the Academy.”
“Faeries don’t fight dirty, actually,” said Mark. “They fight remarkably cleanly. They have a strict code of honor.”
“Honor?” Samantha and Dane laughed at the same time. “I doubt you know what that means, ha—”
They paused. It had been Dane who was speaking, but it was Samantha who flushed. The word unspoken hung in the air. Half-breed.
Mark shoved his chair back and walked out of the room.
“Sorry,” Zara said into the silence that followed his departure. “But he shouldn’t be sensitive. He’s going to hear a lot worse if he goes to Alicante, especially at a Council meeting.”
Emma stared at her incredulously. “That doesn’t make it all right,” she said. “Just because he’s going to hear something ugly from the bigots on the Council doesn’t mean he should hear it first at home.”
“Or ever at home,” said Cristina, whose cheeks had turned dark red.
“Stop trying to make us feel guilty,” Samantha snapped. “We’re the ones who’ve been out all day trying to clean up the mess you made, trusting Malcolm Fade, like you could trust a Downworlder. Didn’t you people learn anything from the Dark War? The faeries stabbed us in the back. That’s what Downworlders do, and Mark and Helen will do it to you, too, if you’re not careful.”
“You don’t know anything about my brother or my sister,” said Julian. “Please refrain from saying their names.”
Diego had been sitting beside Zara in stony silence. He spoke finally, his lips barely moving. “Such blind hatred does no credit to the office or the uniform of Centurions,” he said.
Zara lifted her glass, her fingers curled tightly around the slender stem. “I don’t hate Downworlders,” she said, and there was cool conviction in her voice. It was more chilling, somehow, than passion would have been. “The Accords haven’t worked. The Cold Peace doesn’t work. Downworlders don’t follow our rules, or any rules that aren’t in their interest to follow. They break the Cold Peace when they feel like it. We are warriors. Demons should fear us. And Downworlders should fear us. Once we were great: We were feared, and we ruled. We’re a shadow now of what we were then. All I’m saying is that when the systems aren’t working, when they’ve brought us down to the level we’re at now, then we need a new system. A better one.”
Zara smiled, tucked a stray bit of hair back into her immaculate bun, and took a sip of water. They finished dinner in silence.
* * *
“She lies. She just sits there and lies like her opinions are facts,” said Emma furiously. After dinner, she’d retreated with Cristina to the other girl’s room; they were both sitting on the bed, Cristina worrying her dark hair between her fingers.
“I think they are, to her and those like her,” said Cristina. “But we should not waste time on Zara. You said on the way upstairs that you had something to tell me?”
As concisely as she could, Emma caught Cristina up on the visit from Gwyn. As Emma talked, Cristina’s face grew more and more pinched with worry. “Is Mark all right?”
“I think so—he can be really hard to read, sometimes.”
“He’s one of those people with a lot going on in his head,” said Cristina. “Has he ever asked—about you and Julian?”
Emma shook her head violently. “I don’t think it would ever cross his mind we had anything but parabatai feelings for each other. Jules and I have known each other so long.” She rubbed at her temples. “Mark assumes Julian feels the same way about me that he does—brotherly.”
“It’s strange, the things that blind us,” said Cristina. She drew her knees up, her hands looped around them.
“Have you tried to reach Jaime?” Emma asked.
Cristina leaned her cheek on the tops of her knees. “I sent a fire-message, but I haven’t heard anything.”
“He was your best friend,” Emma said. “He’ll respond.” She twisted a piece of Cristina’s woven blanket between her fingers. “You know what I miss most? About Jules? Just—being parabatai. Being Emma and Julian. I miss my best friend. I miss the person I told everything to, all the time. The person who knew everything about me. The good things and the bad things.” She could see Julian in her mind’s eye as she spoke, the way he had looked during the Dark War, all thin shoulders and determined eyes.
The sound of a knock on the door echoed through the room. Emma glanced at Cristina—was she expecting someone?—but the other girl looked as surprised as she did.
“Pasa,” Cristina called.
It was Julian. Emma looked at him in surprise, the younger Julian of her memory blurring back into the Julian standing in front of her: a nearly grown-up Julian, tall and muscular, his curls unruly, a hint of stubble prickling along his jawline.
“Do you know where Mark is?” he asked, without preamble.
“Isn’t he in his room?” Emma said. “He left during dinner, so I thought—”
Julian shook his head. “He’s not there. Could he be in your room?”
It cost him visible effort to ask, Emma thought. She saw Cristina bite her lip and prayed Julian wouldn’t notice. He could never find out how much Cristina knew.
“No,” Emma said. “I locked my door.” She shrugged. “I don’t completely trust the Centurions.”
Julian ran a hand distractedly through his hair. “Look—I’m worried about Mark. Come with me and I’ll show you what I mean.”
Cristina and Emma followed Julian to Mark’s room; the door was propped wide open. Julian went in first, and then Emma and Cristina, both of them glancing around carefully as if Mark might be found hiding in a closet somewhere.
Mark’s room had changed a great deal since he’d first come back from Faerie. Then it had been dusty, a clearly unused space kept empty for the sake of memory. All his things had been cleared out and put into storage, and the curtains, filmed with dust, had been always drawn.
It was very different now. Mark had folded his clothes in neat stacks at the foot of his bed; he’d told Emma once that he didn’t see the point of a wardrobe or a dresser, since all they did was hide your clothes from you.
The windowsills were covered with small items from nature—flowers in various stages of drying, leaves and cactus needles, shells from the beach. The bed was made neatly; clearly he hadn’t slept in it once.
Julian looked away from the too-orderly bed. “His boots are gone,” he said. “He only had the one pair. They were supposed to ship more from Idris, but they haven’t yet.”
“His jacket, too,” Emma said. It had been his only heavy one, denim lined with shearling. “His bag . . . he had a duffel bag, didn’t he?”
Cristina gave a gasp. Emma and Julian both swung to look at her as she reached up for a piece of paper that had just appeared, floating at shoulder height. Glowing runes sealed it shut; they faded as she caught the fire-message out of the air. “Addressed to me,” she said, tearing it open. “From Mark.” Her eyes scanned the page; her cheeks paled, and she handed over the paper without a word.