* * *
They crept along the corridors with Nene, keeping to the shadows. Both Emma and Julian kept their hoods drawn up; Nene had tucked her hair under a cap and, in breeches and a loose shirt, looked like a page boy at first glance.
“What about Fergus?” Emma said.
Nene smiled grimly. “Fergus has been waylaid by a dryad of the sort he most admires. A young sapling.”
“Ouch,” said Julian. “Splinters.”
Nene ignored him. “I’ve known Fergus a long time, I know all about his inclinations. He’ll be busy for a good long time.”
They had reached a sloping hallway familiar to Emma. She could smell night air coming from one end of the corridor, the scent of leaves and sap and fall. She wondered if it was the same season in Faerie as it was at home. It felt later, as if autumn had already touched the Lands of Faerie with an early frost.
The corridor ended abruptly, opening into a clearing full of grass and stars. Trees stood around in a tall circle, shaking down leaves of gold and russet on a crowd of faerie courtiers and their horses.
The Queen herself sat sidesaddle on a white mare at the head of the procession. A white lace veil covered her face and her shoulders, and white gloves covered her hands. Her red hair streamed down her back. Her courtiers, in gold silk and bright velvet, rode behind her: most on horses, but some on massive, pad-pawed cats and narrow-eyed wolves the size of small cars. A green-skinned dryad with a mass of leaves for hair rode tucked into the branches of a walking tree.
Emma couldn’t help looking around herself in wonder. She was a Shadowhunter, used to magic; still, there was something so alien at the heart of the Courts of Faerie that it still made her marvel.
Nene led them through the shadows to where her horse and Fergus’s waited, already in the procession’s line, between a sprite riding a winged toadstool and two faerie girls in russet dresses with identical black hair, who sat one in front of the other on a bay mare. Emma pulled herself up into the saddle of Nene’s gray palfrey.
Nene patted the horse’s neck fondly. “Her name is Silvermane. Be kind to her. She knows her own way home.”
Emma nodded as Julian mounted Fergus’s bay stallion. “What’s his name?” he asked as the horse pawed the ground and snorted.
“Widowmaker,” said Nene.
Julian snorted under his hood. “Does he make widows out of the people who ride him or people he takes a dislike to?”
“Both,” said Nene. She reached into her cloak and drew out two crystal vials, each looped on a golden chain. She handed one to Julian and the other to Emma. “Wear these around your throats,” she said in a low voice. “And keep them close.”
Emma looped the chain obediently around her throat. The vial was about the size of her thumb. Pale gold liquid was visible inside it, glimmering as the vial moved. “What are these for?”
“If you are in danger in the King’s Court, break the top and drink the liquid,” said Nene.
“Is it poison?” Julian sounded curious as he fastened the chain around his throat. The vial fell against his chest.
“No—it will make you invisible to Unseelie faeries, at least for a time. I don’t know how long the magic lasts. I have never had cause to use it.”
A squawking goblin with a piece of parchment and a massive quill pen was running along the side of the procession, marking off names. He cast a quick glance at Emma and Julian. “Lady Nene, Lord Fergus,” he said. “We are about to depart.”
“We?” said Julian in a bored voice. Emma blinked, astonished by how much he sounded like a faerie. “Are you accompanying us, goblin? Would you enjoy a holiday in the Court of Unseelie?”
The goblin squinted. “Are you well, Lord Fergus? You sound different.”
“Perhaps because I pine for goblin heads to decorate my bower,” said Julian. “Off with you.” He aimed a kick at the goblin, who made a hissing sound of fright and skittered away from them, hurrying down the line.
“Be careful what masks you wear, child,” Nene said, “lest you lose your true face forever.”
“False or true, it is all the same,” said Julian, and picked up the reins as the procession began to move forward into the night.
* * *
Before Kit could answer Ty, a commotion in the library drew them out from behind the shelves.
Dru had returned to the library and was hanging back by the door, looking shy but smiling. A good-looking dark-eyed boy who resembled a narrower version of Diego Rocio Rosales was hugging Cristina. Mark and Kieran were both looking at him with uneasy expressions. As soon as Cristina let him go, Helen strode over to shake his hand. “Welcome to the Los Angeles Institute, Jaime,” she said. “Thanks so much for coming on such short notice.”
“Jaime Rocio Rosales,” said Ty to Kit, under his breath.
“I found him on the beach and brought him straight up,” Dru said proudly.
Helen looked puzzled. “But how did you recognize him?”
Dru exchanged a look with Jaime, part panic and part resignation.
“He stayed with me for a few days when we were at the London Institute,” Dru said.
Everyone looked astonished, though Kit wasn’t exactly sure why. The relationships between different Shadowhunter families were endlessly confusing: some, like Emma, Jace, and Clary, were treated almost like Blackthorn family; some weren’t. He had to hand it to Dru, though, for managing to conceal the fact she had someone in her room in London from everyone else. It indicated a talent for deception. Along with her lock-picking skills, she definitely had a criminal bent he admired.
“You mean he was in your room?” Mark demanded incredulously. He turned to Jaime, who had backed up against one of the long tables. “She’s only thirteen!”
Jaime looked incredulous. “I thought she had to be at least sixteen—”
Helen sucked in her breath. Mark handed his pack to Kieran, who took it, looking baffled. “Stay where you are, Jaime Rosales.”
“Why?” said Jaime suspiciously.
Mark advanced. “So I can rain blows down upon you.”
Like an acrobat, Jaime flipped himself backward, landing squarely atop the table. He glared down at Mark. “I don’t know what you think happened, but nothing did. Dru is my friend, whatever her age. That is all.”
Ty turned to whisper in Kit’s ear. “I don’t get it—why is Mark angry?”
Ki
t thought about it. It was one of the great things about Ty, actually—he made you consider the threads of subconscious logic that wove beneath the surface of ordinary conversations. The suppositions and assumptions people made without ever considering why, the implications of certain words and gestures. Kit didn’t think he’d take those things for granted again. “You know how knights in stories defend a lady’s honor?” he whispered. “Mark thinks he has to defend Drusilla’s honor.”
“That table is going to break,” Ty said.
He was right. The legs of the table Jaime was standing on were wobbling dangerously.
Dru leaped in between Mark and Jaime, arms spread wide. “Stop,” she said fiercely. “I didn’t tell Jaime how old I was because he was my friend. He listened to me and he watched horror movies with me and he acted like what I said was important and I didn’t want him to treat me like a little kid.”
“But you are only a child,” Mark said. “He should not treat you as an adult.”
“He treated me like a friend,” said Dru. “I might be young, but I’m not a liar.”
“She is telling you that you have to trust her, Mark,” said Kieran. He rarely said much around the Blackthorns; Kit was surprised, but couldn’t disagree.
Cristina stepped around Mark and moved to stand next to Dru. They couldn’t have looked more different—Cristina in her white dress, Dru in overalls and a black T-shirt—but they wore identical stubborn expressions.
“Mark,” said Cristina. “I understand you feel you have not been here to protect your family for so many years. But that does not mean mistrusting them now. Nor would Jaime hurt Dru.”
The door of the library opened; it was Aline. No one but Kit watched as she crossed the room and whispered in Helen’s ear. No one but Kit saw Helen’s expression change, her lips whiten.
“Dru is like a little sister to me,” said Jaime, and Dru winced almost imperceptibly.
Mark turned to Dru. “I’m sorry, sister. I should have listened to you.” He looked up at Jaime, and his eyes flashed. “I believe you, Jaime Rocio Rosales. But I can’t speak for what Julian will do when he finds out.”