The small group—Helen, Aline, Mark, and Samantha—turned to stare at Emma as if she’d appeared in a puff of smoke. They’d all been too angry to notice her approach.

The gold clock overhead began to chime urgently. The crowd started to unknot itself, Shadowhunters searching for empty seats in the rows facing the dais. Dane Larkspear, who’d been coming toward his sister, had halted in the middle of an aisle; Emma saw to her surprise that Manuel was blocking his way.

Maybe Manuel didn’t think a Centurion brawling on the floor of the Council Hall would be a great idea either. Zara was looking over too, her red mouth set in an angry line.

“You don’t get to pull rank on me, Aline Penhallow,” said Samantha, but she shoved her dagger back into its sheath. “Not when you’re married to that—that thing.”

“Did you draw that?” Emma interrupted, pointing at the blobby sketch on Samantha’s placard. “Is that supposed to be a dead faerie?”

She was pretty sure it was. The sketch had arms and legs and dragonfly wings, sort of.

“Impressive,” said Emma. “You’ve got talent, Samantha. Real talent.”

Samantha looked surprised. “You think so?”

“God, no,” said Emma. “Now go and sit down. Zara’s waving at you.”

Samantha hesitated and then turned away. Emma grabbed hold of Helen’s hand. She started to walk toward the long bench where the Blackthorns were seated. Her heart was thumping. Not that Samantha was much danger, but if they’d started something, and the rest of Zara’s friends had joined in, it could have been a real fight.

Aline and Mark were on either side of them. Helen’s fingers curled around Emma’s arm. “I remember this,” she said in a low voice. Her fingertips brushed the scar that Cortana had made years ago, when Emma had clutched the blade to her body after her parents’ death.

It was Helen who had been there when Emma woke up in a world where her parents were gone forever, though it was Julian who had placed the sword in Emma’s arms.

But now Cortana was strapped to her back. Now was their chance to right the wrongs of the past—the wrongs done to Helen and Mark and those like them by the Clave, the wrong the Clave had done to the Carstairs in ignoring their deaths. It made the knowledge that she would soon be exiled hurt even more, the thought that she would not be with the Blackthorns when they were reunited.

They sped up as they got close to the other Blackthorns, and there was Julian, standing among his siblings. His eyes met Emma’s. She could see even across the distance between them that his had turned nearly black.

She knew without having to ask: Something was very wrong.

* * *

Alec Lightwood was very hard to keep up with. He was older than Kit, and he had longer legs, and he’d taken off flat-out running the moment Kit told him that Magnus needed him.

Kit wasn’t sure their cover story that he wanted Alec to show him around the Gard was going to hold up if anyone stopped them. But no one did; the loud chiming was still sounding, and everyone was hurrying toward the main Council Hall.

When they burst into the high-ceilinged Consul’s quarters, they found Magnus lying on a long sofa. Kieran and Annabel were at opposite ends of the room, staring like cats just introduced to a new environment.

Jia and Robert stood by the sofa; Alec started toward it, and his father moved to put a hand on his shoulder.

Alec stopped where he was, his whole body tense. “Let me go,” he said.

“He’s fine,” said Robert. “Brother Enoch was just here. His magic’s depleted and he’s weak, but—”

“I know what’s wrong with him,” Alec said, pushing past the Inquisitor. Robert watched his son as Alec knelt down by the side of the long couch. He brushed Magnus’s hair back from his forehead, and the warlock stirred and murmured.

“He hasn’t been well for a while,” said Alec, half to himself. “His magic gets depleted so fast. I told him to go to the Spiral Labyrinth, but there hasn’t been time.”

Kit stared. He’d heard of Magnus even before he’d met him, of course; Magnus was famous in Downworld. And when he had met Magnus, the warlock had been so full of kinetic energy, a whirl of dry wit and blue fire. It hadn’t even occurred to him that Magnus might get sick or tired.

“Isn’t there any way to make him better?” said Annabel. She was vibrating with tension, her hands working at her sides. He noticed for the first time that she was missing a finger on her right hand. He hadn’t looked at her too closely before. She gave him the creeps. “I—I need him.”

Admirably, Alec didn’t lose his temper. “He needs rest,” he said. “We could delay the meeting—”

“Alec, we can’t.” Jia spoke gently. “Obviously Magnus should rest. Annabel, you’ll be taken care of. I promise.”

“No.” Annabel shrank back against the wall. “I want Magnus with me. Or Julian. Get Julian.”

“What’s going on?” Kit recognized her voice even before he turned to see Zara in the doorway. Her lipstick looked like a harsh slash of blood against her pale skin. She was looking at Magnus, the corner of her mouth twisted in a smirk. “Consul,” she said, and bowed to Jia. “Everyone is assembled. Should I tell them the meeting will be delayed?”

“No, Miss Dearborn,” said Jia, smoothing down her embroidered robe. “Thank you, but we don’t need you to handle this for us. The assembly will go as planned.”

“Dearborn,” Annabel echoed. Her gaze was fixed on Zara. Her eyes had gone flat and glittering like a snake’s. “You’re a Dearborn.”

Zara looked merely puzzled, as if wondering who Annabel might be. “Zara is quite an advocate for restricting the rights of Downworlders,” Jia said neutrally.

“We’re interested in safety,” Zara said, clearly stung. “That’s all.”

“We had better go,” said Robert Lightwood. He was still looking at Alec, but Alec wasn’t looking at him; he was sitting by Magnus, his hand against Magnus’s cheek. “Alec, if you need me, send for me.”

“I’ll send Kit,” Alec said, without looking around.

“I’ll return for you,” Robert said to Kieran, who had remained silently by the window, barely a shadow in the room’s shadows. Kieran nodded.

Robert squeezed Alec’s shoulder briefly. Jia extended a hand to Annabel, and after a moment of staring at Zara, Annabel followed the Consul and the Inquisitor from the room.

“Is he sick?” Zara said, looking at Magnus with a distant interest. “I didn’t think warlocks got sick. Wouldn’t it be funny if he died before you? I mean, what with him being immortal, you must have thought it would go the other way.”

Alec raised his head slowly. “What?”

“Well, I mean since Magnus is immortal and you, you know, aren’t,” she clarified.

“He’s immortal?” Alec’s voice was colder than Kit had ever heard it. “I wish you’d told me before. I would have turned back time and found myself a nice mortal husband to grow old with.”

“Well, wouldn’t that be better?” Zara said. “Then you could get old and die at the same time.”