She dispatched them to different parts of the Institute: Julian to the attic to check on Arthur, Mark to the kitchen, and Emma to the library to help the twins clean up. Kit had disappeared.

“He hasn’t run away,” Ty informed her helpfully. “He just didn’t want to make beds.”

It was late by the time they finished cleaning up, figured out which bedroom to assign to which Centurion, and made arrangements for food to be delivered the next day. They also set up a patrol to circle the Institute in shifts during the night to watch for rogue sea demons.

Heading down the corridor to her room, Emma noticed that a light was shining out from under Julian’s door. In fact, the door was cracked partway open; music drifted into the hallway.

Without conscious volition, she found herself in front of his room, her hand raised to knock on the door. In fact, she had knocked. She dropped her hand, half in shock, but he had already flung the door open.

She blinked at him. He was in old pajama bottoms, with a towel flung over his shoulder, a paintbrush in one hand. There was paint on his bare chest and some in his hair.

Though he wasn’t touching her, she was aware of his body, the warmth of him. The black spiraling Marks winding down his torso, like vines wreathing a pillar. She had put some of them there herself, back in the days when touching him didn’t make her hands shake.

“Did you want something?” he asked. “It’s late, and Mark is probably waiting for you.”

“Mark?” She’d almost forgotten Mark, for a moment.

“I saw him go into your room.” Paint dripped from his brush, splattered on the floor. She could see past him into his room: She hadn’t been inside it in what felt like forever. There was plastic sheeting on some of the floor, and she could see brighter spots on his wall where he’d clearly been retouching the mural that ran halfway around the room.

She remembered when he’d painted it, after they’d gotten back from Idris. After the Dark War. They’d been lying awake in bed, as they often did, as they had since they were small children. Emma had been talking about how she’d found a book of fairy tales in the library, the kind that mundanes had read hundreds of years ago: how they’d been bloody and full of murder and sadness. She’d spoken of the castle in Sleeping Beauty, surrounded by thorns, and how the story had said that hundreds of princes had tried to break through the barrier to rescue the princess, but they’d all been pierced to death by thorns, their bodies left to whiten to bones in the sun.

The next day Julian had painted his room: the castle and the wall of thorns, the glint of bone and the sad prince, his sword broken at his side. Emma had been impressed, even though they’d had to sleep in her room for a week while the paint dried.

She’d never asked him why the image or the story called to him. She’d always known that if he wanted to tell her, he would.

Emma cleared her throat. “You said I could hurt Diego, without laying a hand on him. What did you mean?”

He pushed his free hand through his hair. He looked disheveled—and so gorgeous it hurt. “It’s probably better if I don’t tell you.”

“He hurt Cristina,” Emma said. “And I don’t even think he cares.”

He reached up to rub the back of his neck. The muscles in his chest and stomach moved when he stretched, and she was aware of the texture of his skin, and wished desperately she could turn back time somehow and be again the person who wasn’t shaken to pieces by seeing Julian—who she’d grown up with, and seen half-clothed a million times—with his shirt off. “I saw his face when Cristina ran out of the entry hall,” he said. “I don’t think you need to worry that he isn’t in any pain.” He put a hand on the doorknob. “No one can read someone else’s mind or guess all their reasons,” he said. “Not even you, Emma.”

He shut the door in her face.

* * *

Mark was sprawled on the floor at the foot of Emma’s bed. His feet were bare; he was half-rolled in a blanket.

He looked asleep, his eyes shadowy crescents against his pale skin, but he half-opened the blue one when she came in. “Is she really all right?”

“Cristina? Yes.” Emma sat down on the floor beside him, leaning against the footboard. “It sucks, but she’ll be okay.”

“It would be hard, I think,” he said, in his sleep-thickened voice, “to deserve her.”

“You like her,” she said. “Don’t you?”

He rolled onto his side and looked at her with that searching faerie gaze that made her feel as if she stood alone in a field, watching the wind stir the grass. “Of course I like her.”

Emma cursed the intensity of faerie language—like meant nothing to them: They lived in a world of love or hate, scorn or adoration. “Your heart feels something for her,” she said.

Mark sat up. “She would not, I think—feel that way about me.”

“Why not?” Emma said. “She certainly isn’t stuck-up about faeries, you know that. She’s fond of you—”

“She is kind, gentle, generous-hearted. Sensible, thoughtful, kind—”

“You said ‘kind’ already.”

Mark glared. “She is nothing like me.”

“You don’t have to be like someone to love them,” said Emma. “Look at you and me. We’re pretty similar, and we don’t feel that way about each other.”

“Only because you’re involved with someone else.” Mark spoke matter-of-factly, but Emma looked at him in surprise. He knows about Jules, she thought, for a moment of panic, before she remembered her lie about Cameron.

“Too bad, isn’t it,” she said lightly, trying to keep her heart from hammering. “You and I, together, it would have been . . . such an easy thing.”

“Passion is not easy. Nor is the lack of it.” Mark leaned into her. His shoulder was warm against hers. She remembered their kiss, thought of her fingers in his soft hair. His body against hers, responsive and strong.

But even as she tried to grip tight to the image, it slid away between her fingers like dry sand. Like the sand on the beach the night Julian and she had lain there, the only night they’d had together.

“You look sad,” said Mark. “I am sorry to have brought up the matter of love.” He touched her cheek. “In another life, perhaps. You and I.”

Emma let her head fall back against the footboard. “In another life.”

6

THERE THE TRAVELLER

Since the kitchen was too small to hold the inhabitants of the Institute plus twenty-odd Centurions, breakfast was set up in the dining room. Portraits of Blackthorns past looked down on plates of eggs and bacon and racks of toast. Cristina moved unobtrusively among the crowd, trying not to be seen. She doubted she would have come down at all if it hadn’t been for her desperate need for coffee.

She looked around for Emma and Mark, but neither of them were here yet. Emma wasn’t an early riser, and Mark still tended toward the nocturnal. Julian was there, dishing up food, but he was wearing the pleasant, almost blank expression he always wore around strangers.

Odd, she thought, that she knew Julian well enough to realize that. They had a sort of bond, both of them loving Emma, but separated from each other by the knowledge Julian didn’t realize she had. Julian trying to hide that he loved Emma, and Cristina trying to hide that she knew. She wished she could offer him sympathy, but he would only recoil in horror—