“Annabel,” Malcolm breathed.

She had begun to stir.

Her limbs moved first, her legs and arms stretching, her hands reaching for nothing. For a moment Julian thought there was something wrong with the water in the bowl, an odd reflection, before he realized that it was actually Annabel herself. A white glow was creeping over her—no, it was skin, rising to cover bare bones and stripped tendons. Her corpse seemed to swell up and out as flesh filled out the shape of her, as if a smooth, sleek glove had been drawn over her skeleton. Gray and white turned to pink: Her bare feet and her calves looked human now. There were even clear half-moons of nails at the tips of her toes.

The skin crawled up her body, slipping under the winding-sheets, rising to cover her chest and collarbones, spreading down her arms. Her hands starfished out, each finger splayed as she tested the air. Her neck arched back as black-brown hair exploded from her skull. Breasts rose under the sheets, her hollow cheeks filled, her eyes snapped open.

They were Blackthorn eyes, shimmering blue-green as the sea.

Annabel sat up, clutching the rags of her bloody winding-sheets to her. Under them she had the body of a young woman. Thick hair cascaded around a pale oval face; her lips were full and red; her eyes shimmered in wonder as she stared at Malcolm.

And Malcolm was transformed. Whatever the vicious damage done to him, it seemed to fade away, and for a moment Julian saw him as he must have been when he was a young man in love. There was a wondering sweetness about him; he seemed frozen in place, his face shining in adoration as Annabel slid down from the altar. She landed on the stone floor beside Arthur’s crumpled body.

“Annabel,” Malcolm said. “My Annabel. I have waited so long for you, done so much to bring you back to me.” He took a stumbling step toward her. “My love. My angel. Look at me.”

But Annabel was looking down at Arthur. Slowly, she bent down and picked up the knife that had fallen by his body. When she straightened up, her gaze fixed on Malcolm, tears streaked her face. Her lips formed a soundless word—Julian craned forward, but it was too faint to hear. The surface of the scrying glass had begun to roil and tremble, like the surface of the sea before a storm.

Malcolm looked stricken. “Do not weep,” he said. “My darling, my Annabel.” He reached for her. Annabel stepped toward him, her face lifting to his. He bent down as if to kiss her just as she swept her arm up, driving the knife she held into his body.

Malcolm stared at her in disbelief. Then he cried out. It was a cry of more than pain—a howl of utter, despairing betrayal and heartbreak. A howl that seemed to rip through the universe, tearing apart the stars.

He staggered back, but Annabel pursued him, a wraith of blood and terror in her white-and-scarlet grave clothes. She slashed at him again, opening his chest, and he fell to the ground.

Even then he didn’t raise a hand to fend her off as she moved to stand over him. Blood bubbled from the corner of his lips when he spoke. “Annabel,” he breathed. “Oh, my love, my love—”

She stabbed down viciously with the blade, driving it into his heart. Malcolm’s body jerked. His head fell back, his eyes rolling to whites. Expressionless, Annabel bent over him and snatched the Black Volume from his belt. Without another glance at Malcolm, she turned and strode from the church, disappearing from the view of the scrying glass.

“Where did she go?” Julian said. He barely recognized his own voice. “Follow her, use the glass—”

“The scrying glass cannot find its way through so much dark magic,” said the Queen. Her face was shining as if she’d just seen something wonderful.

Julian flinched away from her—he couldn’t help it. He wanted nothing more than to stagger off to a corner of the room and be sick. But the Queen would see that as weakness. He found his way to a wall and leaned against it.

The Queen stood with one hand on the edge of the golden bowl, smiling at him. “Did you see how Fade never raised a hand to defend himself?” she said. “That is love, son of thorns. We welcome its cruelest blows and when we bleed from them, we whisper our thanks.”

Julian braced himself against the wall. “Why did you show me that?”

“I would bargain with you,” she said. “And there are things I would not have you be ignorant of when we do.”

Julian tried to steady his breathing, forcing himself deeper into his own head, his own worst memories. He was in the Hall of Accords, he was twelve years old and he had just killed his father. He was in the Institute, and he had just found out that Malcolm Fade had kidnapped Tavvy. He was in the desert, and Emma was telling him that she loved Mark; Mark, and not him.

“What kind of bargain?” he said, and his voice was as steady as a rock.

She shook her head. Her red hair rayed out around her gaunt and hollowed face. “I would have all of your group there when the bargain is made, Shadowhunter.”

“I will not bargain with you,” said Julian. “The Cold Peace—”

She laughed. “You have shattered the Cold Peace a thousand times, child. Do not pretend that I know nothing of you or your family. Despite the Cold Peace, despite all I have lost, I am still the Queen of the Seelie Court.”

Julian couldn’t help but wonder what despite all I have lost meant—what had she lost, exactly? Did she only mean the strain of the Cold Peace, the shame of losing the Dark War?

“Besides,” she said, “you don’t know what I am offering yet. And neither do your friends. I think they might be quite interested, especially your lovely parabatai.”

“You have something for Emma?” he demanded. “Then why did you bring me here alone?”

“There was something I wished to say to you. Something that you might not wish her to know that you knew.” A tiny smile played across her lips. She took another step toward him. He was close enough to see the detail of the feathers on her dress, the flecks of blood that showed they had been torn by the roots from the bird. “The curse of the parabatai. I know how to break it.”

Julian felt as if he could not catch his breath. It was what the phouka had said to him at the Gate: In Faerie, you will find one who knows how the parabatai bond might be broken.

He had carried that knowledge in his heart since they had arrived here. He had wondered who it would be. But it was the Queen—of course it was the Queen. Someone he absolutely should not trust.

“The curse?” he said, keeping his voice mild and a little puzzled, as if he had no idea why she’d called it that.

Something indefinable flashed in her eyes. “The parabatai bond, I should say. But it is a curse to you, is it not?” She caught his wrist, turning his hand over. The crescents he’d dug into his palms with his bitten nails were faint but visible. He thought of the scrying glass. Of her watching him with Emma in Fergus’s room. Of course she had. She’d known when Emma fell asleep. When he was vulnerable. She knew he loved Emma. It might be something he could conceal from his family and friends, but to the Queen of the Seelie Court, accustomed to seeking out weakness and vulnerability and cruelly attuned to unpleasant truths, it would be as clear as a beacon. “As I said,” she told him, smiling, “we welcome the wounds of love, do we not?”

A wave of rage went through him, but his curiosity was stronger. He drew his hand from hers. “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me what you know.”