And yet he had held her and comforted her in her old bedroom, when she had told him what she had only ever told Catarina and her parents before, and her parents were dead. He had been kind—hadn’t he?

Stop it. She turned back to the room; now wasn’t the time to think about Gwyn, even if some part of her hoped he would come and comfort her again. Not when Ty might wake up any moment into a world of new and terrible pain. Not when Kit was crouched against the wall as if he had fetched up on some lonely beach after a disaster at sea.

She was about to put her hand on Kit’s shoulder when he looked up at her. There were no marks of tears on his face. He had been dry-eyed after his father’s death too, she recalled, when he had opened the door of the Institute for the first time and realized he was a Shadowhunter.

“Ty likes familiar things,” said Kit. “He won’t know where he is when he wakes up. We should make sure his bag is here, and whatever stuff he brought from London.”

“It’s over there.” Diana pointed to where Ty’s duffel had been placed under the bed that should have been Livvy’s. Without looking at her, Kit got to his feet and went over to it. He unzipped it and took out a book—a thick book, with old-fashioned page binding. Silently, he placed it on the bed just next to Ty’s open left hand, and Diana caught a glimpse of the title embossed in gold across the cover and realized that even her numb heart could twinge with pain.

The Return of Sherlock Holmes.

*

The moon had begun to rise, and the demon towers of Alicante glowed in their light.

It had been many years since Mark had been in Alicante. The Wild Hunt had flown over it, and he remembered seeing the land of Idris spread out below him as the others in the Hunt whooped and howled, amused at flying over Nephilim land. But Mark’s heart had always beaten faster at the sight of the Shadowhunter homeland; the bright silver quarter of Lake Lyn, the green of Brocelind Forest, the stone manor houses of the countryside, and the glimmer of Alicante on its hill. And Kieran beside him, thoughtful, watching Mark as Mark watched Idris.

My place, my people. My home, he’d thought. But it seemed different from ground level: more prosaic, filled with the smell of canal water in summer, streets illuminated by harsh witchlight. It wasn’t far to the Inquisitor’s house, but they were walking slowly. It was several minutes before Helen spoke for the first time:

“You saw our aunt in Faerie,” she said. “Nene. Only Nene, right?”

“She was in the Seelie Court.” Mark nodded, glad to have the silence broken. “How many sisters did our mother have?”

“Six or seven, I think,” said Helen. “Nene is the only one who is kind.”

“I thought you didn’t know where Nene was?”

“She never spoke of her location to me, but she has communicated with me on more than one occasion since I was sent to Wrangel Island,” said Helen. “I think she felt sympathy in her heart for me.”

“She helped hide us, and heal Kieran,” said Mark. “She spoke to me of our faerie names.” He looked around; they had reached the Inquisitor’s house, the biggest on this stretch of pavement, with balconies out over the canal. “I never thought I would come back here. Not to Alicante. Not as a Shadowhunter.”

Helen squeezed his shoulder and they walked up to the door together; she knocked, and a harried-looking Simon Lewis opened the door. It had been years since Mark had seen him, and he looked older now: His shoulders were broader, his brown hair longer, and there was stubble along his jaw.

He gave Helen a lopsided smile. “The last time you and I were here I was drunk and yelling up at Isabelle’s window.” He turned to Mark. “And the last time I saw you, I was stuck in a cage in Faerie.”

Mark remembered: Simon looking up at him through the bars of the fey-wrought cage, Mark saying to him: I am no faerie. I am Mark Blackthorn of the Los Angeles Institute. It doesn’t matter what they say or what they do to me. I still remember who I am.

“Yes,” Mark said. “You told me of my brothers and sisters, of Helen’s marriage. I was grateful.” He swept a small bow, out of habit, and saw Helen look surprised.

“I wish I could have told you more,” Simon said, in a more serious voice. “And I’m so sorry. About Livvy. We’re grieving here, too.”

Simon swung the door open wider. Mark saw a grand entryway inside, with a large chandelier hanging from the ceiling; off to the left was a family room, where Rafe, Max, and Tavvy sat in front of an empty fireplace, playing with a small stack of toys. Isabelle and Alec sat on the couch: She had her arms around his neck and was sobbing quietly against his chest. Low, hopeless sobs that struck an echo deep inside his own heart, a matching chord of loss.

“Please tell Isabelle and Alec we are sorry for the loss of their father,” said Helen. “We did not mean to intrude. We are here for Octavian.”

At that moment, Magnus appeared from the entryway. He nodded at them and went over to the children, lifting Tavvy up in his arms. Though Tavvy was getting awfully big to be carried, Mark thought, but in many ways Tavvy was young for his age, as if early grief had kept him more childlike. As Magnus approached them, Helen began to lift her hands, but Tavvy held out his arms to Mark.

In some surprise, Mark took the burden of his little brother in his arms. Tavvy squirmed around, tired but alert. “What’s happened?” he said. “Everyone’s crying.”

Magnus ran a hand through his hair. He looked extremely weary. “We haven’t told him anything,” he said. “We thought it was for you to do.”

Mark took a few steps back from the door, Helen following after him so that they stood in the lighted square of illumination from the entryway. He set Tavvy down on the pavement. This was the way the Fair Folk broke bad news, face-to-face.

“Livvy is gone, child,” he said.

Tavvy looked confused. “Gone where?”

“She has passed into the Shadow Lands,” said Mark. He was struggling for the words; death in Faerie was such a different thing than it was to humans.

Tavvy’s blue-green Blackthorn eyes were wide. “Then we can rescue her,” he said. “We can go after her, right? Like we got you back from Faerie. Like you went after Kieran.”

Helen made a small noise. “Oh, Octavian,” she said.

“She is dead,” Mark said helplessly, and saw Tavvy wince away from the words. “Mortal lives are short and—and fragile in the face of eternity.”

Tavvy’s eyes filled with tears.

“Mark,” Helen said, and knelt down on the ground, reaching her hands out to Tavvy. “She died so bravely,” she said. “She was defending Julian and Emma. Our sister—she was courageous.”

The tears began to spill down Tavvy’s face. “Where’s Julian?” he said. “Where did he go?”

Helen dropped her hands. “He’s with Livvy in the Silent City—he’ll be back soon—let us take you back home to the canal house—”

“Home?” Tavvy said scornfully. “Nothing here is home.”

Mark was aware of Simon having come to stand beside him. “God, poor kid,” he said. “Look, Mark—”

“Octavian.” It was Magnus’s voice. He was standing in the doorway still, looking down at the small tearstained boy in front of him. There was exhaustion in his eyes, but also an immense compassion: the kind of compassion that came with great old age.

He seemed as if he would have said more, but Rafe and Max had joined him. Silently they filed down the steps and went over to Tavvy; Rafe was nearly as tall as he was, though he was only five. He reached to hug Tavvy, and Max did too—and to Mark’s surprise, Tavvy seemed to relax slightly, allowing the embraces, nodding when Max said something to him in a quiet voice.

Helen got to her feet, and Mark wondered if his face wore the same expression hers did, of pain and shame. Shame that they could not do more to comfort a younger brother who barely knew them.

“It’s all right,” Simon said. “Look, you tried.”

“We did not succeed,” said Mark.

“You can’t fix grief,” said Simon. “A rabbi told me that when my father died. The only thing that fixes grief is time, and the love of the people who care about you, and Tavvy has that.” He squeezed Mark’s shoulder briefly. “Take care of yourself,” he said. “Shelo ted’u od tza’ar, Mark Blackthorn.”

“What does that mean?” said Mark.

“It’s a blessing,” said Simon. “Something else the rabbi taught me. ‘Let it be that you should know no further sorrow.’?”

Mark inclined his head in gratitude; faeries knew the value of blessings freely given. But his chest felt heavy nonetheless. He could not imagine the sorrows of his family would be ending soon.

2

MELANCHOLY WATERS

Cristina stood despairingly in the extremely clean kitchen of the Princewater Street canal house and wished there was something she could tidy up.