It clearly hadn't been used in many years, though it was clean other than the dust. White sheets covered most of the furniture. Arched windows looked out onto the courtyard, and a night that sparkled with stars.
Cristina was there, in the middle of the room, looking up at one of the chandeliers. There was a row of three of them, unlit but glittering with crystal drops.
He let the door fall shut behind him and she turned. She didn't look surprised to see him. She was wearing a simple black dress that looked as if it had been cut for someone shorter than her, and her hair was up off her face.
"Mark," she said. "Couldn't you sleep?"
"Not well." He glanced ruefully down at his wrist, though the pain had gone now that he was with Cristina. "Did you feel the same?"
She nodded. Her eyes were bright. "My mother always said that the ballroom in the London Institute was the most beautiful room she'd ever seen." She looked around, at the Edwardian striped wallpaper, the heavy velvet curtains looped back from the windows. "But she must have seen it very much alive and filled with people. It seems like Sleeping Beauty's castle now. As if the Dark War surrounded it with thorns and since then it has slept."
Mark held out his hand, the wound of the binding circling his wrist like Julian's sea-glass bracelet circled his. "Let us wake it up," he said. "Dance with me."
"But there's no music," she said. She swayed a little toward him, though, as she spoke.
"I have danced at many a revel," he said, "where there has been no pipe and no fiddle, where there has been only the music of the wind and stars. I can show you."
She came toward him, the golden pendant at her throat glittering. "How magical," she said, and her eyes were huge and dark and luminous with mischief. "Or I could do this."
She took her phone out of her pocket and thumbed a few buttons. Music poured out of the small speakers: not loud, but Mark could feel it--not a tune he knew, but fast and energetic, thrumming down through his blood.
He held out his hands. Setting her phone down on a windowsill, she took them, laughing as he pulled her toward him. Their bodies touched once, lightly, and she spun away, making him follow her. If he'd thought he would be leading, he realized, he was wrong.
He paced after her as she moved like fire, always just ahead of him, spinning until her hair came down out of its fastening and flew around her face. The chandeliers glittered overhead like rain and Mark seized Cristina's hand in his. He whirled her in a circle; her body brushed his as she turned, and he caught her hips and drew her toward him.
And now she was in his arms, moving, and everywhere her body touched his felt like a lit spark. Everything had been driven out of his head but Cristina. The light on her brown skin, her flushed face, the way her skirt flew up when she twirled, affording him a glimpse of the smooth thighs he'd imagined a hundred times.
He caught her by the waist and she swayed backward in his arms, boneless, her hair brushing the floor. When she rose up again, eyes half-lidded, he could no longer contain himself. He drew her into him and kissed her.
Her hands flew up and fastened in his hair, her fingers tugging and pulling him closer against her. She tasted like cold clear water and he drew on her mouth as if he were incredibly thirsty. His whole body felt like one desperate ache, and when she moved away from him, he groaned softly. But she was laughing, looking at him, dancing lightly backward with her hands held out. His skin felt tight all over; he was desperate to kiss her again, desperate to let his hands go where his eyes had gone earlier: sliding up the outsides of her long legs, under her skirt, along her waist, over her back where the muscles were smooth and long on either side of her spine.
He wanted her, and it was a very human want; not starlight and strangeness, but right here and right now. He strode after her, reaching for her hands. "Cristina--"
She froze, and for a moment of fear he thought it was because of him. But she was looking past him. He turned and saw Kieran in the doorway, leaning against it, gazing very steadily at them both.
Mark tensed. In a moment of delayed clarity he realized he had been stupid, alarmingly stupid to have done what he was doing. But none of it was Cristina's fault. If Kieran brought his temper to bear on her--
But when Kieran spoke, it was lightly. "Mark," he said. "You really have no idea, do you? You should show her how it is properly done."
He walked toward them, a true prince of Faerie in all his grace. He wore a white shirt and breeches and his black hair fell partway to his shoulders. He reached the middle of the room and held a hand out to Cristina. "My lady," he said, and bowed. "Favor me with a dance?"
Cristina hesitated a moment, and then nodded.
"You don't have to," Mark said in a whisper. She only gave him a long look, and then followed Kieran out to the middle of the floor.
"Now," Kieran said, and he began to move.
Mark didn't think he'd ever danced with Kieran before, not at a revel; they had always tried to conceal their relationship in front of the greater world of Faerie. And Kieran, if he could not dance with his chosen partner, would not dance with anyone.
But he was dancing now. And if Cristina had moved like fire, Kieran moved like lightning. After a moment of hesitation, Cristina followed him--he drew her into his arms--caught her, lifted her up into the air with easy faerie strength, whirling her around him. She gasped, and her face lit up with the pleasure of the music and the movement.
Mark stood where he was, feeling awkward and startled in equal measure. What was Kieran doing? What was he thinking? Was this a reproach of some sort? But it didn't seem to be one. How much had Kieran seen? The kissing, or just the dancing?
He heard Cristina laugh. His eyes widened. Incredible. She and Kieran were like stars whirling together, just touching at the edges, but flaring up into a rain of sparks and fire when they did. And Kieran was smiling, actually smiling. It changed his face, made him look as young as he actually was.
The music ended. Cristina stopped dancing, looking suddenly shy. Kieran lifted his hand to touch her long dark hair, sweeping it back over her shoulder so he could lean in and kiss her cheek. Her eyes widened in surprise.
Only then, when he had drawn back, did he look at Mark. "There," he said. "That is how the blood of Faerieland can dance."
*
"Wake up."
Kit groaned and rolled over. He'd finally been sleeping, and dreaming something pleasant about being at the beach with his dad. Not that his dad had ever actually taken him to the beach, but that was what dreams were for, weren't they?
In the dream, his father had touched his shoulder and said, I always knew you'd make a good Shadowhunter.
Never mind that Johnny Rook would rather that his son became a serial killer than one of the Nephilim. Struggling up out of sleep, Kit remembered his father's knowing smile and the last time he had seen it, on the morning when Malcolm Fade's demons had torn Johnny Rook to shreds.
"Didn't you hear me?" The voice rousing Kit out of sleep became more urgent. "Wake up!"
Kit opened his eyes. His room was full of the pale glow of witchlight, and there was a shadow hovering over his bed. With memories of Mantid demons fresh at the edge of his consciousness, he bolted upright.
The shadow moved swiftly backward, barely avoiding colliding with Kit. The witchlight beamed upward, illuminating Ty, his soft black hair a mess, as if he'd rolled out of bed and come to Kit's room without brushing it. He wore a gray hoodie Julian had given him before he left for Cornwall, likely half for convenience and half for comfort. The cord of his headphones trailed from his pocket to wrap around his neck.
"Watson," he said. "I want to see you."
Kit groaned and scrubbed at his eyes. "What? What time is it?"
Ty spun the witchlight in his fingers. "Did you know that the first words ever spoken on the telephone were 'Watson, come here, I want to see you'?"
"Totally different Watson, though," Kit pointed out.
"I know," said Ty. "I just th
ought it was interesting." He tugged at the cord of his headphones. "I did want to see you. Or at least, I have something I have to do, and I'd rather you came with me. It was actually something you said that gave me the idea to do the research."
Kit kicked the covers off. He'd been sleeping in his clothes anyway, a habit instilled in him during the times when some deal his father had been involved in had gone wrong, and they'd slept fully dressed for days in case they had to pick up and run. "Research?" he asked.
"It's in the library," Ty said. "I can show it to you before we go. If you want."
"I'd like to see it."
Kit slid out of bed and kicked on his shoes, grabbing up a jacket before following Ty down the hall. He knew he ought to feel exhausted, but there was something about Ty's energy, the brightness and concentration of his focus, that worked on Kit like caffeine. It woke him up inside with a sense of promise, as if the moments in front of him suddenly held endless possibilities.
In the library, Ty had taken over one of the tables with the notes Emma and Julian had sent from Cornwall and printouts of Annabel's drawings. It still looked like the same mess to Kit, but Ty glided his witchlight over the pages with confidence.
"Remember when we were talking about how a raven carried messages between Malcolm and Annabel? On the boat? And you said it seemed unreliable?"
"I remember," said Kit.
"It gave me an idea," said Ty. "You're good at giving me ideas. I don't know why." He shrugged. "Anyway. We're going to Cornwall."
"Why? Are you going to exhume the bird and interrogate it?"
"Of course not."
"That was a joke, Ty--" Kit broke off, the impact of Ty's words hitting him belatedly. "What? We're going where?"
"I know it was a joke," said Ty, picking up one of the printouts of the drawings. "Livvy told me that when people tell jokes that aren't that funny, the polite thing is to ignore them. Is that not true?"
He looked anxious, and Kit wanted to hug him, the way he had the other night on the roof. "No, it's true," he said, hurrying after Ty as they left the library. "It's just that humor is subjective. Not everyone agrees the same things are funny, or not funny."
Ty looked at him with sincere friendliness. "I'm sure many people find you hilarious."
"They absolutely do." They were hurrying down a set of steps now, into shadows. Kit wondered why they were going, but it almost didn't matter--he felt excitement sparking at the tips of his fingers, the promise of adventure. "But Cornwall, seriously? How? And what about Livvy?"
Ty didn't turn around. "I don't want to bring her tonight."
They'd reached the bottom of the steps. A door swung out from here into a massive open stone-bound room. The crypt of the cathedral. The floor and walls were made of massive dark slabs of stone, filed to smoothness, and there were brass fixtures attached to stone pillars that had probably once held lamps. Now the light came from Ty's rune-stone, spilling between his cupped fingers.
"What are we doing, exactly?" said Kit.
"Remember when I stayed at the shop to talk to Hypatia Vex?" Ty said. "She told me there's a permanent Portal down here. An old one, maybe one of the first ever, made around 1903. It only goes to the Cornwall Institute. The Clave doesn't know about it or regulate it."
"An unregulated Portal?" said Kit. Ty was moving around the room, shining his witchlight against the walls, into cracks and corners. "Isn't that dangerous?"
Ty didn't say anything. Long tapestries hung against the walls at intervals. He was glancing behind each one, running the light up and down the wall. It bounced off the stone, lighting up the room like fireflies.
"That's why you didn't want Livvy to come," said Kit. "It is dangerous."
Ty straightened up. His hair was a mess. "She already got hurt," he said. "Because of me."
"Ty--"
"I need to find the Portal." Ty leaned against the wall, his fingers drumming against it. "I looked behind all the tapestries."
"Maybe look in them?" Kit suggested.
Ty gave him a long, considering look, with a tinge of surprise to it. Kit caught just a flash of his gray eyes as he turned back to examine the tapestries again. Each one showed a scene from what looked like a medieval landscape: castles, long stone walls, towers and roads, horses and battle. Ty stopped in front of one that showed a high hedge, in the middle of which was an arched opening. Through the opening the sea was visible.
He put his hand against it, a hesitant, questioning gesture. There was a flare of light. Kit darted forward as the tapestry shimmered, turning glimmering and colorful as a slick of oil.
Ty glanced again at the drawing he held, then turned, his other hand outstretched to Kit. "Don't be so slow."
Kit reached for him. His fingers closed around Ty's, warm and firm under his grasp. Ty stepped forward, into the Portal, the colors parting and re-forming around him--he was half invisible already--and his grip tightened on Kit's, pulling him after.
Kit held on tightly. But somewhere in the whirling chaos of the Portal, his hand ripped free of Ty's. An irrational panic seized him, and he shouted something out loud--he wasn't sure what--before the Portal winds cartwheeled him through a shadowy doorway and spit him out into cold air, onto a slope of damp grass.
"Yes?" Ty was standing over him, witchlight in hand. The sky behind him was high and dark, shimmering with a million stars.
Kit stood up, wincing. He was getting used to Portal travel, but he still didn't like it.
"What is it?" Ty's gaze didn't meet Kit's, but he looked him over, as if checking for injuries. "You were saying my name."
"Was I?" Kit glanced around. Green lawns sloped away in three directions, and rose in the fourth to meet a large gray church. "I think I was worried you were lost in the Portal."
"That's only happened a few times. It's statistically very unlikely." Ty raised his witchlight. "This is the Cornwall Institute."
In the distance, Kit could see the glimmer of moonlight on black water. The sea. Above them the church was a heap of gray stone with broken black windows and a missing front door. The spire of the church stabbed upward into swirling clouds, lit from behind by the moon. He whistled through his teeth. "How long has it been abandoned?"
"Only a few years. Not enough Shadowhunters to man all the Institutes. Not since the Dark War." Ty was glancing between the drawing in his hand and their surroundings. Kit could see the remains of a garden gone to seed: weeds growing up among dead rosebushes, grass far too long and in need of cutting, moss covering the dozens of statues that were scattered around the garden like victims of Medusa. A horse reared into the air beside a boy with a bird perched on his wrist. A stone woman held a dainty parasol. Tiny stone rabbits peeked through weeds.
"And we're going inside?" Kit said dubiously. He didn't like the look of the dark windows. "Wouldn't we be better off coming during the day?"
"We're not going inside." Ty held up the drawing he'd brought. In the witchlight, Kit could see that it was an ink sketch of the Institute and the gardens, done during daylight hours. The place hadn't changed much in the past two hundred years. The same rosebushes, the same statues. It looked as if the drawing had been done in winter, though, as the boughs of the trees were skeletal. "What we need is out here."
"What do we need?" said Kit. "Indulge me. Explain what this has to do with my idle comment about ravens being unreliable."
"It would be unreliable. The thing is, Malcolm didn't say the raven was alive, or a real bird. We just assumed."
"No, but--" Kit paused. He'd been about to say it didn't make any sense to give your messages to a dead raven, but something about the look on Ty's face silenced him.
"It actually makes more sense for them to have just left the messages in a hiding place," said Ty. "One they could both get to easily." He crossed the grass to the statue of the boy with the bird on his wrist.
A little jolt went through Kit. He didn't know much about birds, but this one was carved out of glossy black stone.
And it looked a lot like drawings he'd seen of ravens.
Ty reached around to run his fingers over the stone bird. There was a clicking noise, and a squeak of hinges. Kit hurried over to see Ty prying open a small opening in the bird's back. "Is there anything in there?"
Ty shook his head. "It's empty." He reached into his pocket, retrieved a folded-up piece of paper, and dropped it into the opening before sealing it back up again.
Kit stopped in his tracks. "You left a message."
Ty nodded. He'd folded up the drawing and put it in his pocket. His hand swung free at his side, the witchlight in it: Its light was dimmed, the moon providing enough illumination that they could both see.
"For Annabel?" said Kit.
Ty hesitated. "Don't tell anyone," he said finally. "It was just an idea I had."
"It was smart," said Kit. "Really smart--I don't think anyone else would have guessed about the statue. I don't think anyone else could have."
"But it might not matter," said Ty. "In which case I would have failed. And I'd rather no one know." He began to murmur under his breath, the way he did sometimes.
"I'll know."
Ty paused in his murmuring. "I don't mind," he said, "if it's you."
Kit wanted to ask him why not, wanted to ask badly, but Ty looked as if he wasn't sure he knew the answer himself. And he was still murmuring, the same soft stream of words that was somewhere between a whisper and a song. "What are you saying?" Kit asked finally, not sure if it was all right to ask, but unable to help his curiosity.
Ty glanced up at the moon through his lashes. They were thick and dark, almost childlike. They gave his face a look of innocence that made him look younger--a strange effect, at odds with his almost frighteningly sharp mind. "Just words I like," he said. "If I say them to myself, it makes my mind--quieter. Does it bother you?"
"No!" Kit said quickly. "I was just curious what words you liked."
Ty bit his lip. For a moment, Kit thought he wasn't going to say anything at all. "It's not the meaning, just the sound," he said. "Glass, twin, apple, whisper, stars, crystal, shadow, lilt." He glanced away from Kit, a shivering figure in his too-large hoodie, his black hair absorbing moonlight, giving none of it back.
"Whisper would be one of mine, too," said Kit. He took a step toward Ty, touched his shoulder gently. "Cloud, secret, highway, hurricane, mirror, castle, thorns."