“What else am I meant to believe?” Kieran demanded. “When Mark is willing to lie to me for the Clave he despises—”
“He didn’t do it for the Clave,” said Cristina. “Have you been listening to anything the Blackthorns have been saying? This is for his family. His sister is in exile because she is part faerie—this is to bring her back.”
Kieran’s expression was opaque. She knew family meant little to him in the abstract; it was hard to blame him for that. But the Blackthorns, in all their concrete realness, their messy and honest and total love for each other . . . did he see it?
“So do you no longer believe your love with the Rosales boy was a lie?” he said.
“It was not a lie,” she said. “Diego has his reasons for what he’s doing now. And when I look back, it is with pleasure at the happiness we had. The bad things can’t matter more than the good things, Kieran.”
“Mark told me,” he said, “that when you went into Faerie, you were each made a promise by the phouka who guards the gate that you would find something you wanted there. What was it you wanted?”
“The phouka told me I would be given a chance to bring the Cold Peace to an end,” said Cristina. “It is why I agreed when it was decided to cooperate with the Queen.”
Kieran looked at her, shaking his head. For a moment she thought he considered her foolish, and her heart sank. He reached to touch her face. The glide of his fingers was featherlight, as if she had been brushed by the calyx of a flower. “When I swore fealty to you in the Court of the Queen,” he said, “it was to annoy and anger Mark. But now I think I made a wiser decision than I could have imagined.”
“You know I’ll never hold you to that oath, Kieran.”
“Yes. And that is why I say you are nothing like I thought you’d be,” he said. “I have lived in this small world of the Wild Hunt and Faerie Courts, yet you make me feel the world is bigger and full of possibility.” He dropped his hand. “I have never known someone so generous in their heart.”
Cristina felt as if her face were on fire. “Mark is also all those things,” she said. “When Gwyn came to tell us you were in danger in Faerie, Mark went to get you immediately regardless of the cost.”
“That was a kind thing to tell me,” he said. “You have always been kind.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you could always have taken Mark from me, but you didn’t.”
“No,” Cristina said. “It is as you told Adaon—you would not want Mark’s love if it did not come freely. Neither would I. I would not pressure or influence him. If you think I would, and that it would work if I did—then you don’t know me at all. Nor Mark. Not as he really is.”
Kieran’s lips parted. He didn’t speak, though, because the Sanctuary doors had opened, and Mark had come in.
He was all in black and looked exhausted. The red ring around his wrist drew Cristina’s eye; involuntarily, she touched her own wrist, the healing skin of the binding wound.
“I followed you here,” he said to Cristina. “There’s still enough of the binding spell left to allow me to do that. I thought you’d be with Kieran.”
Kieran said nothing. He looked like a faerie prince in a painting: remote, unassailable, distant.
“My lord Kieran,” Mark said formally. “Can we talk?”
* * *
They looked like a painting, both of them kneeling, Cristina’s dark hair falling to hide her face. Kieran, opposite her, was a study in contrasts of black and white. Mark stood in the doorway of the Sanctuary for a moment, just watching them, his heart feeling as if it were being compressed inside his chest.
He really did have a thing for dark hair, he thought.
At that moment he heard Cristina say his name and realized he was eavesdropping. Coming into the Sanctuary felt like entering a cold, harsh place: It was bound all around with iron. Kieran must have felt it too, though the look on his face gave no sign. It gave no sign he felt anything at all.
“My lord Kieran,” Mark said. “Can we talk?”
Cristina rose to her feet. “I should go.”
“You need not.” Kieran had leaned back to lounge among the spilled cushions. Faeries did not lie with their words, but they lied with their faces and voices, the gestures of their hands. Right now anyone looking at Kieran would think he felt nothing but boredom and dislike.
But he hadn’t left. He was still in the Institute. Mark clung to that.
“I must,” Cristina said. “Mark and I are not meant to be near each other as the binding spell wears off.”
Mark moved closer to her, though, as she went to the door. Their hands brushed. Had he thought she was beautiful the moment he met her? He remembered coming awake to the sound of her voice, seeing her sitting on the floor of his room with her knife open. How grateful he had been that she was someone he had never known before the Hunt, someone who would have no expectations of him.
She looked at him once and was gone. He was alone with Kieran.
“Why are you here?” Kieran demanded. “Why lower yourself to come before someone you hate?”
“I don’t hate you. None of this was because I hated you or wanted to hurt you. I was angry with you—of course I was. Can’t you understand why?”
Kieran didn’t meet Mark’s eyes. “This is why Emma dislikes me,” he said. “And Julian.”
“Iarlath whipped them both. The whipping he gave Emma would have killed a mundane human.”
“I remember,” said Kieran miserably, “and yet it seems distant.” He swallowed. “I knew I was losing you. I was afraid. There was more to it, as well. Iarlath had hinted you would not be safe in the Shadowhunters’ world. That they were planning to lure you back, only to execute you on some trumped-up charge. I was a fool to believe him. I know it now.”
“Oh,” said Mark. The knowledge unfolded in him, realization edged with relief. “You thought you were saving my life.”
Kieran nodded. “It makes no difference, though. What I did was wrong.”
“You will have to make your own apology to Emma and Julian,” said Mark. “But for my sake, Kieran, I have forgiven you. You returned when you did not have to—you helped us save Tavvy—”
“When I sought refuge here, I was blinded by rage,” Kieran said. “All I could think was that you had lied to me. I thought you had come to the Court to save me because you—” His voice cracked. “Because you loved me. I cannot bear to think on my own stupidity.”
“I do love you,” Mark said. “But it is not an easy or restful sort of love, Kier.”
“Not like what you feel for Cristina.”
“No,” said Mark. “Not like what I feel for Cristina.”
Kieran’s shoulders sagged slightly. “I am glad you admit it,” he said. “I could not tolerate a lie now, I think. When first I loved you, I knew I was loving something that could lie. I told myself it would not matter. But it matters more than I ever thought.”
Mark closed the distance between them. He was half-certain that Kieran would back away from him, but the other boy didn’t move. Mark approached until there were only inches of space between them, until Kieran’s eyes had widened, and then Mark knelt, cold marble against his knees.
It was a gesture he had seen before, in the Hunt and at revels. One faerie kneeling to another. Not submission, but an apology. Forgive me. Kieran’s eyes were like saucers.
“It does matter,” Mark said. “I wish that I could not lie, so that you would believe me: All these days, I have not held back from affection with you because I was angry at you, or sickened. I wanted you just as I did in the Hunt. But I could not be with you, touch you, with all of it shadowed by lies. It would not have felt true or honest. It would not have felt as if you were choosing me, because to make a true choice, we must have true knowledge.”