There was absolutely no way she could handle interacting only with that Julian for however long they were in Cornwall. "So," she said. "Are you still angry?"
He looked at her for a long moment and set his sketchbook aside. "I'm sorry," he said. "What I said-that was unacceptable and cruel."
Emma stood up and leaned against the window. The countryside flew by: gray, green, gray. "Why did you say it?"
"I was angry." She could see his reflection in the window, looking up at her. "I was angry about Mark."
"I didn't know you were that invested in our relationship."
"He's my brother." Julian touched his own face as he spoke, unconsciously, as if to connect with those features-the long cheekbones and eyelashes-that were so like Mark's. "He's not-he gets hurt easily."
"He's fine," she said. "I promise you."
"It's more than that." His gaze was steady. "When you were together, at least I could feel like you were both with someone I cared about and could trust. You loved someone I loved too. Is that likely to happen again?"
"I don't know what's likely to happen," she said. I know you have nothing to worry about. I wasn't in love with Mark. I'll never be in love with anyone again who isn't you. "Just that there are things we can and can't control."
"Em," he said. "This is me we're talking about."
She turned away from the window, pressed her back to the cold glass. She was looking at Julian directly, not just his reflection. And though his face betrayed no anger, his eyes at least were open and honest. It was real Julian, not pretend Julian now. "So you admit you're a control freak?"
He smiled, the sweet smile that went straight to Emma's heart because it recalled for her the Julian of her childhood. It was like sun, warmth, the sea, and the beach all rolled up in one punch to the heart. "I admit nothing."
"Fine," she said. She didn't have to say she forgave him and knew he forgave her; they both knew it. Instead she sat down in the seat opposite him and gestured toward his art supplies. "What are you drawing?"
He picked up the sketchbook, turning it so she could see his work-a gorgeous rendition of a stone bridge they'd passed, surrounded by the drooping boughs of oak trees.
"You could sketch me," said Emma. She flung herself down onto her seat, leaning her head on her hand. " 'Draw me like one of your French girls.' "
Julian grinned. "I hate that movie," he said. "You know I do."
Emma sat up indignantly. "The first time we watched Titanic, you cried."
"I had seasonal allergies," Jules said. He'd started to draw again, but his smile still lingered. This was the heart of her and Julian, Emma thought. This gentle joking, this easy amusement. It almost surprised her. But this was what they always returned to, the comfort of their childhood-like birds returning and returning in migratory patterns toward their home.
"I wish we could get in touch with Jem and Tessa," Emma said. Green fields flashed by the window in a blur. A woman was pushing a refreshment cart up and down the narrow train corridor. "And Jace and Clary. Tell them about Annabel and Malcolm and everything."
"The whole Clave knows about Malcolm's return. I'm sure they have their ways of finding out, too."
"But only we really know about Annabel," said Emma.
"I drew her," Julian said. "I thought somehow if we could look at her, it might help us find her."
He turned his sketch pad. Emma suppressed a small shudder. Not because the face looking out was hideous-it wasn't. It was a young face, oval and even-featured, almost lost in a cloud of dark hair. But an air of something haunted and almost feral burned in Annabel's eyes; she clutched her hands at her throat, as if trying to wrap herself in a covering that had vanished.
"Where could she be?" Emma wondered aloud. "Where would you go, if you were so sad?"
"Do you think she looks sad?"
"Don't you?"
"I thought she seemed angry."
"She did kill Malcolm," said Emma. "I don't understand why she'd do that-he brought her back. He loved her."
"Maybe she didn't want to be brought back." He was still looking down at the sketch. "Maybe she was happy where she was. Strife, agony, loss-those are things the living experience." He closed the sketchbook as the train pulled into a small white station whose sign read LISKEARD. They had arrived.