Ty was silent, and in that silence, Kit thought of Ty's headphones, the music in his ears, the whispered words, the way he touched things with such total concentration: smooth stones, rough glass, silk and leather and textured linen. There were people in the world, he knew, who thought human beings like Ty did those things for no reason-because they were inexplicable. Broken.
Kit felt a wash of rage go through him. How could they not understand everything Ty did had a reason? If an ambulance siren blared in your ears, you covered them. If something hit you, you doubled up to protect yourself from hurt.
But not everyone felt and heard exactly the same way. Ty heard everything twice as loud and fast as everyone else. The headphones and the music, Kit sensed, were a buffer: They deadened not just other noises, but also feelings that would otherwise be too intense. They protected him from hurt.
He couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to live so intensely, to feel things so much, to have the world sway into and out of too-bright colors and too-bright noises. When every sound and feeling was jacked up to eleven, it only made sense to calm yourself by concentrating all your energy on something small that you could master-a mass of pipe cleaners to unravel, the pebbled surface of a glass between your fingers.
"I don't want to tell you not to go to the Scholomance if it's what you want," said Kit. "But I would just say that it isn't always about people trying to protect you, or knowing what's best for you, or thinking they do. Sometimes they just know they'd miss you."
"Livvy would miss me-"
"Your whole family would miss you," said Kit, "and I would miss you."
It was a bit like stepping off a cliff, far scarier than any con Kit had ever run for his dad, any Downworlder or demon he'd ever met. Ty looked up in surprise, forgetting the glass in his hands. He was blushing. It was very visible against his pale skin. "You would?"
"Yeah," said Kit, "but like I said, I don't want to stop you from going if you want to-"
"I don't," Ty said. "I changed my mind." He set the glass down. "Not because of you. Because the Scholomance appears to be full of assholes."
Kit burst out laughing. Ty looked even more astonished than he had when Kit had said he'd miss him. But after a second, he started to laugh too. They were both laughing, Kit doubled up over the blankets, when Magnus came into the room. He looked at the two of them and shook his head.
"Bedlam," he said, and went over to the counter where the glass tubes and funnels had been set up. He gave them a pleased look. "Not that anyone here probably cares," he said, "but the antidote to the binding spell is ready. We should have no problem leaving for Idris tomorrow."
* * *
Cristina felt as if a tornado had blown through the room. She set her balisong down on the mantel and turned to Mark.
He was leaning against the wall, his eyes wide but not focused on anything. She remembered an old book she had read when she was a girl. There had been a boy in it whose eyes had been two different colors, a knight in the Crusades. One eye for God, the book had said, and one for the devil.
A boy who had been split down the middle, part good and part evil. Just as Mark was split between faerie and Nephilim. She could see the battle raging in him now, though all his anger was for himself.
"Mark," she began. "It is not-"
"Don't say it's not my fault," he said tonelessly. "I couldn't stand it, Cristina."
"It is not only your fault," said Cristina. "We all knew. It is all our fault. It was not the right thing to do, but we had very few choices. And Kieran did wrong you."
"I still shouldn't have lied to him."
A ragged dark crack across the plaster of Cristina's wall, bulging through the paint, was the only sign of what had happened. That, and the crushed golden acorn on the hearth. "I am only saying that if you can forgive him, you should forgive yourself as well," she said.
"Can you come here?" Mark said, in a strangled sort of voice.
Mark had his eyes closed and was clenching and unclenching his hands. She nearly tripped getting to him across the room. He seemed to sense her approach; without opening his eyes, he reached for her and caught her hand in a bone-crushing grip.
Cristina glanced down. He held her hand so tightly it should have hurt, but all she saw was the red marks around both of their wrists. This close together, they had faded to almost nothing.
She felt again what she had felt that night in the ballroom, as if the binding spell amplified their nearness into something else, a thing that dragged her mind back to that hill in Faerie, the memory of being wrapped up in Mark.