"Zara, you sound ridiculous," said Jon Cartwright, one of the older Centurions-about twenty-two, Emma would have guessed. Jace and Clary's age. The only thing Emma could remember about him was that he had a girlfriend, Marisol. "Like an ancient Council member, afraid of change."
"Agreed," said Rayan. "We're students and fighters, not lawmakers. Whatever your father may be doing, it's not relevant to the Scholomance."
Zara looked indignant. "It's just a registry-"
"Am I the only one who's read X-Men and realizes why this is a bad idea?" said Kit. Emma had no idea when he'd reappeared, but he had, and was idly twirling pasta on his fork.
Zara began to frown, then brightened. "You're Kit Herondale," she said. "The lost Herondale."
"I didn't realize I was lost," said Kit. "I never felt lost."
"It must be exciting, suddenly finding out you're a Herondale," Zara said. Emma restrained the urge to point out that if you didn't know much about Shadowhunters, finding out you were a Herondale was about as exciting as finding out you were a new species of snail. "I met Jace Herondale once."
She looked around expectantly.
"Wow," said Kit. He really was a Herondale, Emma thought. He'd managed to insert Jace-levels of indifference and sarcasm into one word.
"I bet you can't wait to get to the Academy," said Zara. "Since you're a Herondale, you'll certainly excel. I could put in a good word for you."
Kit was silent. Diana cleared her throat. "So what are your plans for tomorrow, Zara, Diego? Is there anything the Institute can do to assist you?"
"Now that you mention it," Zara said, "it would be incredibly useful . . ."
Everyone, even Kit, leaned forward with interest.
"If, while we were gone during the day, you did our laundry. Ocean water does ruin clothes quickly, don't you find?"
* * *
Night fell with the suddenness of shadows in the desert, but despite the sound of waves coming in through her window, Cristina couldn't sleep.
Thoughts of home tore at her. Her mother, her cousins. Better, past days with Diego and Jaime: She remembered a weekend she had spent with them once, tracking a demon in the dilapidated ghost town of Guerrero Viejo. The dreamlike landscape all around them: half-drowned houses, feathery weeds, buildings long discolored by water. She had lain on a rock with Jaime under uncountable stars, and they had told each other what they wanted most in the world: she, to end the Cold Peace; he, to bring honor back to his family.
Exasperated, she got out of bed and went downstairs, with only witchlight to illuminate her steps. The stairs were dark and quiet, and she found her way out the back door of the Institute with little noise.
Moonlight swept across the small dirt lot where the Institute's car was parked. Behind the lot was a garden, where white marble classical statues poked incongruously out of the desert sand.
Cristina missed her mother's rose garden with a sudden intensity. The scent of the flowers, sweeter than desert sage; her mother walking between the orderly rows. Cristina used to joke that her mother must have a warlock's help in keeping the flowers blooming even during the hottest summer.
She moved farther away from the house, toward the rows of hollyleaf cherry and alder trees. Drawing closer to them, she saw a shadow and froze, realizing she had brought no weapons with her. Stupid, she thought-the desert was full of dangers, not all of them supernatural. Mountain lions didn't distinguish between mundanes and Nephilim.
It wasn't a mountain lion. The shadow moved closer; she tensed, then relaxed. It was Mark.
The moonlight turned his hair silvery white. His feet were bare under the hems of his jeans. Astonishment crossed his face as he saw her; then he walked up to her without hesitation and put a hand on her cheek.
"Am I imagining you?" he said. "I was thinking about you, and now here you are."
It was such a Mark thing to say, a frank statement of his emotions. Because faeries couldn't lie, she thought, and he had grown up around them, and learned how to speak of love and loving with Kieran, who was proud and arrogant but always truthful. Faeries did not associate truth with weakness and vulnerability, as humans did.
It made Cristina feel braver. "I was thinking about you, too."
Mark feathered his thumb across her cheekbone. His palm was warm on her skin, cradling her head. "What about me?"
"The look on your face when Zara and her friends were talking about Downworlders during dinner. Your pain . . ."