Hands seized her, spinning her around. Mark. His eyes were flashing. He pulled her up close against him, his arms slipping around her, but his grip was unyielding with anger. "What are you doing, Cristina?" he asked in a low voice. "You know about faeries, you know this is dangerous."
"That's why I'm doing it, Mark." She hadn't seen him look so furious since Kieran had come riding up to the Institute with Iarlath and Gwyn. She felt a small, secret pulse of excitement inside her chest, that she could make him that angry.
"They hate Shadowhunters here, don't you remember?" he said.
"They don't know I'm a Shadowhunter."
"Believe me," said Mark, leaning in close so that she could feel his breath, hot, against her ear. "They know."
"Then they don't care," said Cristina. "It's a revel. I've read about these. Faeries lose themselves in the music, like humans. They dance and they forget, just like us."
Mark's hands curved around her waist. It was a protective gesture, she told herself. It didn't mean anything. But her pulse quickened regardless. When Mark had first arrived at the Institute, he'd been stick-thin, hollow-eyed. Now she could feel muscle over his bones, the hard strength of him against her.
"I never asked you," he said, as they moved among the crowd. They were close to two girls dancing together; both of them had their black hair bound up in elaborate crowns of berries and acorns. They wore dresses of russet and brown, ribbons around their slim throats, and swished their skirts away from Mark and Cristina, laughing at the couple's clumsiness. Cristina didn't mind. "Why faeries? Why did you make that the thing you studied?"
"Because of you." She tilted her head back to look up at him, saw the surprise that passed across his expressive face. The beginning of the gentle curves of wonder at the corners of his mouth. "Because of you, Mark Blackthorn."
Me? His lips shaped the word.
"I was in my mother's rose garden when I heard what had happened to you," she said. "I was only thirteen. The Dark War was ending, and the Cold Peace had been announced. The whole Shadowhunter world knew of your sister's exile, and that you had been abandoned. My great-uncle came out to tell me about it. My family always used to joke that I was softhearted, that it was easy to make me cry, and he knew I'd been worrying about you-so he told me, he said, 'Your lost boy will never be found now.' "
Mark swallowed. Emotions passed like storm clouds behind his eyes; not for him Julian's guardedness, his shields. "And did you?"
"Did I what?"
"Did you cry?" he said. They were still moving together, in the dance, but it was almost mechanical now: Cristina had forgotten the steps her feet were taking, she was aware only of Mark breathing, her fingers locked behind Mark's neck, Mark in her arms.
"I did not cry," Cristina said. "But I did decide that I would dedicate myself to eradicating the Cold Peace. It was not a fair Law then. It will never be a fair Law."
His lips parted. "Cristina-"
A voice like doves interrupted them. Soft, feathery, and light, it crooned, "Drinks, madam and sir? Something to cool you after dancing?"
A faerie with a face like a cat's-furred and whiskered-stood before them in the tatters of an Edwardian suit. He held a gold plate on which were many small glasses containing liquid of different colors: blue, red, and amber.
"Is it enchanted?" Cristina said breathlessly. "Will it give me strange dreams?"
"It will cool your thirst, lady," said the faerie. "And all I would ask for in return is a smile from your lips."
Cristina seized up a glass full of amber fluid. It tasted of passionfruit, sweet and tart-she took one swallow, and Mark dashed the glass from her hand. It fell tinkling at their feet, splashing his hand with liquid. He licked the fluid from his skin, glaring at her all the while.
Cristina backed away. She could feel a pleasant warmth spreading in her chest. The drinks seller was snapping at Mark, who pushed him away with a coin-a mundane penny-and started after Cristina.
"Stop," he said. "Cristina, slow down, you're going toward the center of the revel-the music will only be stronger there-"
She stopped, held out a hand to him. She felt fearless. She knew she ought to be terrified: She had swallowed a faerie drink, and anything might happen. But instead she only felt as if she were flying. She was soaring free, only Mark here to tether her to the ground. "Dance with me," she said.