Queen of Air and Darkness
Page 23
“Don’t bother,” Helen said. “The Centurions left moldy coffee in the pot.” She gestured toward the sink, where the coffeepot was soaking.
Cristina instantly hated the Centurions even more than she had before. “Is there anything they don’t ruin?”
“They left laundry,” Mark said, coming in with his hair wet. He must have just showered. Cristina felt the immediate and uncontrollable spark of nerves in her stomach, and sat down on a counter stool. She could still see the healing weal of skin around Mark’s wrist, where the binding spell had cut him; she had one that matched. His eyes glowed in the morning sunlight, blue and gold as the heart of the ocean; she turned quickly away from looking at him and began studying a kitchen tile depicting Hector’s body being dragged around the walls of Troy. “So much laundry. Piles and piles of laundry.”
“I’ll do the laundry.” Helen had moved to the stove and was stirring a pot industriously. “I’m making oatmeal.”
“Oh,” said Mark. He met Cristina’s eyes briefly. A shared moment of oatmeal dislike passed between them.
More Blackthorns started piling into the kitchen: Ty, followed by Kit and then Dru and Tavvy. There was a babble of voices, and for a moment, things felt nearly normal. Nearly. Without Emma, she knew, the Institute would never be normal for her. Emma had been the first person she’d met in Los Angeles; Emma had befriended her instantly and without hesitation. Her introduction to L.A. had been going to all of Emma’s favorite places, her secret beaches and canyon trails; it had been driving in the car with her with the radio on and their hair down, hot dogs at Pink’s, pie at the Apple Pan at midnight.
It was hard not to feel anchorless now, an unmoored boat on the tide. But she clung to what Emma had said to her: They’ll need you. Mark will need you.
Ty grabbed a bag of potato chips off the counter and handed it to Kit, who gave him a thumbs-up. They had a way of communicating without words, almost like Emma and Julian did.
“You don’t need those,” Helen said. “I’m making oatmeal!” She pointed at the table with her spoon: She’d set it with matching bowls and even a vase with a sprig of wildflowers.
“Oh,” said Kit.
“I want pancakes,” announced Tavvy.
“We’re not staying for breakfast,” said Ty. “Kit and I are going to the beach. We’ll see you later.”
“But—” Helen began, but it was no use; they’d already left, Ty dragging Kit behind him with a firm grip on his wrist. Kit shrugged apologetically before disappearing through the door.
“I hate oatmeal,” said Dru. She sat down at the table, frowning.
“I hate oatmeal too,” said Tavvy, pushing in next to his sister. He frowned too, and for a moment the resemblance between them was almost comical.
“Well, oatmeal is what there is,” Helen said. “But I can make toast, too.”
“Not toast,” said Tavvy. “Pancakes.”
Helen shut the stove off. For a moment she stood staring down into the pot of cooling oatmeal. In a small voice, she said, “I don’t know how to make pancakes.”
Cristina got hurriedly off her stool. “Helen, let me help you make some eggs and toast,” she said.
“Julian can make pancakes,” said Tavvy.
Helen had made room for Cristina at the counter by the stove. Cristina handed over bread; as Helen loaded up the toaster, Cristina saw that her hands were shaking.
“I really don’t want eggs for breakfast,” said Dru. She picked one of the flowers out of the vase on the table and plucked off its head. Petals showered down onto the table.
“Come on, both of you,” said Mark, going over to his younger brother and sister and ruffling their hair affectionately. “We just got back. Don’t give Helen a hard time.”
“Well, she doesn’t have to make breakfast,” said Dru. “We could make our own.”
Helen hurried over with the plate of toast and set it on the table. Dru stared at it blankly. “Come on, Dru,” she said. “Just eat the bread.”
Dru stiffened all over. “Don’t tell me what to eat and not eat,” she said.
Helen flinched. Tavvy reached for the jam and upended it, shaking it until sticky jelly splattered all over his plate, the table, and his hands. He giggled.
“Don’t—no!” Helen said, grabbing the jam out of his hands. “Tavvy, don’t do that!”
“I don’t have to listen to you,” Tavvy said, his small face flushing. “I don’t even know you.”
He pushed his way past Dru and bolted from the kitchen. After a moment, Dru shot Helen a reproachful look and darted after him.
Helen stood where she was, holding the empty plastic jam jar, tears running down her face. Cristina’s heart went out to her. All she wanted was to please her siblings, but they couldn’t forgive her for not being Julian.
She moved toward Helen, but Mark was already there, putting his arms around his sister, getting jam on his shirt. “It’s all right,” Cristina heard him say. “When I first got back, I was always messing things up. I got everything wrong. . . .”
Feeling like an intruder, Cristina slipped out of the kitchen; some family scenes were private. She headed down the hall slowly (she was sure there was a second coffeemaker in the library), half her mind on what Mark had said to Helen. She wondered if he really felt that way. She remembered the first time she’d seen him, crouched against the wall of his bedroom as the wind blew the curtains around him like sails. The bond she had felt with him had been immediate—she hadn’t known him before the Hunt had taken him, and had no expectations of what he was like or who he should be. It had tied them together as strongly as the binding spell, but what if everything had changed? What if what they had was broken and could never be repaired?
“Cristina!”
She spun around. Mark was behind her, flushed; he’d been running to catch up to her. He stopped when she turned and hesitated a moment, looking like someone about to take a step off a high cliff.
“I have to be with Helen now,” he said. “But I need to talk to you. I’ve needed to talk to you since—for a long time. Meet me in the parking lot tonight, when the moon is high.”
She nodded, too surprised to say anything. By the time it occurred to her that “when the moon is high” wasn’t very helpful—what if it was cloudy?—he’d already vanished down the hall. With a sigh, she headed off to send Catarina Loss a fire-message.
* * *
It had been only a few days since Robert Lightwood’s death, but Horace Dearborn had already completely redecorated his office.
The first thing Emma noticed was that the tapestry of the Battle of the Burren was missing. The fireplace was lit now, and over it Alec Lightwood’s image had been replaced by Zara Dearborn’s. It was a portrait of her in gear, her long blond-brown hair falling to her waist in two braids like a Viking’s. ZARA DEARBORN, CLAVE HERO, said a gold plaque on the frame.
“Subtle,” Julian muttered. He and Emma had just come into Horace’s office; the Inquisitor was bent over and poking around in his desk, seemingly ignoring them. The desk at least was the same, though a large sign hung behind it that announced: PURITY IS STRENGTH. STRENGTH IS VICTORY. THEREFORE PURITY IS VICTORY.
Dearborn straightened up. “‘Clave hero’ might be a bit simple,” he said thoughtfully, making it quite clear he’d heard Julian’s comment. “I was thinking ‘Modern Boadicea.’ In case you don’t know who she was—”
“I know who Boadicea was,” said Julian, seating himself; Emma followed. The chairs were new as well, with stiff upholstery. “A warrior queen of Britain.”
“Julian’s uncle was a classical scholar,” said Emma.
“Ah yes, so Zara told me.” Horace dropped heavily into his own seat, behind the mahogany desk. He was a big man, rawboned, with a nondescript face. Only his size was unusual—his hands were enormous, and his big shoulders pulled at the material of his uniform. They must not have had time to make one up for him yet. “Now, children. I must say I’m surprised at you two. There has always been such a . . . vibrant partnership between the Blackthorn and Carstairs families and the Clave.”
Cristina instantly hated the Centurions even more than she had before. “Is there anything they don’t ruin?”
“They left laundry,” Mark said, coming in with his hair wet. He must have just showered. Cristina felt the immediate and uncontrollable spark of nerves in her stomach, and sat down on a counter stool. She could still see the healing weal of skin around Mark’s wrist, where the binding spell had cut him; she had one that matched. His eyes glowed in the morning sunlight, blue and gold as the heart of the ocean; she turned quickly away from looking at him and began studying a kitchen tile depicting Hector’s body being dragged around the walls of Troy. “So much laundry. Piles and piles of laundry.”
“I’ll do the laundry.” Helen had moved to the stove and was stirring a pot industriously. “I’m making oatmeal.”
“Oh,” said Mark. He met Cristina’s eyes briefly. A shared moment of oatmeal dislike passed between them.
More Blackthorns started piling into the kitchen: Ty, followed by Kit and then Dru and Tavvy. There was a babble of voices, and for a moment, things felt nearly normal. Nearly. Without Emma, she knew, the Institute would never be normal for her. Emma had been the first person she’d met in Los Angeles; Emma had befriended her instantly and without hesitation. Her introduction to L.A. had been going to all of Emma’s favorite places, her secret beaches and canyon trails; it had been driving in the car with her with the radio on and their hair down, hot dogs at Pink’s, pie at the Apple Pan at midnight.
It was hard not to feel anchorless now, an unmoored boat on the tide. But she clung to what Emma had said to her: They’ll need you. Mark will need you.
Ty grabbed a bag of potato chips off the counter and handed it to Kit, who gave him a thumbs-up. They had a way of communicating without words, almost like Emma and Julian did.
“You don’t need those,” Helen said. “I’m making oatmeal!” She pointed at the table with her spoon: She’d set it with matching bowls and even a vase with a sprig of wildflowers.
“Oh,” said Kit.
“I want pancakes,” announced Tavvy.
“We’re not staying for breakfast,” said Ty. “Kit and I are going to the beach. We’ll see you later.”
“But—” Helen began, but it was no use; they’d already left, Ty dragging Kit behind him with a firm grip on his wrist. Kit shrugged apologetically before disappearing through the door.
“I hate oatmeal,” said Dru. She sat down at the table, frowning.
“I hate oatmeal too,” said Tavvy, pushing in next to his sister. He frowned too, and for a moment the resemblance between them was almost comical.
“Well, oatmeal is what there is,” Helen said. “But I can make toast, too.”
“Not toast,” said Tavvy. “Pancakes.”
Helen shut the stove off. For a moment she stood staring down into the pot of cooling oatmeal. In a small voice, she said, “I don’t know how to make pancakes.”
Cristina got hurriedly off her stool. “Helen, let me help you make some eggs and toast,” she said.
“Julian can make pancakes,” said Tavvy.
Helen had made room for Cristina at the counter by the stove. Cristina handed over bread; as Helen loaded up the toaster, Cristina saw that her hands were shaking.
“I really don’t want eggs for breakfast,” said Dru. She picked one of the flowers out of the vase on the table and plucked off its head. Petals showered down onto the table.
“Come on, both of you,” said Mark, going over to his younger brother and sister and ruffling their hair affectionately. “We just got back. Don’t give Helen a hard time.”
“Well, she doesn’t have to make breakfast,” said Dru. “We could make our own.”
Helen hurried over with the plate of toast and set it on the table. Dru stared at it blankly. “Come on, Dru,” she said. “Just eat the bread.”
Dru stiffened all over. “Don’t tell me what to eat and not eat,” she said.
Helen flinched. Tavvy reached for the jam and upended it, shaking it until sticky jelly splattered all over his plate, the table, and his hands. He giggled.
“Don’t—no!” Helen said, grabbing the jam out of his hands. “Tavvy, don’t do that!”
“I don’t have to listen to you,” Tavvy said, his small face flushing. “I don’t even know you.”
He pushed his way past Dru and bolted from the kitchen. After a moment, Dru shot Helen a reproachful look and darted after him.
Helen stood where she was, holding the empty plastic jam jar, tears running down her face. Cristina’s heart went out to her. All she wanted was to please her siblings, but they couldn’t forgive her for not being Julian.
She moved toward Helen, but Mark was already there, putting his arms around his sister, getting jam on his shirt. “It’s all right,” Cristina heard him say. “When I first got back, I was always messing things up. I got everything wrong. . . .”
Feeling like an intruder, Cristina slipped out of the kitchen; some family scenes were private. She headed down the hall slowly (she was sure there was a second coffeemaker in the library), half her mind on what Mark had said to Helen. She wondered if he really felt that way. She remembered the first time she’d seen him, crouched against the wall of his bedroom as the wind blew the curtains around him like sails. The bond she had felt with him had been immediate—she hadn’t known him before the Hunt had taken him, and had no expectations of what he was like or who he should be. It had tied them together as strongly as the binding spell, but what if everything had changed? What if what they had was broken and could never be repaired?
“Cristina!”
She spun around. Mark was behind her, flushed; he’d been running to catch up to her. He stopped when she turned and hesitated a moment, looking like someone about to take a step off a high cliff.
“I have to be with Helen now,” he said. “But I need to talk to you. I’ve needed to talk to you since—for a long time. Meet me in the parking lot tonight, when the moon is high.”
She nodded, too surprised to say anything. By the time it occurred to her that “when the moon is high” wasn’t very helpful—what if it was cloudy?—he’d already vanished down the hall. With a sigh, she headed off to send Catarina Loss a fire-message.
* * *
It had been only a few days since Robert Lightwood’s death, but Horace Dearborn had already completely redecorated his office.
The first thing Emma noticed was that the tapestry of the Battle of the Burren was missing. The fireplace was lit now, and over it Alec Lightwood’s image had been replaced by Zara Dearborn’s. It was a portrait of her in gear, her long blond-brown hair falling to her waist in two braids like a Viking’s. ZARA DEARBORN, CLAVE HERO, said a gold plaque on the frame.
“Subtle,” Julian muttered. He and Emma had just come into Horace’s office; the Inquisitor was bent over and poking around in his desk, seemingly ignoring them. The desk at least was the same, though a large sign hung behind it that announced: PURITY IS STRENGTH. STRENGTH IS VICTORY. THEREFORE PURITY IS VICTORY.
Dearborn straightened up. “‘Clave hero’ might be a bit simple,” he said thoughtfully, making it quite clear he’d heard Julian’s comment. “I was thinking ‘Modern Boadicea.’ In case you don’t know who she was—”
“I know who Boadicea was,” said Julian, seating himself; Emma followed. The chairs were new as well, with stiff upholstery. “A warrior queen of Britain.”
“Julian’s uncle was a classical scholar,” said Emma.
“Ah yes, so Zara told me.” Horace dropped heavily into his own seat, behind the mahogany desk. He was a big man, rawboned, with a nondescript face. Only his size was unusual—his hands were enormous, and his big shoulders pulled at the material of his uniform. They must not have had time to make one up for him yet. “Now, children. I must say I’m surprised at you two. There has always been such a . . . vibrant partnership between the Blackthorn and Carstairs families and the Clave.”
