“Just tell me if Aline is helping with the younger ones,” said Mark, his voice growing sharper. “Helen cannot do it all by herself, and Julian will not be able to help her!” His voice softened again. “Julian,” he said. “Jules. My artist, my dreamer. Hold him up to the light and he would shine a dozen different colors. All he cares about is his art and his Emma. He will try to help Helen, of course, but he is still so young. They are so young and so easily lost. I know what I am saying, Shadowhunter. In the land under the hill we know to prey on the tender and new-hearted. And they never grow old, with us. They never have the chance.”

“Oh, Mark Blackthorn, what are they doing to you?” Simon whispered.

He could not keep the pity out of his voice, and he saw it sting Mark: the slow flush that rose to his thin cheeks, and the way he lifted his chin, holding his head high.

He said: “Nothing I cannot bear.”

Simon was silent. He did not remember everything, but he remembered how much he had been changed. People could bear so much, but Simon did not know how much of the original you was left when the world had twisted you into a whole different shape.