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“Okay,” said Kit. “We’re going to treat this as if we were punching in a code on a safe.” Ty nodded, blinking a little as if he were shifting gears inside his head. “You recite the rhyme and I’ll press the corresponding jewel.”

“Well, black first,” Ty said, and Kit pressed the onyx gem. It emitted a light musical tone. Kit decided to take that as a good sign.

“For death and mourning the color’s white,” said Ty, reciting the next line of the rhyme, and Kit pressed a milky-white quartz, which emitted another musical tone, this one lower. They went through the rest of the poem, with Kit pressing the colored jewel that corresponded to each line:

Gold for a bride in her wedding gown

And red to call enchantment down.

White silk when our bodies burn,

Blue banners when the lost return.

Flame for the birth of a Nephilim

And to wash away our sins.

Gray for knowledge best untold,

Bone for those who don’t grow old.

Saffron lights the victory march,

Green will mend our broken hearts.

Silver for the demon towers

“And bronze to summon wicked powers,” said Kit, finishing the rhyme as he pressed the raised stone that resembled polished bronze. Maybe it was bronze; the note it gave off was a little metallic in his ears.

The door clicked and slowly creaked open, revealing a small chamber in which was a stone pedestal. On the pedestal rested a gleaming artifact—a bar of gold with a slight curve to it, around which twined a gold vine, studded with briars. It was pretty, but Kit couldn’t imagine what use it was supposed to be. Maybe Catarina would explain.

He reached inside, closing his hand carefully around the object, trying not to nick his palm with a briar. But the moment he had it in hand, the door swung shut, trapping Kit’s arm.

“Ty!”

Ty grabbed for the edge of the door. It seemed determined to stay shut; he gasped with the effort as he dragged it open, an inch and then an inch more—

Kit, his arm free, stumbled and nearly fell. The door slammed shut with an echoing bang. Ty took a step back, flexing his hands.

“Are you okay?” Kit said.

Ty looked surprised to be asked, but before he could reply, Catarina stepped into the room. She looked from Ty, to Kit, to the object in Kit’s hand, and smiled.

“Congratulations,” she said. “You’ve solved the first puzzle.”

They both stared at her.

“Wait a second,” said Kit. “What do you mean, ‘the first’?”

—

After Elara had helped Dru out of her elaborate gown—it was very strange having someone to dress and undress you—Dru lay down on the bed in her room and stared up at the ceiling. There were so many things on her mind she could hardly count them: Ash’s warning about the Queen, the unfriendly stares of the Court, the sealing of Faerie away from the mortal world, the haunted look in Clary’s eyes when Janus hovered over her. But for some reason, the words that kept echoing in her mind were Her eyes are the precise color of the ocean. Most unusual.

She remembered the last person who had complimented her eyes: Mason Hardcastle. She’d been flattered, but she hadn’t known Mason that well at the time. Not long after, he’d started crawling through her window at night. They would huddle under her blankets together and kiss for hours. Sometimes they would talk about things that were surprisingly personal—he’d lost a sister in the Battle of the Imperishable Fields, so he understood about Livvy’s death. She’d wondered about the status of their relationship—what was it? Was she a secret girlfriend? Maybe she was nothing at all, but he was always extravagant in his praise of her looks, how pretty she was, how desirable. One day he’d agreed to drive her into town so she could check out whether there was anything new at her favorite vintage store. At the store, Mason had wandered around amusing himself while she rifled through racks of clothes, looking for anything black. She’d actually felt a little seed of warmth in her chest—for Mason to go out of his way for her must mean they were at least in a situationship.

Then she rounded the corner of a rack of shoes and saw Mason. He was leaning on the counter, talking to the girl at the register. She was petite and delicate, with the kind of cute short haircut Dru could never pull off. As she watched, she overheard Mason say, “Oh, her? No, she’s not my girlfriend. Just a friend. Honestly, she’s not my type.”

The little seed of warmth exploded into a bonfire of rage. On the ride home, Dru had picked a fight with Mason and stomped off the minute his car pulled up in front of the school. After that, she kept her window locked—for a while. Though after she’d finally relented, he’d done something worse. Much worse.