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“Just tell me why you’re here,” he said. “The truth, no jokes.”

He leaned in closer, as if expecting her to whisper secrets. She let her eyes linger on the scar on his neck, just above the silver chain he wore. It looked like two distinct lines crossing each other, a sort of sideways X. Not the sort of wound you could get accidentally; someone had carved it there. But who?

“Dru,” he said, and there was urgency in his voice, a mix of impatience and desperation. It made her want to touch him—to put her hand on his shoulder, to tell him that it wasn’t just his father who had been a monster, that Janus was a monster, too, and Ash was being manipulated by him.

Maybe that was what it felt like to have Ash’s magic work on you: Maybe it wasn’t just that you wanted to please him, but that you wanted to help him. Maybe.

“It’s embarrassing,” she said, turning her face away from his. Even though she was lying—and getting ready to lie some more—she felt her cheeks flush as the blood rose into her face. “I haven’t seen you since the banquet. We haven’t trained. I thought—perhaps you were displeased with me. I knew you were curious,” she added, “about who the Queen wanted me to contact—”

“I was,” he said, “but then Janus told me. Christopher Herondale.”

“You know who he is?” Dru said, a little surprised, but then if Janus and the Queen knew about Kit, there was no reason Ash wouldn’t.

“Of course. He is of the same family bloodline as Janus, but his lineage is mixed with Faerie. He is the Heir,” Ash said. “I think my mother may have underestimated how stubborn you are. And I imagine that she did not expect you to lick any of the guests at the banquet. I could have told her you enjoy surprises.”

Dru felt herself blush. “I can explain—”

“I’m not interested.” Ash waved his free hand dismissively. “Unless you plan on licking everyone at Court. Then you might annoy the wrong person.”

Dru flushed. “Among the gentry fey?” she asked. “I bet they weren’t annoyed at the banquet. I bet they were thrilled. I bet they thought, Great, the licking part of the party has finally started.”

His mouth twitched. “Regardless,” he said, “I find it better not to meddle in my mother’s schemes. Involving oneself in her business is like swimming with snapping turtles. No one has fun, and in the end, you lose a toe.”

“That,” said Dru, “was an exceptionally strained metaphor.”

She felt his breath stir her hair as he exhaled. She couldn’t help but remember leaning over him, her lips brushing his neck. The taste of wine and flesh. She felt herself smile. Ash didn’t seem like someone who was taken off guard very often.

“You’re smiling,” he noted. “Why?”

“Ever since I found out we’ve met before, I’ve wanted you to tell me what it was like. What we did.” Dru arched away from the wall, pressing herself very lightly against him, so he could feel her body touching his, from knees to shoulders. Feel the quick rise of her breath, the temperature of her skin.

It had always worked on Mason.

Ash’s eyes darkened. Dru hooked a finger into his belt, feeling again the strange mixture of fear and excitement she’d felt earlier when she’d licked the wine off him. Touching a prince like this felt like a crime against the idea of royalty, against the invisible laws meant to keep someone like her apart from someone like him. It carried with it a quiet but intoxicating feeling of rebellion, like deliberately standing too close to the edge of a cliff just to show that you weren’t afraid.

“You should hate me,” he said, his breath catching. “My father enslaved yours. I’m keeping you prisoner here. I don’t know a way back to the mortal world, but perhaps if I tried—”

“Do you want me to hate you?” Dru hooked a second finger into his belt. His shirt had ridden up; the backs of her fingers rested against his bare skin. Ash looked as if he were on the edge of losing control. I’m making him dangerous, she thought. He could do whatever he wanted to her. But the thought wasn’t frightening. “If you ask me to, I will.”

“Yes,” he hissed, and for a moment she thought he meant, Yes, I want you to hate me. “Yes, you would, wouldn’t you? You’d hate me if I demanded it.”

He stepped away from her suddenly, and Dru felt cold—except for her cheeks, which were burning.

Ash’s face had gone blank, any trace of emotion wiped away. “Forget what you heard me talking to Janus about tonight,” he said. “I never want to talk about it, so don’t ask. Just—go back to your room.”

Dru didn’t move. “Ash…”

But he was gone—not physically, yet she knew the signs: He’d retreated inside himself, raised a shield of indifference.

He shook his head wearily. “I said, go back to your room.”

After a moment, Dru nodded, turned, and walked out. She barely registered the trip through the corridors. She kept her head down, kept to the wall, but all that was automatic. Her body felt as if it were humming. Like a note of music that went on and on and on until it drove you out of your mind.

Back in her room, the door locked behind her, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the paper she’d found in Ash’s trunk.

Slowly, her hands still shaking, she unfolded it. When she did, she realized why she’d picked it up. The white paper with one ragged edge came from a Canson sketch pad—exactly the kind that Julian used for his sketches.

And this was one of his sketches. She would never confuse her brother’s style for anyone else’s; it was as characteristic of him as his smile or his voice. He had drawn her, Drusilla—a little younger than she was now, but all in gothic black, a murder of crows circling like a crown of dark flowers around her head.