Queen of Air and Darkness (The Dark Artifices, #3)

by Cassandra Clare

“They hate me,” Helen said in a small voice. “Who hates you?” Aline demanded. “I’ll kill them.”

The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history. Later, she’d found out it was an Oscar Wilde quote, and had said to Aline, smiling, You’ve got a lot of nerve. Aline had looked back at her steadily. I know. I do.

“This,” said Aline, “is a frittata. And you’re all going to eat it.” She slammed it down onto a metal trivet in the center of the table. “Don’t like frittata,” said Tavvy. “Too bad,” said Aline, crossing her arms and glaring at each of them in turn. “You made Helen cry yesterday, so you’re going to eat this frittata—which, by the way, is goddamn delicious—and you’re going to like it. It’s what’s for breakfast, and since I’m not Helen, I don’t care if you starve or eat Cheetos for every single meal. Helen and I both have a lot of work to do, the Clave isn’t giving us an inch, all she wants is to be with you guys, and you are not going to make her cry again. Understood?” Dru and Tavvy both nodded, wide-eyed. “I’m very sorry, Aline,” said Cristina in a small voice. “I didn’t mean you, Cristina.” Aline rolled her eyes. “And where’s Ty? I’m not repeating this lecture again.” She glared at Kit. “You’re the one glued to his side. Where is he?” “Probably sleeping,” said Kit. He guessed Ty had stayed up late, researching dark magic. Not that he’d say that out loud. “Fine. Tell him what I said when he wakes up. And put the frying pan in the freaking sink when you’re done with breakfast.” Aline grabbed her jacket off the back of a chair, slid her arms into the sleeves, and stalked out of the room.

Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is confront our own failings.”

“How many windows does the front of the Institute have?” Kit said. “Thirty-six,” said Ty. “Thirty-seven if you count the attic, but it’s papered over. Why?” “Because that’s what I like about you,” Kit said in a low voice, and Ty’s shaking stilled slightly. “The way you notice everything. Nothing gets forgotten. Nothing”—and no one—“gets overlooked.”

“Back in Faerie,” said Aline. “Now, you should tell me where Horace is now so I can punch him harder than he’s ever been punched in his life.”

Aline threw a lamp. No one was expecting it, and the result was quite spectacular: It shattered against one of the dormer windows, and pieces of ceramic flew everywhere. She stood up, dusting off her hands. “Everyone, BE QUIET AND LISTEN TO MY WIFE,” she said. “Magnus, I know you make jokes when you’re scared. I remember Rome.” She gave him a surprisingly sweet smile. “But we have to focus.” She turned to Helen. “Go on, honey. You’re doing great.” She sat back down and folded her hands. “She definitely has a temper,” Emma whispered to Cristina. “I like it.” “Remind me to tell you about the frittata,” Cristina whispered back.

“Alec and I are unafraid to express our manly love,” said Jace. “Sometimes he carries me around like a swooning damsel.” “Really?” said Kit. “No,” said Jace. “I’m very heavy, especially when fully armed. What did you want to talk to me about?”

Aline was the last to rise. “Technically, this is my Institute,” she said. “We do what I say.” She paused. “And I do what Helen wants. What do you want, baby?” Helen smiled. “I want a war council,” she said. “Let’s get ready.”

“Has anyone ever tried ketchup on a s’more?” Isabelle said. “This is why you’re a bad cook,” said Alec. Simon, bundled up in a sweater and leaning back against a log, slunk down as if he hoped to become invisible. “You actually like disgusting food. It’s not, like, an accident.” “I like ketchup and s’mores,” said Simon loyally, and mouthed to Clary, I don’t like them. “I know,” Clary said. “I can feel through the parabatai bond how much you don’t like them.” “Julian is an excellent cook,” said Emma, spearing a marshmallow. Magnus had produced bags of them along with the requisite chocolate and graham crackers. He gave Emma a dark look that seemed to say, Stay away from Julian, and also his cooking. “I am also an excellent cook,” said Mark, putting an acorn onto his s’more. Everyone stared. “He can’t help it,” said Cristina loyally. “He has lived with the Wild Hunt for so long.” “I don’t do that,” said Kieran, eating a s’more in the correct fashion. “Mark has no excuse.”

“I am also a filthy pervert,” said Jace, “or at least I aspire to be. You have no idea what I get up to in my spare time. Just last week I asked Clary to buy me a—” Clary pulled him down next to her and belabored him with her fists. He grinned.