"I'm not," Robert insisted.
"You are," Michael said, "and it hurts. And if that hurts me, then I can only imagine--" He stopped, took a deep breath, forced himself on. "I couldn't bear it, if I've been hurting you like that all these years. Even if I didn't realize it. Even if you didn't realize it."
"Michael, you're not making any sense."
They reached a fallen log, thick with moss. Michael sank onto it, looking suddenly weary. Like he'd aged a hundred years in the last minute. Robert dropped beside him and put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "What is it?" He knocked softly at Michael's head, trying to smile, to tell himself this was just Michael being Michael. Weird, but inconsequential. "What's going on in that nuthouse you call a brain?"
Michael lowered his head.
He looked so vulnerable like that, the nape of his neck bare and exposed, Robert couldn't bear it.
"I'm in love," Michael whispered.
Robert burst into laughter, relief gushing through him. "Is that all? Don't you think I figured that out, idiot? I told you, Eliza's great--"
Then Michael said something else.
Something that Robert must have misheard.
"What?" he said, though he didn't want to.
This time, Michael lifted his head, met Robert's eyes, and spoke clearly. "I'm in love with you."
Robert was on his feet before he'd even processed the words.
It seemed suddenly very important to have space between him and Michael. As much space as possible.
"You're what?"
He hadn't meant to shout.
"That's not funny," Robert added, trying to modulate his voice.
"It's not a joke. I'm in--"
"Don't you say that again. You will never say that again."
Michael paled. "I know you probably . . . I know you don't feel the same way, that you couldn't . . ."
All at once, with a force that nearly swept him off his feet, Robert was flooded by a rush of memories: Michael's hand on his shoulder. Michael's arms around him in an embrace. Michael wrestling with him. Michael gently adjusting his grip on a sword. Michael lying in bed a few feet away from him, night after night. Michael stripping down, taking his hand, pulling him into Lake Lyn. Michael, chest bare, hair soaked, eyes shining, lying in the grass beside him.
Robert wanted to throw up.
"Nothing has to change," Michael said, and Robert would have laughed, if it wouldn't so surely have led to puking. "I'm still the same person. I'm not asking anything of you. I'm just being honest. I just needed you to know."
This is what Robert knew: That Michael was the best friend he'd ever had, and probably the purest soul he'd ever know. That he should sit beside Michael, promise him that this was okay, that nothing needed to change, that the oath they'd sworn to each other was true, and forever. That there was nothing to fear in Michael's--Robert's stomach turned at the word--love. That Robert was arrow straight, that it was Maryse's touch that made his body come alive, the memory of Maryse's bare chest that made his pulse race--and that Michael's confession didn't call any of this into doubt. He knew he should say something reassuring to Michael, something like, "I can't love you that way, but I will love you forever."
But he also knew what people would think.
What they would think about Michael . . . what they would assume about Robert.
People would talk, they would gossip, they would suspect things. Parabatai couldn't date each other, of course. And couldn't . . . anything else. But Michael and Robert were so close; Michael and Robert were so in sync; surely people would want to know if Michael and Robert were the same.
Surely people would wonder.
He couldn't take it. He'd worked too hard to become the man he was, the Shadowhunter he was. He couldn't stand to have people looking at him like that again, like he was different.
And he couldn't stand to have Michael looking at him like this.
Because what if he started wondering, too?
"You'll never say that again," Robert said coldly. "And if you insist on it, that will be the last thing you ever say to me. Do you understand me?"
Michael just gaped at him, eyes wide and uncomprehending.
"And you will never speak of it to anyone else, either. I won't have people thinking that about us. About you."
Michael murmured something unintelligible.
"What?" Robert said sharply.
"I said, what will they think?"
"They'll think you're disgusting," Robert said.
"Like you do?"
A voice at the back of Robert's mind said, Stop.
It said, This is your last chance.
But it said so very quietly.
It wasn't sure.
"Yes," Robert said, and he said it firmly enough that there would be no question that he meant it. "I think you're disgusting. I swore an oath to you, and I will honor it. But make no mistake: Nothing between us will ever be the same. In fact, from now on, nothing is between us, period."
Michael didn't argue. He didn't say anything. He simply turned, fled into the trees, and left Robert alone.
What he'd said, what he'd done . . . it was unforgivable. Robert knew that. He told himself: It was Michael's fault, Michael's decision.
He told himself: He was only doing what he needed to do to survive.
But he saw the truth now. Valentine was right. Robert wasn't capable of absolute love or loyalty. He'd thought Michael was the exception, the proof that he could be certain of someone--could be steady, no matter what.
Now that was gone.
Enough, Robert thought. Enough struggling, enough doubting his own choices, enough falling prey to his own weakness and lack of faith. He would accept Valentine's offer. He would let Valentine choose for him, let Valentine believe for him. He would do whatever he needed to hang on to Valentine, and to the Circle, and to its cause.
It was all he had left.
*
Simon ran through the dingy corridors, skidded across slimy floors, and raced down dented stairways, the whole way cursing the Academy for being such a labyrinthine fortress with no cell reception. His feet pounded against worn stone, his lungs heaved, and though the journey seemed endless, only a few minutes passed before he threw himself into Catarina Loss's office.
She was always there, day or night, and that night was no different.
Well, slightly different: That night she wasn't alone.
She stood behind her desk with her arms crossed, flanked by Robert Lightwood and Dean Penhallow, the three of them looking so somber it was almost like they were waiting for him. He didn't let himself hesitate or think of the consequences.
Or think of Izzy.
"There's a group of students trying to raise a demon," Simon panted. "We have to stop them."
No one seemed surprised.
There was a soft throat clearing--Simon turned to discover Julie Beauvale creeping out from behind the door he'd flung open in her face.
"What are you doing here?"
"Same thing you are," Julie said. Then she blushed and gave him an embarrassed little shrug. "I guess you made a good case."
"But how did you get here before me?"
"I took the east stairwell, obviously. Then that corridor behind the weapons room--"
"But doesn't that dead-end at the dining hall?"
"Only if you--"
"Perhaps we can table this fascinating cartographic discussion until later," Catarina Loss said mildly. "I think we have more important business at hand."
"Like teaching your idiot students a lesson," Robert Lightwood growled, and stormed out of the office. Catarina and the dean strode after him.
Simon exchanged a nervous glance with Julie. "You, uh, think we're supposed to follow them?"
"Probably," she said, then sighed. "We might as well let them expel all of us in one shot."
They traipsed after their teachers, letting themselves fall more and more behind.
As they neared Jon's ro
om, Robert's shouts were audible from halfway down the corridor. They couldn't quite make out his words through the thick door, but the volume and cadence made the situation quite clear.
Simon and Julie eased the door open and slipped inside.
George, Jon, and the others were lined up against the wall, faces pale, eyes wide, all of them looking steeled for a firing squad. While Isabelle was standing by her father's side . . . beaming?
"Failures, all of you!" Robert Lightwood boomed. "You lot are supposed to be the best and brightest this school has to offer, and this is what you have to show for yourselves? I warned you about the dangers of charisma. I told you of the need to stand up for what's right, even if it hurts the ones you love most. And all of you failed to listen."
Isabelle coughed pointedly.
"All of you except two," Robert allowed, jerking his head at Simon and Julie. "Well done. Isabelle was right about you."
Simon was reeling.
"It was all a stupid test?" Jon yelped.
"A rather clever test, if you ask me?" Dean Penhallow said.
Catarina looked as if she had some things to say on the subject of foolish Shadowhunters playing cat-and-mouse games with their own, but as usual, she bit her tongue.
"What percentage of our grades will this be?" Sunil asked.
With that, there was a lot of yelling. Quite a bit of ranting about sacred responsibilities and carelessness and how unpleasant a night in the dungeons of the Silent City can be. Robert thundered like Zeus, Dean Penhallow did her best not to sound like a babysitter scolding her charges for stealing an extra cookie, while Catarina Loss put in the occasional sarcastic remark about what happened to Shadowhunters who thought it would be fun to slum it in warlock territory. At one point, she interrupted Robert Lightwood's tirade to add a pointed comment about Darth Vader--and a sly look at Simon that made him wonder, not for the first time, just how closely she was watching him, and why.
Through it all, Isabelle watched Simon, something unexpected in her gaze. Something almost like . . . pride.
"In conclusion, next time, you'll listen when your elders talk," Robert Lightwood shouted.
"Why would anyone listen to anything you had to say about doing the right thing?" Isabelle snapped.
Robert's face went red. He turned to her slowly, fixing her with the kind of icy Inquisitor glare that would have left anyone else whimpering in a fetal ball. Isabelle didn't flinch.
"Now that this sordid business is concluded, I'd ask you all to give me and my dutiful daughter here some privacy. I believe we have some things to settle," Robert said.
"But this is my room," Jon whined.
Robert didn't need to speak, just turned that Inquisitor glare on him; Jon flinched.
He fled, along with everyone else, and Simon was about to follow suit when Isabelle's fingers snatched for his wrist.
"He stays," she told her father.
"He most certainly does not."
"Simon stays with me, or I leave with him," Isabelle said. "Those are your choices."
"Er, I'm happy to go--" Simon began, "happy" being his polite substitute for "desperate."
"You stay," Isabelle commanded.
Robert sighed. "Fine. You stay."
That ended the discussion. Simon dropped down onto the edge of Jon's bed, trying to wish himself invisible.
"It's obvious to me that you don't want to be here," Robert told his daughter.
"What gave it away? The fact that I told you a million times that I didn't want to come? That I didn't want to play your stupid game? That I thought it was cruel and manipulative and a total waste of time?"
"Yes," Robert said. "That."
"And yet you made me come with you anyway."
"Yes," he said.
"Look, if you thought enforced bonding time was going to fix anything or make up for what you--"
Robert sighed heavily. "I've told you before, what happened between your mother and me has nothing to do with you."
"It has everything to do with me!"
"Isabelle . . ." Robert glanced at Simon, then lowered his voice. "I would really prefer to do this without an audience."
"Too bad."
Simon tried even harder to fade into the background, hoping maybe if he tried hard enough, his skin would take on the same pattern as Jon Cartwright's surprisingly flowered sheets.
"You and I, we've never talked about my time in the Circle, or why I followed Valentine," Robert said. "I hoped you kids would never have to know that part of me."
"I heard your lecture, just like everyone else," she said sullenly.
"We both know that the story tailored for public consumption is never the whole truth." Robert frowned. "What I didn't tell those students--what I've never told anyone--is that unlike most of the Circle, I wasn't what you'd call a true believer. The others, they thought they were Raziel's sword in human form. You should have seen your mother, blazing with righteousness."
"So now it's all Mom's fault? Nice, Dad. Really nice. Am I supposed to think you're some awesome guy for seeing through Valentine but going along with him anyway? Because your girlfriend said so?"
He shook his head. "You're missing my point. I was the most to blame. Your mother, the others, they thought they were doing what was right. They loved Valentine. They loved the cause. They believed. I could never muster that faith . . . but I went along anyway. Not because I thought it was right. Because it was easy. Because Valentine seemed so sure. Substituting his certainty for my own seemed like the path of least resistance."
"Why are you telling me this?" Some of the venom had drained from her voice.
"I didn't understand then, what it would mean to be truly certain of something," Robert said. "I didn't know how it felt to love something, or someone, beyond all reservation. Unconditionally. I thought maybe, with my parabatai, but then--" He swallowed whatever he'd been about to say. Simon wondered how it could be worse than what he'd already confessed to. "Eventually, I assumed I just didn't have it in me. That I wasn't built for that kind of love."
"If you're about to tell me that you found it with your mistress . . ." Isabelle shuddered.
"Isabelle." Robert took his daughter's hands in his own. "I'm telling you that I found it with Alec. With you. With . . ." He looked down. "With Max. Having you kids, Isabelle--it changed everything."
"Is that why you spent years treating Alec like he had the plague? Is that how you show your kids that you love them?"
At that, if possible, Robert looked even more ashamed of himself. "Loving someone doesn't mean you're never going to make mistakes," he said. "I've made more than my share. I know that. And some of them I will never have the chance to make up for. But I'm trying my best with your brother. He knows how much I love him. How proud I am of him. I need you to know it too. You kids, you're the one thing I'm certain of, the one thing I'll always be certain of. Not the Clave. Not, unfortunately, my marriage. You. And if I have to, I'll spend the rest of my life trying to prove to you that you can be certain of me."
*
It was a lame party, the kind that even Simon had to admit might have been livened up by a demon or two. The decorations--a few sad streamers, a couple underinflated helium balloons, and a hand-drawn poster that (mis)spelled out "CONGRATULATONS"--looked as if they'd been grudgingly thrown together at the last minute by a bunch of fifth graders in detention. The refreshment table was crowded with whatever food had been left over at the end of the semester, including stale croissants, a casserole dish filled with orange Jell-O, a vat of stew, and several plates heaped with unidentifiable meat products. As electricity didn't work in Idris and no one had thought to hire a band, there was no music, but a handful of faculty members had taken it upon themselves to improvise a barbershop quartet. (This, in Simon's mind, didn't qualify as music.) Isabelle's posse of demon summoners had been let off with a stern warning, and even allowed to attend the party, but none of them seemed much in the mood for revelry--or, understandably, for
Simon.
He was lingering alone by the punch bowl--which smelled enough like fish to preclude him actually pouring himself any punch--when Isabelle joined him.
"Avoiding your friends?" she asked.
"Friends?" He laughed. "I think you mean 'people who hate my guts.' Yeah, I tend to avoid those."
"They don't hate you. They're embarrassed, because you were right and they were stupid. They'll get over it. You always do."
"Maybe." It didn't seem likely, but then, not much that had happened this year fell into the category of "likely."
"So, I guess, thanks for sticking around for that whole thing with my dad," Isabelle said.
"You didn't exactly give me much of a choice," he pointed out.
Isabelle laughed, almost fondly. "You really have no idea how a social encounter is supposed to work, do you? I say 'thank you'; you say 'you're welcome.'"
"Like, if I said, thank you for fooling all my friends into thinking you were a wild-and-crazy demon summoner so that they could get in trouble with the dean, you would say . . . ?"
"You're welcome for teaching them all a valuable lesson." She grinned. "One that, apparently, you didn't need to learn."
"Yeah. About that." Even though it had all been a test--even though, apparently, Isabelle had wanted him to report her, he still felt guilty. "I'm sorry I didn't figure out what you were doing. Trust you."
"It was a game, Simon. You weren't supposed to trust me."
"But I shouldn't have fallen for it. Of all people--"
"You can't be expected to know me." There was an impossible gentleness in Isabelle's voice. "I do understand that, Simon. I know things have been . . . difficult between us, but I'm not deluded. I may not like reality, but I can't deny it."
There were so many things he wanted to say to her.
And yet, right at this high-pressure moment, his mind was blank.
The uncomfortable silence sat heavily between them. Isabelle shifted her weight. "Well, if that's all, then . . ."
"Back to your date with Jon?" Simon couldn't help himself. "Or . . . was that just part of the game?"
He hoped she wouldn't catch the pathetic note of hope in his voice.
"That was a different game, Simon. Keep up. Did it ever occur to you I just enjoy torturing you?" There was that wicked smile again, and Simon felt like it had the power to light him on fire; he felt like he was already burning.
"So, you and he, you never--"