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Michael clapped a hand to his shoulder and fixed him with an intense gaze. "There's nothing wrong with you, Robert. I wish you could finally see that."
Robert shook off the hand, along with the weight of the moment. "How about you?" he said with forced gaiety. "It's been, what, three dates with Eliza Rosewain?"
"Four," Michael admitted.
He'd sworn Robert to secrecy about her, saying he didn't want the other guys to know until he was sure it was real. Robert suspected he didn't want Valentine to know, as Eliza was a particular thorn in Valentine's side. She asked nearly as many disrespectful questions as he did, and harbored a similar disdain for the current policies of the Clave, but she wanted nothing to do with the Circle or its goals. Eliza thought that a new, united front with mundanes and Downworlders was the key to the future. She argued--loudly, and to the disgust of most of the faculty and students--that the Shadowhunters should be addressing the problems of the mundane world. She could often be found in the quad, shoving unwanted leaflets in students' faces, ranting about nuclear testing, Middle East oil tyrants, some trouble no one understood in South Africa, some disease no one wanted to acknowledge in America . . . Robert had heard every lecture in full, because Michael always insisted on staying to listen.
"She's very odd," Michael said. "I like it."
"Oh." It was a surprise, a not entirely pleasant one. Michael never liked anyone. Until this moment, Robert hadn't realized how much he had counted on that. "Then you should go for it," he said, hoping he sounded sincere.
"Really?" Michael looked rather surprised himself.
"Yes. Definitely." Robert reminded himself: The less certain you feel, the more certain you act. "She's perfect for you."
"Oh." Michael stopped walking and settled under the shadow of a tree. Robert dropped to the ground beside him. "Can I ask you something, Robert?"
"Anything."
"Have you ever been in love? For real?"
"You know I haven't. Don't you think I would have mentioned it?"
"But how can you know for sure, if you don't know what it would feel like? Maybe you have without even realizing it. Maybe you're holding out for something you already have."
There was a part of Robert that hoped this was the case, that what he felt for Maryse was the kind of eternal, soul-mate love that everyone talked about. Maybe his expectations were simply too high. "I guess I don't know for sure," he admitted. "What about you? Do you think you know what it would feel like?"
"Love?" Michael smiled down at his hands. "Love, real love, is being seen. Being known. Knowing the ugliest part of someone, and loving them anyway. And . . . I guess I think two people in love become something else, something more than the sum of their parts, you know? That it must be like you're creating a new world that exists just for the two of you. You're gods of your own pocket universe." He laughed a little then, as if he felt foolish. "That must sound ridiculous."
"No," Robert said, the truth dawning over him. Michael didn't talk like someone who was guessing--he talked like someone who knew. Was it possible that after four dates with Eliza, he'd actually fallen in love? Was it possible that his parabatai's entire world had changed, and Robert hadn't even noticed? "It sounds . . . nice."
Michael turned his head up to face Robert, his face crinkled with an unusual uncertainty. "Robert, there's something I've been meaning to tell you . . . needing to tell you, maybe."
"Anything."
It wasn't like Michael to hesitate. They told each other everything; they always had.
"I . . ."
He stopped, then shook his head.
"What is it?" Robert pressed.
"No, it's nothing. Forget it."
Robert's stomach cramped. Is this what it would be like now that Michael was in love? Would there be a new distance between them, important things left unsaid? He felt like Michael was leaving him behind, crossing the border into a land where his parabatai couldn't follow--and though he knew he shouldn't blame Michael, he couldn't help himself.
*
Simon was dreaming he was back in Brooklyn, playing a gig with Rilo Kiley to a club full of screaming fans, when suddenly his mother wandered onto the stage in her bathrobe and said, in a flawless Scottish accent, "You're going to miss all the fun."
Simon blinked himself awake, confused, for a moment, why he was in a dungeon that smelled of dung rather than his Brooklyn bedroom--then, once he got his bearings, confused all over again about why he was being awoken in the middle of the night by a wild-eyed Scotsman.
"Is there a fire?" Simon asked. "There better be a fire. Or a demon attack. And I'm not talking about some puny lower-level demon, mind you. You want to wake me up in the middle of a dream about rock superstardom, it better be a Greater Demon."
"It's Isabelle," George said.
Simon leaped out of bed--or, gallantly tried to, at least. He got a bit tangled in his sheets, so it was more like he tumbled-twisted-thudded out of bed, but eventually he made it to his feet, ready to charge into action. "What happened to Isabelle?"
"Why would anything have happened to Isabelle?"
"You said--" Simon rubbed his eyes, sighing. "Let's start over again. You're waking me up because . . . ?"
"We're meeting Isabelle. Having an adventure. Ring a bell?"
"Oh." Simon had done his best to forget about this. He climbed back into bed. "You can tell me about it in the morning."
"You're not coming?" George asked, as if Simon had said he was going to spend the rest of the night doing extra calisthenics with Delaney Scarsbury, just for fun.
"You guessed it." Simon tugged the blanket over his head and pretended to be asleep.
"But you're going to miss all the fun."
"That is precisely my intention," Simon said, and squeezed his eyes shut until he was asleep for real.
*
&
nbsp; This time he was dreaming of a VIP room backstage at the club, filled with champagne and coffee, a gaggle of groupies trying to break down the door so that--in the dream, Simon somehow knew this was their intent--they could tear off his clothes and ravish him. They pounded at the door, screaming his name, Simon! Simon! Simon--
Simon opened his eyes to creeping tendrils of gray, predawn light, a rhythmic pounding at his door, and a girl screaming his name.
"Simon! Simon, wake up!" It was Beatriz, and she didn't sound much in the mood for ravishing.
Sleepily, he padded to the door and let her in. Female students were most definitely not allowed in male students' rooms after curfew, and it was unlike Beatriz to break a rule like that, so he gathered it must be something important. (If the pounding and shouting hadn't already tipped him off.)
"What's wrong?"
"What's wrong? What's wrong is it's nearly five a.m. and Julie and the others are still off somewhere with your stupid girlfriend and what do you think is going to happen if they don't come back before the morning lecture starts and who knows what could have happened to them out there?"
"Beatriz, breathe," Simon said. "Anyway, she's not my girlfriend."
"Is that all you have to say for yourself?" She was nearly vibrating with fury. "She talked them into sneaking out--for all I know, they drank their weight of Lake Lyn and they've all gone mad. They could be dead for all we know. Don't you care?"
"Of course I care," Simon said, noting that he was alone in the room. George also had not returned. His brain, muddled with sleep, was functioning below optimal speeds. "Next year I'm bringing a coffeemaker," he mumbled.
"Simon!" She clapped her hands sharply, inches from face. "Focus!"
"Don't you think you're being a little alarmist about this?" Simon asked, though Beatriz was one of the most levelheaded girls he'd ever met. If she was alarmed, there was probably a good reason--but he couldn't see what it might be. "They're with Isabelle. Isabelle Lightwood--she's not going to let anything bad happen."
"Oh, they're with Isabelle." Her voice dripped with sarcasm. "I feel oh so relieved."
