“Wow, that’s a horrible thing to say about anybody.” Kit shrugged uncomfortably, as if trying to shift the weight of a burden. “I’m not … very naturally gifted at this Shadowhunter thing. The Blackth—other people, they were born in Institutes, raised to it, but mostly my dad taught me card tricks. I don’t think demons will be impressed by my card tricks. Though they are pretty excellent.”

“You don’t have to be a Shadowhunter,” said Jem. “I’m not one. But I was. It was what I wanted, once. I know what it looks like, when you want something so much it almost breaks you.”

To fight. To be parabatai with Will. To kill demons and protect the innocent, to live the kind of life his parents would be proud of, when he saw them again. And the thought that carried Jem through the worst nights as he grew to manhood, to find love like his parents’ love, transforming and sanctifying. He had to last, until love came.

Love had been worth the wait.

“If you’re asking whether I’m working out my emotional pain through a punishing physical regimen,” said Kit, “my answer is obviously a manly yes. But I was hoping time would speed up when I did, and a rock soundtrack would start up, and I would get buff via a montage like in the movies. All the superhero movies and that one boxing movie have lied to me.”

“You’re getting better,” said Jem.

Kit grimaced. “I still get winded easily.”

“When I learned to fight, I was dying from slow poison,” said Jem. “… And I was, yes, still faster than you.”

Kit laughed. His eyes were Herondale eyes, but his laugh was all his own, mischievous and cynical and a little innocent, despite that.

“Train with me,” said Kit.

Jem smiled.

“What?” Kit asked anxiously. “Do you … not want to?”

“I said that to somebody once,” said Jem. “A long time ago. He did train with me. And now I’ll train you.”

Kit hesitated, then said, “Will?” and Jem nodded. “Do you …” Kit bit his lip. “Do you still think about him a lot?”

“I loved him better than I love myself,” said Jem. “I still do. I think about him every day.”

Kit blinked quickly. There was pain behind his eyes, the hidden kind, the sort Will had carried along with his secrets for so many years. Jem did not know its exact meaning or shape, but he could guess.

“Whoever you have loved, and however you loved them,” said Jem, “anyone you loved would be lucky.”

Kit was staring at the ground again, at the dust of the training ground. We are dust and shadows, Will used to say.