<nowiki>*</nowiki> Julian informs me there are no raccoons in England, whatever Disney films might have indicated to the contrary. I cannot express the depth of my betrayal.
<nowiki>*</nowiki> Julian informs me there are no raccoons in England, whatever Disney films might have indicated to the contrary. I cannot express the depth of my betrayal.
−
===TYTOJULIANANDEMMA===
+
===Ty to Julian and Emma===
:<small>source: [https://secretsofblackthornhall.tumblr.com/post/664763679067324416/ty-to-julian-and-emma Secrets of Blackthorn Hall on Tumblr—October 11, 2021]</small>
:<small>source: [https://secretsofblackthornhall.tumblr.com/post/664763679067324416/ty-to-julian-and-emma Secrets of Blackthorn Hall on Tumblr—October 11, 2021]</small>
Secrets of Blackthorn Hall is a multimedia, serialized novel that is being released online for free. The first piece was released on July 10, 2021, and the rest of installments are to be released weekly from August 16, 2021 to August 2022.
The story takes place roughly starting in January 2014—about fifteen months after The Dark Artifices and more than a year before The Wicked Powers—and will take course over the span of a few months. It centers on the characters from The Dark Artifices but also delves into the history of those from The Last Hours and The Infernal Devices through books and old papers found in the house.[1]
Julian and Emma are on their travel year when the Clave sends him a message—clean up Blackthorn Hall or ownership reverts back to the Clave. Amidst the clutter and disrepair they discover secrets that Blackthorn Hall has kept hidden for years... They find out something... or someone... else might be sharing the space with them. They’ll also entertain visitors like Jem, Tessa, Cristina, Mark, Kieran, Kit, Ty, Dru and more.[2]
Emma and Julian of The Dark Artifices move temporarily to London to fix up the crumbling Blackthorn Hall... only to find that among the various objects that belonged to their ancestors, there might be a spectral presence that wishes them harm...[3]
I was going to try addressing this letter to Polyamorous Cottage In Faerieland, but I figured it might never be delivered. :) Ok, ok, I’m kidding. I’m sending it to the New York Institute—Clary says she’ll hold onto it for you. I know Jules and I have been popping around the globe like ping-pong balls, but we’ve finally settled here in London for at least a couple of months, so you can — and should — write me back at the London Institute — I’m not sure the place we’re staying even has an address.
(And sure, I could have just sent you a fire-message, but I have too much to tell you. Buckle up.)
So, a while ago Jules and I were in Manaus, in Brazil, studying Curupiras, when we got called into the Rio Institute. They had a message for Julian. His great-aunt — yeah, the one he was visiting when you first came to L.A. — had died. Really sad. And then, remember the beautiful house in Sussex where she lived? Well, she left that to some cousin nobody’s heard of, but she left Julian Blackthorn Hall. Which is a crumbling ruin in Chiswick (kind of a suburb of London). And then we had to come here, because of a codicil in the will (ahem, according to the dictionary, that’s “an addition or supplement that explains, modifies, or revokes a will or part of one”). Either Julian has to fix the place up, get it livable again, in five years, or he has to donate it to the Clave.
Anyway, you know how Julian is. He makes up his mind fast. We Portaled to London the next day after he got the news.
I was all set to eat scones, drink tea, and go on the Eye (all the things I didn’t get to do last time we came to London, due to being pursued by unkillable Faerie warriors.) But that was before we took a black cab from the Institute out to Chiswick and really saw the place.
From the outside it looks like a museum or an old library—you know, big marble columns, grand staircase, big metal dome on top that looks like it should have a telescope in it. (It doesn’t; I checked.) But inside it’s more like a fairytale. Not, like, something from Faerie. Or something from a kid’s movie. It’s like one of those fairytales where a crumbling palace sleeps for a thousand years. It was kind of romantic, for about five minutes. Then we spotted the first rat, nibbling on the tassel end of one of the drapes.
It’s a weird mix of interesting history, weird old art, and total ruin. There are cool portraits of old Blackthorn ancestors, mostly intact. Julian says he doesn’t recognize most of the faces. Some of them have names written on the back of the canvas or on the frame but other than “Blackthorn” none of the names mean anything to any of us. There are wooden chests full of ancient books and papers, and beautiful overgrown grounds that I’m sure were once gardens and are now England’s version of a jungle. There’s an old greenhouse and a weird little brick structure we can’t figure out. (Storage shed? Very small weapons room?) The whole place is just a mess, and most of the house isn’t habitable at all anymore. Someone built an apartment with “updates” off in one wing, probably in the sixties. (The apartment, by the way, reminds me of that vintage shop in Topanga I dragged you to. Remember?) Whoever lived in it left a closet of all kinds of vintage clothes and there’s crazy flower-patterned wallpaper and modern art everywhere. At least the apartment has electricity, running water, and heat, because the rest of the house definitely doesn’t —
I’m back now. Sorry, had to stop writing for a second. Julian was calling me. He was up in what was probably a ballroom? But anyway he took a wrong step and his foot went through the floor. (Not all the way through the floor, which is a relief. But it definitely made a hole.) The ballroom is big and dusty, but you can see how long ago it must have been beautiful, and very fancy. It has these huge French doors that open onto marble balconies, though most of the glass in the doors is gone now.
Once I freed Jules from the broken floor I figured it was my only chance to try to talk some sense into him, so I pointed out that this is a gigantic project for two people who have never fixed up a house before, and that we have a perfectly fine place to live already. And the weather is better there.
Jules, being Jules, took his time answering, really thinking about what I’d been saying. Then he said, “If you don’t want to do this, we don’t have to do it. You’re more important to me than a house. Any house.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to do it,” I said. “I just don’t even know where to start.”
Jules calmly explained that he’d been in contact with some faerie builders of some kind, hobgoblins maybe? who would be here Monday to do “a walkthrough.” Then he put his arms around me and said, “I know we can always live in the L.A. Institute. I love it there, too. But as much as any Blackthorn legacy exists, this is it. All these old papers, whatever secrets the house is hiding, they’re our family history. I want to pass it on to Dru and Ty and Tavvy. I want to give them what I never had.”
Well, what could I say to that? I get it. I have Jem as my living family history. Jules doesn’t have anything like that. And while Aline and Helen run the L.A. Institute now, they might not always, and besides, it belongs to the Clave. I get that he feels like he can’t give away a big chunk of his family’s history without giving them a choice in the matter.
I said, “All right. We’ll see what we can do. If we ever decide it’s too much, we can hold a big family meeting and everyone can vote. Keep the place or not.”
He picked me up and swung me around. Then we started kissing. I’ll be merciful and not give you the details.
So I’ve decided to consider all this An Adventure. It’s like an archeological site, and we are intrepid historians. Later I’ll see if I can convince Jules to put on a tweed coat and a pith helmet while we sort through the debris. Because whoever lived here before had a lot of stuff. It’s a big house, and every room has furniture with drawers and cabinets, and inside every drawer and every cabinet is clutter. Rusty weapons, water-damaged books, little boxes with more clutter in them, costume jewelry, portraits of random people, broken teacups…And remember, we’ll be going through it without any light but witchlights.
Anyway. I wanted to let you know what I was up to, and where we were. Our travel year was basically over anyway, so this is a sort of way of extending it and spending more time together. I’m not sad about that part. I was actually doing pretty well psyching myself up for the excavation of Blackthorn History, until this morning.
I know I said the house seemed haunted, but I was joking. Mostly. I’m not Kit; I can’t see ghosts unless they want me to see them, and so far I haven’t come across any ectoplasmic spirits with messages from The Beyond. But the place does feel odd — I keep finding myself turning around at the end of long, spiderwebby hallways, as if expecting to see something in the shadows. Or imagining I glimpse something over my shoulder in the mirror. I chalked it all up to nerves until this morning, when I came into the dining room and saw that the words “GO AWAY” were written in the dust on the floor.
I literally jumped. I was actually reaching for Cortana before I got a hold of myself. Don’t be ridiculous, I thought. That message could have been written any time. Long before we got to the house. It could have been sitting here in the dust for years, undisturbed.
I have a confession to make, though. I rubbed the GO AWAY message away with my foot. I didn’t want Julian to see it. He worries too much as it is. I didn’t want him to have that same bad moment of shock that I did, especially over something unimportant.
I feel better getting the story off my chest to you, though. Oh dear, Julian is calling for me again, I can’t wait to see what he’s put his foot through this time. I will write again soon, and in the meantime pip pip cheerio from London!
Jem, Kit and I are so looking forward to your visit. In preparation, Kit has been attempting to teach Mina to say your name. She’s almost got it, but you may have to content yourself with being called “Agnes,” as she has trouble with the M — very trying for her as she is so advanced in her speech, just as you say Max was. You should have heard them in the kitchen this morning. “Who is coming to visit, Mina?” “Agnes!” I feel that your alter ego, Agnes, would wear sequins and be absolutely deadly at whist.
Thank you for your thoughts about the wards. I will look for labradorite at the gem store in Exeter. I tried what you suggested with the chickens—I was able to borrow a Blue Orpington from a neighbor on the last quarter moon. Since then chickens seem to be avoiding Kit, so maybe it will work on demons too? (Though can you really tell when a chicken is avoiding someone as opposed to just being a chicken?)
Jem and I are endeavoring to walk a narrow line, keeping Kit safe and hidden while also providing him with the most normal life we can. We don’t want to lock him away in a tower like a fairytale princess—he’d be miserable. And Mina would be miserable, she just adores him and rides everywhere on his back, clutching onto his shirt with her little hands. It reminds me of the way James and Lucie used to ride on Will’s shoulders. I suppose times change, but children never do.
We’re trying to allow Kit freedom wherever we can. He’s enrolled at the small school in the village, where a few of his friends know about the Shadow World and others don’t. There’s a local pack of werewolves who we’ve become friendly with, and some of their children go to school with him. I’ve begun to suspect that Kit has a girlfriend, but he’s secretive about it. (I guess that’s another thing that never changes about children—how secretive they are. I just hope he knows he can tell us anything. Especially related to demons, or in Kit’s case, the fey. A hundred and ten years later and I’m still edgy.)
He’s a puzzle, our Christopher Jonathan Herondale. About some things he’s opened up, and is willing to talk to Jem and me about them freely — his father, and what it was like growing up being able to see all sorts of peculiar things but not really understanding why. About being taught to fear Shadowhunters. About his concerns about his heritage — what it means, what kind of power he might have. I think it frustrates him, not knowing.
Other things he won’t talk about. We have asked him about Ty, as you and I discussed, but he’s like a brick wall about their friendship. Whatever happened he won’t speak of it. I think Livvy’s death hit him harder than we guessed, too. I’ve heard him call out her name in his sleep, always in this very despairing way. Sometimes he’ll say Not if you do this. Not if you do this, Ty. I feel like whatever they fought about, it must have been awful. But people can be terrible when they’re grieving; we both know that.
You can probably tell from everything I’ve said how much I — how much we — love Kit. I just love him, Magnus, like he was my own. He is my own. I’d kill anyone who wanted to hurt him, just as I would protect Mina or Jem with my life. I never thought I’d have this again, this perfect family I love so much it hurts. Strange after so many years to be so surprised by one’s own feelings — but I imagine it’s much the same for you, isn’t it? Speaking of which, I hope you and Alec and the kids are well. Please let Max know that we found his superhero cape—it was inside the piano.
I enclose a picture from your last visit here. How adorable they all are!
Don’t worry about the parchment scroll yet, I’ll get to it at the end of the letter.
Hello from Chiswick! It’s pronounced like chizzick, it’s just outside central London, and it is a collapsing ruin. The house, I mean, not the neighborhood, which is cozy, a little suburban, lots of green space, quiet. You’d like it.
I should have been in touch before, I know that – and I’m sorry. We had to move fast to save this place and I knew a fire-message wouldn’t reach you. Blackthorn Hall may be a ruin, but it’s our family’s legacy, one of the very few things that we’ve inherited from Blackthorns past. I feel this sense of responsibility, a need to preserve the place for Tavvy and Dru, for Ty and Liv — well. You know.
It was us or the Clave, and they would have knocked it down and put something else in its place. It’s easily in bad enough shape that knocking it down would be the practical move. But it’s ours, and I kind of love it. I mean, if we don’t love it, who will? It can be truly beautiful again, I believe that. You should visit when you get a chance—all of you there are invited, of course—but be warned that if you come in the next couple of months you will be put to work.
This brings me to the parchment, which is the estimate and contract from the faerie builders for the renovation work on the house. I was hoping you and Kieran could look it over for faerie trickery, both in terms of whether their rates seem reasonable, and also to make sure they don’t get Tavvy if we’re late with payment, that kind of thing. They came highly recommended—they’re brownies? I think? They look like big garden gnomes. I mean, it’s probably the pointy hats. They could take them off, of course, but I guess they like them. They must know they look like garden gnomes. Anyway, they seem trustworthy and industrious and all that. But faeries do love tricking humans. Let me know what you think.
Oh, I should explain that there is one part of the house that is in all right shape and has all the “mod cons,” as they say here. It was redone in the Sixties and, well… it is groovy. The cons are Mod as well as mod. I am not sure you will get that joke but don’t worry about it, it was pretty stupid. The thing is, I’d never thought about it, but I realized this must have been fixed up by our grandparents. The timing works out. So this must be where Dad lived, once. And Uncle Arthur. It was where they grew up. And I realized: they, too, must have been groovy.
Arthur. Must have at one point. Been really groovy.
I just want you to sit with that for a moment, the way I did. It creates a feeling I believe to have never been felt before by any human being in the world.
You should see the clothes. I mean, really. You should see them. There’s a consignment shop’s worth of vintage stuff here and none of it suits me at all. You’re welcome to it but it is almost all synthetic fabrics and would not go over in Faerie itself.
Aaand I know I’m rambling. I was trying to avoid saying this, but there’s something about this house. It reminds me of some of the nights you and I used to ramble around the Institute back home. Which I know is weird, London couldn’t be more different than the Santa Monica Mountains — I miss the wildfire tang in the air, the smell of the chaparral and sage, the coarse dirt under our feet. (Do you miss it too? I feel like it has to be very different where you are in Faerie.) But there were plenty of times, especially when we were younger, when we’d tell ghost stories out there and scare ourselves that something was watching us. Maybe something was, though I’m inclined to think now that it was something friendly. Here in this house I get the same watched feeling, like there are eyes on me, shadows I see out of the corners of my own eyes that disappear when I turn around.
Anyway, I really wish you were here. I’d bring it up with Emma, but I don’t want to freak her out. She’s started the massive job of sorting through decades of papers and journals that used to belong to the people who lived here, and I’ve started painting the ballroom. I know Emma has been in touch with Cristina, please send my love to her and to K as well!
Your loving bro,
Julian
PS: I realize now I don’t know where this letter will find you, so let me clarify that “all of you are invited” from the LA Institute, not “all of you are invited” from the Unseelie Court.
Hey, baby bat! So how’s Shadowhunter Academy? Still having a good time? How’s the roommate — Thais, isn’t that her name? How’s having a roommate? I always kinda wished I’d gotten to go to SA, although obviously the weather was better in California. But you like things dark and gloomy! Just, you know – try to get some sun sometimes, okay? While I know you love your ghostly pallor, vitamin D is a real thing.
Not that we’re getting any sun here in Chiswick, where England is being fully England with the weather. I guess it goes with the house, though. You’re going to love this place when you see it, by the way. It’s the most goth building you’ve ever seen. The whole place is full of crumbling statues and faded wallpaper with creepy stains and a LOT of these dark brambles—
Huh, I guess it makes sense there are a lot of black thorns at Blackthorn Manor. Still, they’re a huge pain to cut back. Why didn’t your ancestors go with something less pointy? This was owned by Lightwoods for years, why no light woods? We may never know.
(I always forget about the Lightwoods because I think of it as Blackthorn Manor but I found a diary of a girl who grew up here, hidden under one of the floorboards. Like way back in the 1870s. She’s just a normal Shadowhunter teenager of the time, complaining about boring history lessons and obnoxious older brothers. Normal stuff! She’s about 13 in the part I’m reading but it goes for a few years. Her name was Tatiana Lightwood, I wonder if Isabelle and Alec have heard of her?)
Anyway, Jules is working hard on de-spookying the place, but trust me, it’ll still be gothier than a ripped fishnet whenever you get to see it. It’s going to be ages before we’re done with all the hallways full of empty birdcages and decaying books. This house is big. And extremely busted.
Also … haunted. At first I think we were both in denial. It was just weird moving shadows, cold spots in places — if this was one of your mundane movies, we’d still be arguing about what was going on. But we’re Shadowhunters. We know ghosts exist. And we finally broke down and admitted to each other that there’s definitely one in this house. Somebody’s moving small objects around and playing the piano off in the distance… low, haunting bits of sweet music we can both hear. But here’s the thing — the only piano here isn’t even playable. It rotted through a long time ago.
So, we have a ghost. But they don’t seem definitely or even particularly hostile. It could just be a bitty poltergeist, or a passing unquiet spirit. I’ve just started going through papers and it’s obvious Some Stuff Went Down Here at some point, lots of weird references to demons and bindings. (Oh, I’m putting a thing aside for you, it’s a taxidermied raven covered in flowers, I think it used to be part of a really extra hat.) So the potential for unquiet spirits is definitely there. One more thing to deal with along with the need for all new drains. (What, exactly, are drains?)
Anyway, I can’t wait to see you and oh no, I spent most of the letter telling you about the house but I really do want to hear about the Academy and your roommate and teachers, like is Catarina there? What about Ragnor? Have you seen Jaime lately? Tell me everything!
XOXO
Emma
PS I just found out who Tatiana Lightwood thought was the cutest boy in London. Will Herondale. Wasn’t that the guy Tessa was married to, a long time ago? Would she think this was funny? I mean, it’s kind of funny. Always a Herondale, you know?
From the diary of Tatiana Lightwood. December 27, 1873
How could I have ever felt anything but loathing for him, with his ridiculous name and his infernal Welsh accent and his preposterous handsome face! Ugh! The horrid monster read my old diary, OUT LOUD at the Institute Christmas party. On the stage, in the ballroom. To the entire Enclave.
Every single entry where I’d written my name as Mrs. Tatiana Herondale. Every bit where I wrote poetry about his absurdly blue eyes, how I shudder now to recall it! How I wish Elise Penhallow had never stopped playing the spinet and given him an opening to start reading OUT LOUD. I wish she was still playing the spinet now and for the rest of eternity and that Will Herondale had been utterly drowned out by the racket.
The HUMILIATION, it is not to be borne. He is a MONSTER. Gideon just stood there like a lummox. Gabriel had the decency to attempt to defend my honor and got his arm broken, which was the least he could do, really.
I suppose it is better that I have discovered Will Herondale’s TRUE NATURE and EVIL INTENT now rather than later. But oh, couldn’t I have found it out in a different way? A whispered cruel comment—an act of brutishness at someone else’s expense—but no. The whole Enclave just standing there gaping at me and whispering, whispering.
Of course Father told me in the carriage on the way home that I had disgraced us all and the good name of Lightwood, too. Gabriel sulked for the entire journey, even though the healing runes must have taken away any pain he was in, so there was no need for him to be so peevish. None of this was about him. Gideon took my hand and said, “Don’t fret, Tati. Everyone will forget about this before you know it.” I looked out the window of the carriage and ignored him. What could he possibly understand about the injury that has been dealt to me? Nothing, for he is a lunkhead.
A painting of a troll demon[4] and cockroach demon[5]
When we arrived at Chiswick I thought about burning the diary, for I could no longer stand the sight of the thing. Will ruined it. I went up to my room and ripped the pages from the spine, then tore each page to pieces. I looked at the fire, which had plenty of hot coals, but I could not bring myself to consign the remains of the diary to the flames, whether they had disgraced our family name or not. Those pages were full of my fascinating ruminations and ideas and observations—about the London Enclave, about my father’s heroic exploits, about the precise shape of Elise Penhallow’s nose and what it revealed about her terrible character—and I found I did not want to see those words curl and vanish into ash. Instead I stuffed the mutilated pages into my green silk purse and tiptoed down the corridor. I hid them in the old mousehole behind one of my father’s paintings of demons doing peculiar things. (I don’t know why he collects them, but then I suppose I have not yet developed a taste for art.) I hurried back to my room and threw the spine and covers of the book into the fire.
I am starting over with a new diary in which I will not mention W.H. at all. Except now. This is the last time.
But I will make him pay. No matter how long I have to wait.
Dear Diary — that’s how you’re supposed to start off, right? I feel kind of silly writing this, since I never thought I’d keep a diary, but what can I say. I guess Tatiana Lightwood inspired me. I feel like I should give the diary a name though, something friendly, so I can write “Dear Clara” or “Dear Bruce” instead of Dear Diary. Bruce is growing on me, actually.
So I thought I could use this to organize my thoughts. I’ve been jotting things down in little notebooks the whole time Jules and I have been traveling. (Did you know that there are a lot of fey creatures who have been incorrectly classified as demonic by the Clave? Like Curupiras? Most of the old bestiaries direly need correcting.)
It’s actually quite odd to be standing still after rushing around the globe for nearly a year. Julian has really thrown himself into this whole restoration project. I think it appeals to his sense of care and deliberation. He loves working with his hands (and I like watching him work with his hands) and figuring out projects. In addition to everything else, he’s painting a mural in the ballroom. He won’t let me in to see it. He says it’s a surprise so I have to live in suspense, I guess!
I really hope that when this place is all fixed up it does something to de-creepify the place. I joked about it to Dru when I wrote to her but I still get that sense that things are lurking in every shadow. Even when I turn my witchlight up to its brightest, it just highlights the weird cracks in the walls and the strange stains on the plaster. I can’t explain it but I feel like a long time ago, something awful happened here. It’s in the chills up and down my spine, and in the strange way the glass in the windows fogs up for no reason, or the odd cold spot halfway up the stairs. I keep wanting to reach for Cortana, but this isn’t the kind of thing you can fight. It’s just a feeling.
And sometimes it isn’t there — I spent a perfectly normal afternoon today digging through boxes in what used to be the kitchen. We pulled a lot of them up from the cellar (which is so spidery I will plan to refer to it from now on as Spidertown. I haven’t seen this many spiders since Thule. *shudder*)
Some of the boxes have perfectly normal stuff in them. There’s some beautiful silverware and china that belonged to someone named Barbara Pangborn (must have married a Lightwood or Blackthorn.) Fancy linens and tablecloths with the Blackthorn symbol of thorns woven around the edges as a border. A big box of broken toys and china dolls marked “Grace Blackthorn.” There was a runed dagger shoved down among the broken doll heads so my guess is she was a little girl just starting training. Aw! (Though the doll heads are creepy.)
Julian came in when I was partway through unpacking, and decided to help by cleaning out the fireplace grate. He got completely covered in soot and was coughing, so I dragged him into the modern wing, pulled off his shirt, and started mopping him off. And well, he was shirtless and dirty and looking at me with those gorgeous blue-green eyes and what can I say?
I jumped him. We backed into the bedroom kissing like crazy and toppled onto the bed and got soot all over the sheets and it was worth it. (And that’s all the details you get, Bruce. Stop asking.)
I can’t believe I ever thought Jules and I were just friends. It’s almost like I loved him so much I couldn’t see all of it, how big it was. I was standing inside it, looking for that kind of love without realizing I was surrounded by it. Does that make sense, Bruce? I’m not a writer so I’m probably terrible at expressing this kind of thing! I know I often feel like I should tell Julian I love him more, but he never says anything about it, and so I try to tell him in other ways than words. The way I curl up against him when we sleep, the way I come up behind him and hug him when he’s concentrating on something (not when he’s painting, though, or there’d be splotches on all the canvases!) The way — wait a second. Is that someone knocking on the door?
[One hour later]
Bruce! You’re not going to believe it but Cristina is here! And Mark and Kieran are with her! I don’t even know how Kieran managed to get away from Faerieland — something about him making a vow to the land that he’d be here for less than three sunsets — but I’m so happy to see them! Cristina and I danced around like maniacs and hugged each other, and somehow Mark and Kieran managed to convince Julian we should go out tonight and see London. We’re all going to wear clothes from the Super Groovy Sixties closet and hit as many pubs as we can. I can’t wait, Jules and I need a break. London, here we come! Prepare yourself for Partying Shadowhunters!*
Three sunsets. I told you, I have three sunsets. I will be back in just that amount of time. It is not a very long amount of time. And yet you have written to me, spent your valuable time and mine because you could not wait three sunsets to know whether I prefer velvet in midnight blue or one in more of an eggplant, I believe was your phrase.
Forgive me my temper. I am not really angry with you. I am only somewhat out of sorts this morning, after a night of merriment and whimsy on the streets of London-Town, along with my Nephilim friends. Now, obviously any faerie revel contains such dark delights as mortals can only dream, and so on. But after the previous night I must concede a grudging respect for the reveling capacities of an unexpected group: London businessmen of late middle-age. In our journeys we encountered what is known here as a “Retirement Party,” a kind of movable feast in which these businessmen traverse the city in celebration of a chosen one. In this case I knew him only as “Kraig.”
We met his Party thrice last night! The first time, at the Tongue & Grapes, we shared only a mutual acknowledgement of fellow celebrants passing in the night. The second time, at the Inn of the Shaved Werewolf, there were mutual roars of recognition from both parties, and a ceremonial exchange of beverages, as is custom. And the third time, at the Pigeon & Spoon, we were welcomed and—a great honor—inducted as honorary members of the Party, whereupon we were bestowed with festive hats and jersey-cotton smocks proclaiming the majesty of the great Kraig.
So you will understand if I am shorter of patience than I would like, this day, for I have a vile headache engendered by too much of what mortals call “shandy”, a repellent beverage with a kick like an angry kelpie. It quite left my darling Cristina asleep on a rather sticky table at the Pigeon and Spoon; Mark and I had to carry her back to the Institute. She is awake now, of course, and demanding coffee with rather more force than usual. Given that my time is short, I shall endeavor to answer your queries as well as I can.
I like the midnight blue, for the throne room. I think it sets off the creeping vines well, and also I think that you were hinting you prefer it as well. Next, I am in general agreement that the overall aesthetic of the throne rooms should move in the direction of an opulent Gothic feel, rather than its previous occupant’s preferred mood of “blasted hellscape.” Let us remind our Court that we are the Moon, as the Seelie Court is the Sun; rather than that they are Beauty, and we Tackiness.
However, I disagree about the skulls. I think they should remain. Skulls are perfectly appropriate in an opulent Gothic setting. In fact, I am hard-pressed to think of a style in which skulls would not be an improving presence. If such a style exists, it would definitely not be a good choice for the throne rooms of the Unseelie Lord, let us at least agree upon that.
Lastly, I am disturbed to hear that the Seelie Court continues to rebuff my requests for a summit of peace. You were right when you noted your suspicions earlier; they have become more secretive in this past year, even for them. We will see if our scouts manage to learn anything, although in my experience our scouts mostly seem to fall into forbidden romances with Seelie scouts and then they run off together; we lose something like four out of five that way. I suppose what I am saying is that I am not exactly holding my breath. (A charming human expression, is that not?)
You do not need to suggest to me that I contact Adaon; he is my own brother and I speak with him often. Whenever I bring up the possibility of a united court, or a meeting between myself and the Seelie Queen, he says the same thing: now is not the time for a summit that might lead to discord — now is the time to preserve the fragile peace between the two courts by leaving well enough alone. He has the Queen’s ear, so I must trust he knows what I do not. Still, you know it is not in my nature to do nothing and call it progress.
Speaking of that fragile peace, I must inquire—have your redcaps learned any more about the strange presence that has been noted in Faerie, and whether it is beneficial or antagonistic to our interests? I feel it through my connection to the Land — I am woken sometimes, feeling that presence I cannot define, knowing it is both of Faerie and not of it, and that the Land itself is afraid.
Enough of that. I trust that you can manage to keep the Court in working order for the thirty-six remaining hours I will be gone. If more color selection is necessary before my return, I trust you to go with your instincts, which have always served you well.
Until then I have the honor to remain Your Eternal Sovereign, Master of the Hob and the Domovoi, Breaker of the Broken Lands, Crown Under the Hill, Dark Star of the Evening, Friend of Kraig, and King of the Unseelie Court —
I hope this missive finds you well at the Scholomance. For my own part, I am rather hungover. We took to the clubs of London and ended up swept away in the festivities of Kraig’s retirement party. ‘Who is Kraig?’ you may ask. That is a very good question, Tiberius. As of this morning, I have no idea.
You will be relieved to know that none of this is why I’m writing to you. It’s rather about what happened afterwards.
As you know, Julian and Emma are staying at Blackthorn Hall, attempting to get it fixed up. Emma has been going through stacks of old papers and ephemera, and Julian has been dealing with the particulars of the needed repairs. Julian also mentioned that he’s been working on a mural, though he keeps it covered with a cloth so I don’t know what it depicts. Whatever the subject matter, I am glad that he is finding time to paint.
This is my first visit to Blackthorn Hall since I was a child, and I must say that Julian and Emma have their work cut out for them. Especially because it seems to be haunted.
Yes, haunted. I woke early this morning to the sound of an exclamation. Having passed out upon the stairs for some reason, I was directly across the hall from the ballroom, where I found Julian in the throes of dismay. There was paint spilled all over the ballroom floor. Julian has been working on the mural up there, and was quite upset by the mess. I wondered whether wild animals could have been responsible—the place certainly looks like it could be harboring numerous bands of cunning raccoons *—but then I saw that there were footsteps in the paint. They looked to be old-fashioned shoes, not like any soles I’d seen before. Since the house itself contains many garments of earlier eras, we looked for matches, but found none.
I felt a sort of chill in the ballroom that reminded me of my time with the Hunt. A hint of the cold of the grave. I suppose that is why I am inclined to agree with Emma and Julian that this mess is the work of a mischievous ghost, and not a strangely-dressed housebreaking vagrant. (Emma mentioned the term ‘cosplay’ but I do not know what that means.)
Julian, being who he is, blames himself. He keeps muttering about how he shouldn’t have gone out, how it’s his responsibility to take care of the place, and so on. You know how hard he can be on himself. I hate to hear it. I’d like to get to the bottom of this—for Julian’s sake, for the restoration of the house, and for the sake of all of us, because mopping up so much paint was not enjoyable, especially with a clanging headache—and that is why I am appealing to you, Ty, for aid. You’re at the Scholomance, and as a student you have at your fingertips a vast quantity of books, family trees, and historical records. Could you look and see if there are any references to Blackthorn Hall being haunted? If we know who the ghost is, it will be much easier to dispel them—lay them to rest, I should say. I cannot imagine it is enjoyable to be a ghost.
Please reply to Julian with any information, for unfortunately Kieran, Cristina and I must depart the day after tomorrow; Kieran cannot be away from the Land too long, and Cristina and I have work to do in New York.
I must go—Kieran has come to fetch me. Cristina and Emma have prepared a cream tea in an effort to lighten the mood. Kieran assures me that the sandwiches are extremely tiny, and that he cut the crusts off himself, with great accuracy.
I love you, Tiberius. I wish you were here with us, but I know you are doing great work in the Scholomance. I am proud to be your brother.
MARK
* Julian informs me there are no raccoons in England, whatever Disney films might have indicated to the contrary. I cannot express the depth of my betrayal.
There are lots of things in this letter, so I have made them into an ordered list.
Don’t worry. The device I’ve included is not dangerous and is in no danger of exploding. (Obviously.) (When Professor Hardcastle saw me packing it up, she suggested I tell you up front it is not a bomb. I told her that you know I would never send you anything dangerous without taking all appropriate precautions. She said yes, but it looks like a bomb.)
I started looking through the records. Nothing so far about Blackthorn Hall being haunted. Plenty of weird stuff happened there in the past, so it’s definitely possible there are ghosts that haven’t been reported. But I’ll bet plenty of weird stuff has happened at every big old Shadowhunter manor. Are all of them haunted? Now that I think about: it’s possible.
I’m not done with the records yet, just letting you know what I’ve found so far. I’m still looking. The library is huge, and the Cohort left it very disorganized. So finding particular documents can be a challenge. Genealogies aren’t hard to come by, but given all the intermarrying among Shadowhunter families there’s a lot of tracing up and down ancestors and cross-referencing, and yes, I know what you’re going to say, and I do like cross-referencing. But the volume is still very high. Also, Professor Loss warned me that a lot of the Shadowhunter family trees are inaccurate, and there was a period where Shadowhunter families would create fanciful family trees, like a… marriage wish list. But there’s some accurate truth beneath all this mess and I am resolved to find it.
The only thing I’ve learned that might be helpful so far is that before the place was Blackthorn Hall, it was Lightwood House, and occupied in the mid-19th century by a Benedict Lightwood who got into some kind of legal trouble. I’m not sure what kind. His death is recorded as by “misadventure,” but that could mean anything. Oh, and there are records of demons being found on the grounds at various points but that doesn’t mean anything, sometimes demons wander onto grounds.
You probably find this lack of information frustrating. I find it frustrating. I will be devoting myself to uncovering the history of this house in the fashion of Sherlock Holmes, although I do not have the hat with me.
On the topic of the Scholomance, and how I am doing here. I have been putting together a curriculum, with the help of Prof. Loss, aimed in the direction of investigation and detection. So far it includes: Signs & Sigils, Alchemy (closest I will get here to forensics), Tracking, Law, and Downworld Relations (apparently this one used to be a real doozy back in the pre-Accords days, when it was called “Interrogation.” The older profs still call it that sometimes). You will see the glaring omission here. I need a course on criminology, but the term only dates to the late 1800s and that is not nearly enough time for the Scholomance to have put together a class by now. They move very slowly.
This is maybe more like 6A. A friend suggested that I put together my own syllabus for a course on the history of non-mundane crime. That sounded good to me, so I’ve been doing that on top of my own academic work.
The device. Since the situation sounds urgent and I don’t have much yet, Anush and I rushed to put this together for you. It’s a modified Sensor—instead of picking up demonic energies, it’s sensitive to spectral energies. At least, it’s supposed to be. The design is theoretically very sound, but I admit this is the first prototype. Normally I would want to go through a couple of revisions before I shared it with anyone, but I trust you. So I hope it works and will help you to feel better about the house. I would appreciate it if you tell me anything about it that doesn’t work, or that works differently than you expect, or functionality you’d like it to have, so we can put those changes into the next version. This is Anush and my first real invention, and it’s more like a hack for an existing tool. Anyway, the more feedback you can provide, the better.
Will you send me a fire-message next time you’re going into London? I’d like you to pick up a couple things for me. I should have expected this, but it’s really hard to do any shopping in the Carpathian mountains.
Love,
Ty
PS. If you do find a ghost, treat it kindly. I don’t think all ghosts mind being ghosts, as long as people are nice to them.
The series was originally intended to be a novella compilation about Julian and Emma[6] before Cassandra Clare decided to make it focus on more characters and to include images, sound files, and the like.[7]
It may eventually be released in print or collected in a pdf, however all the multimedia additions make that difficult and so it is not planned at this time.[7][9]
