Julian to Magnus

Dear Magnus,

Mark this date down! For once I am writing to you with answers instead of questions. I know you probably felt a sinking sensation when you saw the letter is from me, and considered going into the Witness Protection Program (Warlock Protection Program?) but I’m actually only writing to give you the latest updates. And the great news is, we know a lot more than the last time I talked to you.

First: the ghost in Blackthorn Hall is Rupert Blackthorn, Tatiana’s husband. He’s stuck in the house because of the curse. As near as we can tell, his spirit was floating around Blackthorn Hall anyway, because he died here (according to Tessa and Jem, in quite violent circumstances). But then the curse was fading after Tatiana’s father’s death, since it was tied to him, and Tatiana started to have to do regular maintenance over the following years to keep it working. We have no idea if Tatiana even knew Rupert’s ghost was here in the first place, or knew that the curse was keeping him here—but it clearly did, and has been all this time. He’s observed a lot over the years, I suspect.

The curse works, it seems, by being embedded in objects that are placed on ley lines that interact at Blackthorn Hall. (This was very clever of Benedict, since the objects themselves were not atthe house and thus the curse wouldn’t be detected by Shadowhunters searching here. He didn’t make provisions for faery contractors, lucky for us.) Also, because Tatiana had to keep the curse up, she periodically replaced the objects with new things she’d taken herself. And she took things belonging to Herondales, Carstairs, Lightwoods…the people she hated and their kids. Maybe she thought her hatred would make the curse stronger, maybe she just liked stealing from those people and using their possessions for her own purposes. Hard to say, but it doesn’t really matter. Find the (remaining) objects, lift the curse, free Rupert, and get back to refurbishing the house so we can live here curse-free.

ADDENDUM: It is the next morning, and I have a bit of good news. Rupert knows where one of the objects is! Or at least he has a place he wants us to go. Communication with Rupert still includes a lot of interpretation. In this case we came down to breakfast today to find a very antique envelope we had never seen before in the middle of the kitchen floor. Whatever correspondence was in it is long gone, and the writing was smudged, but we could make out the address, which is on Curzon Street in central London. Some quick fire-messages and we learned that Tessa’s son James lived in a house on Curzon Street a hundred-plus years ago. It still belongs to the Herondales, in fact, but years ago, pre-Jace, probably pre-Jace’s-dad, it was given to the National Trust. So it’s open to the public as a historic building but I guess Jace still technically owns it. So off we go, some tourists who just want to visit a historic home, hoping we find something. Tessa said as far as she knows it hasn’t been inhabited by Shadowhunters for a long time, and if there was some antique thing put there by Tatiana, it could easily have been sold or put in storage or who knows what. Rupert wouldn’t know that. There’s also the question of how much of the house is open to the public and how we might search the parts that aren’t. Emma suggests we get Kit on the phone and have him tell them that as a Herondale he gives us permission, but I’m not sure that’s how it works.

So the situation is still far from fixed, but we’ve made a bit of progress, at least. And Emma likes to point out that things could be way worse. Rupert could be a vengeful poltergeist constantly destroying things or trying to drive us out, but instead he seems to recognize that the way to get what he wants is to help us. I don’t think we can depend on him to find some piece of hundred-year-old trash that will point us to all the objects, but we have a place to go next, and we still have Tatiana’s diary and Ty’s Ghost Sensor. And I feel much better having a concrete goal.

And you may be thinking, well, okay, so what do you want from me? And the answer is, nothing at all!

Thanks again, and our love to Alec and everyone there.

Julian

Emma to Bruce, partly Tatiana’s diary

Dear Bruce,

Ah, it’s good to get back to the dank, gloomy ruin that is Cursed Blackthorn Hall. You know, I’ll almost miss the curse, when it’s gone. Just kidding! Cirenworth proves you can have an old manor house with hundreds of years of history and it can be warm and welcoming and friendly.

We got back yesterday night, and then this morning Hypatia came in with a few more translated bits of Tatiana’s diary. (Don’t worry, Bruce: you are my One True Diary. Tatiana’s diary means nothing to me, I swear, nothing!) She was a big weirdo about it as usual, of course; the translations are all on these large parchment pages that look like movie props but no, Hypatia just likes to use ancient yellowing vellums for her normal work here in the twenty-first century. Warlocks! She said something about treated pages, demon language, and so on. And she was wearing kind of a 40s burgundy dress with a matching hat and Bruce, the brim of this hat was so wide I thought the wind would carry her away. (Oh, I should have said, we were outside. Julian was on the roof with the builders, not my favorite thing, so I was watching from the front gates while I tried to cut back the briars, which grow here at like ten times the rate of anything in California despite the much worse weather. I pointed this out to one of the faeries and he looked at me and said, “Black. Thorn.” And then walked away as though he’d made a great point. But it was Lightwood House first, I yelled back, and he ignored me. Which is for the best, really.)

I’m pretty sure the briars had grown another few inches while we talked, but they would have to wait. I got Julian down from the roof and we went in to read.

It looks like Hypatia has started actually thinking about what she’s translating; instead of doing every entry, this time she had snippets from a bunch of entries put together (she dated each one). Which is a little bit of a shame because I kind of liked seeing Tatiana talk about her clothes or her brothers or whatever in between all the, you know, evil demon stuff. But I admit that evil demon stuff is what we are here for. Like the old Shadowhunter motto says, “Shadowhunters: That Evil Demon Stuff Is What We Are Here For.” But in Latin probably.

Some translated highlights for you, Bruce. I won’t include the dates, but they stretch over a matter of years. The first one is from 1878 and then most are in the 1880s, but then there’s a jump and the last one is from 1903. (Sometime before then she seems to have found a “patron” of some kind, but she doesn’t say who it is. Or why anybody would want to be the patron of such an unpleasant person…)

Father is dead and Rupert is dead. I cannot speak of what happened; when I try, the words will not come. It is the fault of the London Enclave, many of whom were present for their deaths. Not only did they not save either of the men I love most, I daresay they hastened the disaster. I shall be, at very least, registering a formal complaint with the Clave, but I have little hope of justice, of course. The corruption among the Nephilim here in London goes all the way to the roots.

I cannot believe I have been left all alone. My mother, gone. My brothers, gone. The walls of Lightwood House are my only companions, their silence a terrible reminder of how much I have lost, in such little time. Today I went from room to room, and wherever I found a mirror, I smashed it. The glass I left where it fell, a reminder that everything bright and good has been destroyed.

I have Rupert’s ring. It is all that remains of him. I know I must have felt happy, to stand beside him and recite the vows of marriage. I cannot dredge up the memory of that feeling. There is blood upon the ring. His blood. I shall never clean it.

To honor my father’s memory, I have begun going through the books in his library. Not the library the Clave knows about, of course, the one they pillaged after the incident involving his death, but the other one, Father’s sanctum, which the enchantment hides. I wish to learn what he knew. To seek power that will help me, who now has been left with nothing. I have found only one thing that causes my heart to beat in my chest: because of his violent end, far from his own home, it is not unlikely that the spirit of my Rupert may still be present here in the house. If he is here, I will find him. I will see him, and I will know that our love is more powerful than death.

I have searched and searched, performed spell after spell. I have not seen any ghost, not of Rupert, not of Father. Not even of some Lightwood relation long dead who might have been haunting the place earlier. Is it my father’s enchantment that keeps the dead from this place? Or does it only prevent my finding them? But I am the master of that enchantment now, as I am the true inheritor of the house. (If G and G attempt to take it from me, they will find there is more than an enchantment that will work against them.)

Father’s protection is fading. I can feel it, as I remain here in the house, and it becomes a part of me, as I become a part of it. Someday my son will inherit the house—the last gift that Rupert ever gave me—and I will not have Blackthorn Hall made unsafe for myself and my family. I have been reading extensively on the topic of the enchantment and I place the blame on the urn containing mother’s ashes, which fell from its location in the Lightwood tombs in the countryside and chipped terribly. It did not shatter, but since then I have felt the eyes of the world more upon me. But I believe that the objects themselves can be replaced, as long as the magic is renewed, and so instead of the urn the enchantment now inhabits Father’s mourning brooch, with its locks of Mother’s hair, and I have put it in the place of the urn. The spell has been rewoven and renewed. Father would be proud of me. He was right to make me the inheritor of all his works.

Rupert is here, I know it, though I cannot see him or hear him. Where else, indeed, could he be other than close to me, where he belonged, where he was meant to dwell before his life was cut so short by the machinations of the Enclave. Sometimes in the night I feel I can almost see him, as though he is hiding just behind a thin curtain that divides the living realm from the dead. And now I have made sure he will stay with me.

I realized that the objects of the protective enchantment on the house are things that would be important to Father, when he was master here. But now I am master here, and having studied more fully Father’s research, it was a simple matter to place his ring in a location of power. It will be part of the spell from here on, protecting the house as Rupert would have protected me.

You can see, Bruce, the way the last entry seems…different?

Vengeance. Vindication. They are close.

But the power of the house fades. At the worst time.

I appealed to my patron. He said the magic was of my own doing and that only I may repair it. But—for he is perceptive beyond any other—he saw that I had repaired it before. He asked me what objects held the enchantment and I told him: the brooch, the snake skin, and so on.

And as I spoke he only had to look at me in his knowing way, for me to understand him. The objects were of my Father’s time, and while his memory and honor will never fade from my mind, more than twenty years have passed.

I comprehended my patron at once: it was time that I replaced the foci of the enchantment with my own. Not only Rupert’s ring, but new things.

What could I use? I have been alone so long. I have lost a child and there has been no help for me. I have only one thing remaining: my vengeance. And so I will take the things of my enemies. I will take them from under their noses, from their own homes. Their sorrow, and my satisfaction in it, will be the force that keeps Blackthorn Hall safe—safe from them! It is the kind of cunning that my patron is known for, and that he loves best.

And once my protections have returned to their fullest strength, they will finally pay for their sins. They will pay in their blood.

Eesh. Makes me shiver just reading it. I guess she didn’t actually make them pay in their blood or Tessa and Jem probably would have mentioned it. (They would have been some of the blood-payers, I’m pretty sure.) So let’s summarize, Bruce: the ghost is Rupert Blackthorn, Tatiana’s husband. He died in some kind of tragedy and she blamed the families Tessa and Jem talked about—the Herondales, the Carstairs, the Lightwoods…So she stole their stuff.

So I guess we know what we need to do next.

Julian to Helen and Aline

Hi guys. We just got back from Cirenworth and seeing Jem, Tessa, Kit (and Mina, of course.) I learned a great deal about Kit, about a gun and an old Herondale named James. I have to sort my thoughts out, but in the meantime, here’s a photo of all of us at Cirenworth. You ought to go sometime. It’s a pretty cool place.

J.

Emma To Bruce

Hey Bruce. Kind of a bizarre night. Sorry if I seem a little shaken up.

So we found—or I guess Ty’s Sensor found—this dagger in the weapons cache at Southwark Cathedral. Which is pretty random since we were just in the area because of the Shadow Market. (I guess whoever put the dagger there was probably also in the area for the Shadow Market, come to think of it.)

I write to you tonight by witchlight, sitting in the hallway outside our bedroom. Which is very creepy in itself, because basically everywhere in this house is creepy except our bedroom, at this point. (Well, some of it is not creepy because it looks like a construction site, but whatever.) I couldn’t sleep at all, and I didn’t want to keep Julian awake.

First the good news: Ty was awake, and we weren’t even home (to be fair, it takes a solid hour to go between Chiswick and Southwark) before he had texted Julian a translation of the text on the dagger. Turns out it’s Farsi. Julian read it out loud:

I wanted so much to have a gleaming dagger,that each of my ribs became a dagger.

He grinned at me. “Hot,” he said. “Reminds me of you.”

“You mean, when I was exclusively driven by thoughts of revenge?” I said.

He looked hurt. “No,” he said. “You just like a good dagger.”

“Not sure I would turn all my ribs into daggers, though,” I said. “Ribs seem important to keep inside your body.”

“One rib?” suggested Julian.

Well, maybe one rib.

We didn’t get home until after midnight, but there was no way we were going to bed without showing the dagger to the ghost. We didn’t even have to discuss it, we just immediately went to the dining room.

We’ve been wrestling with how to address our ghost. He’s often quite moody so it’s hard to know what name he prefers. Julian’s been going with “Spirit,” like Ebenezer Scrooge. You know, “Spirit, show me no more!”

Anyway, Julian said something like, “Spirit, we wish your attention. We have something to show you.” The candles all flared up in response, which was a neat trick, though it did not make things lesscreepy.

We put the dagger on the table and asked the ghost if it was the owner of the dagger, or at least recognized it. Which was a long shot, given that it responded so negatively to the flask. But it seemed like the place to start.

Suddenly the wind picked up and all the candle flames went sideways. Which was a surprise, because this is one of the few rooms in the house with intact windows, and it wasn’t windy outside. And the wind didn’t just gust, it continued, getting louder and softer, higher and lower in pitch. Julian and I just looked at each other. We had no idea what was happening.

After maybe a minute, the wind began to break into little bursts, and then —

Hang on, just had to take a moment. I shivered again, remembering it.

Then a voice spoke through the wind.

It was faint, and at a whisper, and it barely sounded like a human voice at all. But the wind spoke. The ghostspoke.

And it said:

“NOT”

“MINE

“YOURS”

We almost bolted. If Julian hadn’t been there I definitely would have bolted. And I think he would have, if I hadn’t been there. It wasn’t even the words. It was that there were words at all. The ghost was getting stronger.

I mean, remember, it just started with random poltergeist stuff, knocking things over, and then it could write in the dust. And now it could speak. Why was it getting stronger? Was our presence doing it? Was it the repairs, somehow? Did the dagger make it stronger?

And how strong would it get?

Julian got his voice back first. “Mine?” he said. “You’re saying the dagger is mine?”

And then—by the Angel, Bruce, the hair on my arms is sticking up just to write this—the wind spoke again, and it said, “CARSTAIRS.”

I couldn’t speak. Julian said, “Emma? The dagger is hers?”

The wind shifted direction. All the candle flames tilted the other way.

It spoke again.

“TAKE”

“HOME”

“CARSTAIRS”

“Home?” I said. “Home, like, our home? Los Angeles?”

“Or this home?” Julian suggested. “Maybe it needs to be taken to someplace in the house—”

The wind kicked up loudly and said, in the strongest voice it had managed so far:

“HOME”

“CARSTAIRS”

“CIRENWORTH”

The wind dropped, the candles went out, the room was bathed in darkness. The ghost had gone. I could feel its absence. The silence hurt my ears.

I have the dagger with me now. I took it to bed with me and I don’t want to let it out of my sight, for some reason. I keep turning it over and over in my hands. “Cirenworth” meant Jem, of course, so maybe it was his dagger, once upon a time. Or maybe it belonged to someone who lived there when the ghost was alive. The image of Carstairs ancestors of the past keep going through my mind. When I close my eyes, I feel like I can see whoever owned this dagger once, standing over me — protectively, even, as if they know we’re related and want to stand by me, even through the centuries.

I think Magnus is right that the ghost means well. I don’t think a malevolent ghost would be as helpful as this one is clearly trying to be. And the faeries working on the house seem totally unbothered by it, which they wouldn’t if they thought it had evil intent. Which makes me think the ghost isn’t part of the curse, but instead, maybe the ghost is trapped here by the curse.

Okay, I feel a little better after writing all that down. I think I’m going to go put the dagger someplace safe and try to get some sleep. Thanks for listening as always, Bruce. You’re a pal.

And tomorrow – we get to see Jem and Tessa and Kit and Mina, because we’re going to Cirenworth!

Julian To Magnus

Hi Magnus, it’s Julian Blackthorn. (I know, you told me just “Julian” is fine, but habits are hard to break.) You had said you wanted updates on what was happening with Blackthorn Manor, so here are some of those. More than you probably expected, actually.

First off, Hypatia Vex says hello. So that probably tells you from the start how things are going. She also says that you should contact her regarding some kind of money you owe her, but I said I didn’t want to be in the middle of any of that and only said I would mention it. (I believe she said you “welshed on a bet,” which I had to look up. (a) It doesn’t sound like something you would do, and (b) it seems offensive to the Welsh?)

We saw Hypatia because we went to the London Shadow Market, and we went to the Shadow Market because, in addition to all the other mysterious business at the house—a ghost, a curse, a lot of bad vibes overall—it turns out we also have an enchanted diary. It belonged to a Tatiana Blackthorn, née Lightwood, back in the 1870s. Emma has been reading it since we got here, but it has some kind of spell on it that prevented her from telling anyone about it. Even before we got to the Shadow Market, Emma and I both forgot about the diary a couple times each. Luckily the other one still remembered. Eventually I wrote “REMEMBER THE DIARY” in huge colorful letters on some posterboard and hung it up so we see it when we first wake up.

But that’s not a long-term solution, so we took it to the Shadow Market to find someone to disenchant the thing. Hypatia has a kind of outpost of her magic shop that she sets up in the Market, and we were relieved to find someone we knew—I wasn’t eager to hand over an ensorcelled Shadowhunter item to just anyone. As you’d probably guess, she did not seem happy to see us, but that’s kind of Hypatia’s thing. And no one is ever happy to see Shadowhunters at a Shadow Market, of course. We tried to look as casual as possible but it’s not like we can tell everyone, “Don’t worry! We’re not here to raid the place!” We did see a few stands suddenly close for the day as we approached, including one that sold a potion that was guaranteed to “put werewolf hair on your chest.” I have to wonder, is that actual werewolf hair shaved off an actual werewolf, or is it supposed to just make you look hairy like a werewolf?) I couldn’t ask because the stall was closed. You know how it is.

Anyway, for all her grousing about Shadowhunters only turning up when they needed something and so on, Hypatia was helpful enough once we explained what was going on. I think she couldn’t resist the puzzle of it. She took the diary in the back and, I guess, did some disenchanting. When she came back, she had good news and bad news. Good news: the diary was no longer enchanted. Bad news: being disenchanted triggered a failsafe spell which caused all the text to degenerate into Purgatic script. Someone really didn’t want that diary read.

Hypatia agreed to translate the diary, albeit for a significant fee (though it is a drop in the bucket compared to all the other costs of fixing the house). One thing: she said it would be kind of slow to do. Apparently the act of translating from demon scripts saps the translator’s energy and they can only do so much before they have to rest. I did not know that! (And if it turns out it’s not true, and Hypatia is only messing with us, please let me know.)

So provided Hypatia keeps her end of the deal, we should know more about the diary soon. It feels like we have all these puzzle pieces but we have no idea how to fit them together, or if we’re missing pieces, or if they’re even from the same puzzle. Is Tatiana’s diary related to the ghost? Are either of them related to the curse? Or is this house just totally piled up with bad magic?

Then on our way out of the Shadow Market there was another surprise: Ty’s ghost-modified Sensor started going crazy as soon as we left. We thought it must be something in the Market and went back in, but no, the signal stopped. We followed it out and it took us to Southwark Cathedral, which is just down the road from the Market. It still had a whole bunch of tourists visiting, so we got to do the classic Shadowhunter thing, glamour up and sneak in. The Sensor took us to the Nephilim weapons cache (in a niche under an alabaster statue of somebody-or-other) where we found…a weapon. I know, amazing, right? But this was obviously not just some generic weapon that had been left in the cache; it was beautiful and elaborate and looked like it could be worn ceremonially. It’s a curved dagger, Middle Eastern in origin (I am no expert on weapons from the region, unfortunately, and will have to check some references to get the specific kind), and there’s beautiful calligraphy all along the blade in Arabic script. (Of course, there are probably twenty common languages that use Arabic script; I don’t know which one this is.)

I’ve got some pictures and am going to write to Ty to see what he can find out about the dagger. It doesn’t seem like it goes with the flask at all, and I have no idea why it would have been left in the cathedral. The mysteries continue. This house is, uh, more of a fixer-upper than we originally thought.

Emma sends her love, and please give our love to Alec and the kiddos. Let me know if you have any thoughts and hope you’re finally getting a chance to relax a bit.

Julian

Emma to Bruce

Dear Bruce,

It’s been a quiet couple of days, and I’ve hated every single second. After I gave Jules the diary, he retreated to the half-painted ballroom to read it. When he’d come out, he’d look thoughtful, sometimes serious, but he didn’t want to talk about what he’d read. And Bruce — neither did I. Even though I knew Jules was upset with me for not telling him about the diary, I couldn’t explain why I hadn’t. And when I tried to think about why I hadn’t, my mind just skipped over the question, like a needle over a broken groove in a record.

We talked about other things. Round Tom, the curse on the house, a letter from Ty, a letter from Luke at the Academy about some trouble Dru got into with her roommate. (I feel like this is a good sign that she likes her roommate. It’s always good to have someone to be bad with.) But there was something faraway in Julian’s eyes, something distant and unapproachable.

I missed him.

It made me think of the bad times, when Julian and I couldn’t reallytalk, and every time I wanted to talk to him I couldn’t say what I felt, that I loved him, that I always would love him, because it was illegal and impossible. I had to fold the real meaning of what I wanted to say into ordinary conversation, so when I’d say How are you, orAre you using the car today, I’d really mean, I love you, I love you.

I was sitting on a stool in the kitchen this afternoon, marking boxes. Some of the old stuff in the manor we’re keeping to make a permanent part of the house. Some of it is getting packed up for the kids to go through, see if there’s anything they want to keep. There’s an old clock I think Ty will like, and some tin toy soldiers for Tavvy, and lots of creepy old lace for Dru to examine. I was kind of listlessly marking the contents of each box with a pen when Julian came into the kitchen, an odd expression on his face.

“Ask me about the diary, Emma,” he said.

I started a little. He looked so strange, and a little pale (maybe that’s just lack of sun … sorry, England!) So I put my pen down and asked him how reading the diary was going.

“I don’t remember,” he said, and then closed his eyes. When he opened them again they were blazing, like someone lit a fire behind that gorgeous blue-green color I love so much. “Except I do. I remember. But my mind doesn’t want me to say so. Mark texted me,” he added, and I nodded along, like I knew what this had to do with anything. “He said the diary was probably enchanted. And of course it is. Don’t you see? There’s a slippery sort of enchantment on it, one that makes you not want to talk about it after you’ve read it, or even think about it that much.”

Of course. It made so much sense — why I never seemed to remember to tell Jules about the diary, or anyone else; why I kept it hidden under the bed instead of in plain sight on the nightstand. I exhaled a shuddery breath. “I feel so stupid —“

“No.” Jules was across the room to me in a flash. He took my face between his hands, and a shiver went up my spine. He looked so serious, so intense. Jules had to grow up so fast, and in moments like this he almost scares me with how adulthe seems — not that either of us are children, and we’ve been through a lot more than most people our age, but there’s something about his presence that he can summon up sometimes, something commanding.

It’s pretty hot, actually.

“No,” he said again. He gently stroked my cheekbone with his thumb. “Emma. It was a spell. It made you not think about the diary, it literally pulled the thoughts out of your mind — I know because it’s been happening to me, too. You can’t blame yourself. You can blame me — I should have guessed what was going on. I was too busy worrying that you were keeping something from me, when I should have known better.” His voice dropped, low and raspy. “Be angry at me,” he said. “I deserve it.”

I turned my head, kissed the palm of his hand. Felt the shiver that went through him. “There’s nothing to be angry about,” I whispered. “Just … “

“Take me to bed,” I said. I blushed, too. I don’t usually say that kind of thing but I didn’t care at the moment. His eyes widened and he pulled me right off the stool, lifted me up in his arms. I wrapped my legs around his waist, grabbed the lapels of his shirt, and kissed him. He groaned and kissed me back and then he was carrying me through the house, and we were kissing like we couldn’t breathe otherwise. He kicked open the door of the bedroom and we fell on the bed together …

And that’s it, Bruce. No more details for you. Suffice it to say that it was a while later and the sun had almost set when we started talking again, at least in words of more than one syllable. We were tangled up in the paisley sheets, and Jules was leaning over me, propped on one elbow. I was dancing my fingers up and down his arm, which was hard with muscle (thank you, Shadowhunter training.)

“Well,” I said. “That was nice, but I’m not sure it totally solved our problem.”

“Nice?”Julian looked outraged. “Puppies are nice. Fuzzy pajamas are nice. Kraig’s retirement party was nice. That was …”

“Spectacular,” I said. “There, are you happy?”

“Spectacular is a start.”

“Julian …”

He grinned. “No. It doesn’t solve the problem. The diary has a spell on it, and we shouldn’t mess with it until the spell is off. I think we should go to the Shadow Market. See if we can find someone willing to remove the enchantment.”

“You don’t want to ask Magnus?”

“We can’t keep bothering Magnus.” He sat up, which provided me with a nice view. I enjoyed it for a while while he rummaged in the drawer of his nightstand. He turned back to me, holding a gift-wrapped package. He was wearing a serious expression. “I meant to give you this for Valentine’s Day,” he said. “But I don’t want to wait. I know you said there’s nothing to be angry about, but I’m still so sorry, Emma. I trust you, entirely. There’s never been anyone I trusted more.”

He gave me the package, which was good because I thought otherwise I might cry. It had been an emotional day. The present turned out to be a gorgeously framed picture of the two of us on the London Eye; I couldn’t even figure out how he’d gotten it framed, or when.

“We look so happy,” I said, delighted.

“I always want you to be that happy,” Julian said. “I want to make you that happy. And I’ll spend my life doing it.”

Then I did cry, and he kissed me, and well, that’s all you need to know, Bruce. Maybe I’ll tell you about the Shadow Market when we go. Until then …

Emma

Kieran to Julian

To: Julian Blackthorn, Master of Blackthorn Hall

From: The Court of Unseelie

My dear Brother,

Mark has shared with me, with your permission I gather, the contents of your last letter to him as they regard Round Tom and the manor house. I have investigated what you ask, and it unfortunately falls to me to agree with yon Thomas: Blackthorn Hall is suffering under a curse.

I am sure that from your perspective, the bad news is less the fact of the house’s curse, and more the additional charges that Round Tom has added for the repairs and updates that his team is performing. It must especially vex you that these new prices do not include the breakingof the curse, but are only meant to cover the increased risks for the workers and the extra protections they will need to take.

I have already taken steps to seek a solution, but pray let me explain the situation, perhaps somewhat more cogently than R. Tom was able.

First, please know that Tom’s unwillingness to break the curse in fact is a prime example of his virtue (or, Mark has suggested, his fear of the office I hold; I choose to think it the former). The company working on Blackthorn Hall is not at all qualified to address such a complex thing as a curse. In this situation, many of the fey (though I am loath to admit it) would claim they could solve the problem, and would charge you enormously for a task they could not, in truth, accomplish. That Tom has not done so is a credit to him.

I appreciated your suggestion that the curse and the specter haunting the house could be one and the same. Unfortunately, when I communicated with Round Tom through my sources—

(Mark has interfered to admonish me for not simply saying General Winter; my apologies. Speaking plainly in written correspondence can be remarkably difficult for one used to the politics of Faerie.)

Unfortunately, after communicating with Round Tom viaGeneral Winter, I have been assured beyond a doubt that the ghost and the curse are different articles. Round Tom’s words, I believe, were to the effect that,

“Old houses always have ghosts. We don’t mind ghosts, and they do not interfere with our work. A curse, however, does, and Blackthorn Hall is cursed.”

He also made clear that it had been his impression that you already knew—that when the house’s owner shares the same name as the house, they likely already know enough of the history to be aware of a curse. Of course, he doesn’t know anything about the history of the Blackthorn family, and he should not have made such an assumption.

I pressed him to lower the price anyway, as a personal favor, and explained that the circumstances of your taking ownership were quite unexpected. I am sorry to say that he could not be moved. He produced a veritable library’s worth of treaties, bylaws, and charters to support his contention that these protections for his men were guaranteed by the Courts of Faerie, and in fact, he is correct.

I am therefore in the regretful position of suggesting that you focus your efforts on discovering and lifting the curse. While it is true that Round Tom and his crew will be unable to assist you, I know you to be a well-connected member of the Nephilim, and among your friends and companions many warlocks, Silent Brothers, and so on are to be found. I have every confidence in you and Emma; surely no curse can go long unlifted once the two of you have committed yourselves to its end. I have enclosed a brochure that might be helpful, as it is intended for those who have just discovered their dwelling-place is cursed. (Mark tells me one should never utter the words “I have enclosed a brochure” in personal correspondence, but I am not sure how else to word what I am doing. Perhaps “Lo, a pamphlet” would have been more appropriate.)

Thank you also for the delicious cake that you sent. While it does not stir the wild blood of my heart as faerie food does, it was a delicious accompaniment to a pot of strong tea, and we enjoyed it here muchly. Mark has informed me that this cake was created by a mundane, Victoria Sponge. All credit to Lady Sponge, and to you for sharing her artistry with us!

Mark and Cristina send their love. To that I attach my own, and remain etc. etc. Hail Kraig.

Kieran

Personally I think it very fitting that a Blackthorn is on the Chain of Thornscover

“And give our love to the kiddies!!”

Your honour?? I love him

“…but whatever else we’ve learned about Tatiana we do feel pretty confident she was a strange one.”

…and the understatement of the year award goes to: Julian Blackthorn!!

I would like to keep reinforcing that Julian has an ELITE sense of humour

Emma and Julian bouncing jokes off of one another is just such a them thing to do

I’m still getting over the fact that Julian and Emma can just straight up talk to Rupert???

Does Rupert ever strike up a conversation with this newfound ability or does he just wait for Julian and Emma to coax him out??

Except Dru, who claims she’d rather keep it cursed for the ambience (not that she’s been here yet.)

And we love her for that.

Nobody:

Me: yes, Emma, Julian might be your boyfriend, but he’s MY husband.

Things I cried about in this week’s SoBH: a masterlist

1. Right off the bat, Julian being nervous about Ty coming over because he was afraid that things would be different
2. Emma writing on Julian’s hand with her finger just like old times
3. Julian and Emma hiding under the covers together
4. The entire scene where Ty dropped his duffel bag and ran up to Julian and Julian wrapped him up in a big hug
5. Julian calling Tiberius “Ty-Ty.”
6. Julian telling Ty to pick a room and decorate it however he likes — because that will be HIS ROOM NOW?? LIKE THAT’S NOW TY’S ROOM?? I AM SOBBING?? LIKE OMG THIS HOUSE IS FEELING LIKE A HOME??
7. Ty suggesting Sherlock and Watson statues for the garden.
8. THIS ART:

I’m imagining that Rupert didn’t surface for most of Ty’s visit because he was with hanging out with Livvy.

… we all thought the same thing, did we not?

Ty won many rounds of Cluedo. Canon. Confirmed.

“Yes,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the high windows. “It’s a good room, I think.”

“Were you talking to your sister?” I said.

When I tell you my heart dropped—