EMMA
Dear Cristina,
I was going to address this letter to Polyamorous Cottage in Faerieland but I figured it might never be delivered. Okay, okay, 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 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 the Curupira demon, 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 thebeautiful 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 fixes the place up and gets it livable again in five years, or he has to donate it to the Clave.
You know how Julian is. He makes up his mind fast. So 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 were in 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 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 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 almost romantic, for about five minutes. Then we spotted the first rat, nibbling on the tassel end of one of the drapes. The first of many.
The house is a mix of interesting history, weird old art, and total ruin. The overall vibe I would describe as“Definitely Haunted.” There are a lot of old oil paintings of Blackthorn ancestors, most of them 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” and “Lightwood” none of the names mean anything to 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. Why the sixties? Let me just say the apartment reminds me of that vintage shop in Topanga I dragged you to. Remember? Whoever lived in it left behind 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 step away 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, whichwas a relief. But it made a decent-sized hole. The ballroom is big and dusty, but you can see how it must have been beautiful, long ago, 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 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 was 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 he’d already (already?!) been in contact with “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 all of this 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 at least have Jem as my living family history. Jules doesn’t have anyonelike that. And while Aline and Helen run the L.A. Institute now, they might not always, and besides, it belongs to the Clave. I understand 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 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 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, so this is a 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 wasjoking. 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 find myself turning around at the end of long, spiderwebby hallways, as though expecting to see something in the shadows. Or imagining I glimpse something over my shoulder in the mirror. I chalked it up to nerves until this morning, when I came into the dining room and saw the words “GO AWAY” written in the dust on the floor.
I literally jumped. I was reaching for Cortana before I got a hold of myself. Don’t be ridiculous, I told myself. That message could have been written any time, long before we got to the house. It could have been sitting there in the dust for years, undisturbed.
I have a confession to make, though. I rubbed theGO AWAYmessage 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 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!
Love to you and the boys,
Emma
TESSA
Dearest Magnus,
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 has trouble with the “S” and the “N”—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?” “Magma!” I feel that you should lean into this and wear something with flames on it.
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 the 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.
