Dear Bruce,
We went back to Devil Tavern today with Jem’s advice (bring family rings, show to bartender, gain access to secret room). The Devil Tavern seems to enjoy elaborate ways of getting in places? We went in and there was some confusion, because when we were there before I heard one of the customers call the bartender “Ernie,” so we asked one of the waitresses for Ernie, and she said there was no Ernie. But then, because we were Shadowhunters, she thought we were there to question Ernie about something, so I figured she was covering up for Ernie and I said, “No, it’s okay, you can tell Ernie he’s not in any trouble,” and the waitress looked even more ba?ed and said there was no Ernie…we went around like that a few times.
Anyway eventually the bartender comes back up from the basement or wherever he was, and he explainshe is Fred, not Ernie, but for many many years the bartender was named Ernie—his grandfather and great-grandfather at least were both named Ernie. So most of the vampires and faeries who have been coming since the Time of Ernies have just stubbornly refused to learn any of the newer bartenders’ names. When he was a younger man he tried, but they only laughed and said, “That’s a good one, Ernie.” He sounded kind of sad when he said it. I guess everyone has their weird stuff they have to deal with.
We explained to Not Ernie about what Jem had told us, and we showed him our rings. He said yeah, there’s an old room upstairs that used to be used by Shadowhunters for clandestine meetings. There are instructions left that go back a hundred years saying the room must be maintained for the use of Shadowhunters, even though none have come around for a long time. They take it really seriously, despite that, and have, as Fred said, “kept the rats out.”
He brought us the key from somewhere—one of those old skeleton key type keys you never see anymore—and we went upstairs and let ourselves in. Let me tell you, Bruce, they do not think being obligated to “maintain” the room means they are obligated to “dust” the room. Absolute nightmare for an asthmatic. No rats, though, he wasn’t lying about that. We would definitely have seen their tracks in the dust. That’s the quantity of dust we’re talking about.
But aside from needing a scrub, the room is still very much intact. It’s actually more like a tiny apartment (a “bedsit,” Julian adorably called it), with a mini-bedroom off a sitting area with a table in the middle and a rather shabby couch. It’s not like the rest of the tavern at all and feels like you’d imagine a study room in the oldest library at the oldest college in Oxford would feel. Books everywhere, lots of big chunky carved wood, people’s initials carved into the table (note for people scratching their initials into tables: include your last initials! It makes it much easier for your descendants to figure out who you were! There could be a million people named “J!”).
There was nothing obviously ghostly, so Julian used the Sensor we got from Ty. It didn’t find much, but eventually it reacted near a particular book on one of the shelves built into the wall. We pulled it out and it seemed to be a handwritten book with an elaborate stitched cover. It was called The Beautiful Cordelia and it’s by “L.H.” I would bet any amount of money “H” stands for Herondale. But there was nothing magical about the book. I mean, I didn’t read it yet; maybe it weaves a truly magical tale. But the Sensor didn’t react much to the book itself, there was nothing in between any of the pages, the ink wasn’t sparkly, etc.
Eventually we thought to kneel down and look into the space on the shelf where the book had come from and, sure enough, there was a little nook carved deeper into the wall. Julian and I agreed that in the nook was definitely…a tonof spiders. So we rock-paper-scissored for it, I lost, and had to stick my hand back there. Luckily, no spiders. Instead, a surprise: an antique metal flask! The kind a gentleman would keep in his coat pocket. It is silver—well, at least the color is silver. It might be pewter. It is also definitely not a “band.”
But. The Sensor went bananas. We put the flask on the table and the Sensor next to it, and it wailed like crazy. It looked like a normal flask to me, blackened with time, and it’s not like when we opened it, a ghost slithered out. I don’t know. It was empty, and the Sensor didn’t react to anything else in the room. We hung out there for about half an hour even after we were done, though. The place did feel comfortable, it must have been wonderful in its day. I thought I might go back sometime and offer to pay Fred if he would have it dusted and cleaned. There’s probably stuff in there the London Institute would want, too. But that’s for when we’re done with Blackthorn Hall (and its ghost).
We didn’t find anything else interesting in the room, so we locked it up and returned the key. We brought the flask to the house. Julian got the silver polish and when we cleaned the flask up it was revealed to have a pretty, elaborate tracery pattern of leaves and flowers on it. And it was monogrammed. Not a Herondale this time. Not a Blackthorn, either. The initials were M.F.
Julian is squinting angrily at the witchlight I’m holding to write this. I guess it is pretty late. Good night, Bruce.Good night, groovy bedroom. Good night, ghost. Good night, mysterious flask.
Good night, Julian my love.
— Emma
EMMA
Dear Bruce,
It’s teatime. Now that Jules and I are living in England we are trying to embrace the concept of teatime, though as you already know I prefer to take my caffeine in the form of chocolate. (Unlike Cristina, who is literally addicted to coffee.) Chocolate chip cookies, brownie bars, ice cream— any form of chocolate is welcome and acceptable.
Julian is outside talking to the contractors—I can see Round Tom waving his arms about something—so I thought I’d take a moment to fill you in on what happened since my last entry.
If you recall, we found a silver flask at the Devil Tavern that set off all Ty’s Ghost Sensor alarms. We brought it back to Blackthorn Hall. It’s a beautiful object, etched with flowers and butterfly wings, and the initials M.F. And in the bright light of day, I immediately remembered where I’ d seen that butterfly design before.
On the Fairchild family ring.
I know this because of Clary. (I don’t spend a lot of time staring at her jewelry, Bruce, but Shadowhunters are way into family symbols, generally speaking. And there was the time I borrowed her jacket in Faerie and then went to Thule and everyone thought she was dead because her ring was in the pocket…but that’s a story for another time. I’ve got enough to document in the present.) So Jules and I agreed whoever owned this flask was likely a Fairchild whose first name began with M. Genius-level Sherlock detecting, I know. Ty would be proud.
Over a lunch of toasted cheese sandwiches, we decided it would be better to do a little more diligent research rather than diving right in and asking the ghostARE YOU A FAIRCHILD,Y/N. So we sent a fire-message to Helen and Aline. There are several old Shadowhunter family histories in the L.A. Institute library, and we asked them to have a look for Fairchilds who had first names beginning with the letter M. I guess Helen was up early, because she got back to us quickly with a short list of candidates. Medea Fairchild, Myles Fairchild, and Matthew Fairchild. It wasn’t clear from the records whether any of them is Clary’s direct ancestor, but I am curious! (I personally hope Medea is, because that is a badass mythological name.) Anyway, it didn’t take us long to nominate a candidate for Owner of the Silver Flask.
Drumroll, please, Bruce.
The candidate is…Matthew Fairchild!
We deduced this because Medea died in 1802 at the age of seventy-eight, and Myles died in 1857 at fifty-nine. So, given the timeframe we’re looking at—Jem said his friends were hanging out at the Devil Tavern during the early part of the last century—Matthew, born in 1886, was the only one who fit the bill. There wasn’t a death date for him, apparently, which doesn’t mean he lived forever or died at birth. Records from around that time tend to be spotty.
Without further ado, we returned to the dining room to contact our mystery ghost. I swear, even though we’ve swept it multiple times, the room seems to get dustier and dustier. I’d left some papers from the Blackthorn archives (which is a kind way of saying “from the pile of junk with occasional interesting stuff in it”) stacked on the dining table, and they were all in disarray. Was the ghost trying to read them in our absence?
Julian cleared his throat. “Attention, ghost,” he began.
“Maybe they don’t like being called ‘ghost’,” I hissed under my breath. “Maybe we should refer to them as ‘Deceased Person.’”
“That sounds medical,” said Julian. “Like we’re in a morgue.”
We both became dispirited about the idea of being in a morgue. After a moment, Julian said, “How about wraith or phantom?”
The curtains stirred even though the windows weren’t open. Apparently phantom was the popular choice.
