“Matthew?” I said, slowly. “Matthew Fairchild?”
It’s a nice name, Matthew. I thought about Matthew Fairchild, born in 1886, and wondered what he’d been like. Wondered if all that was left of him was a breath of air stirring the curtains in our dining room.
Though the curtains weren’t stirring right now. They were utterly still.
“Are you Matthew Fairchild?” Jules asked, clearly deciding we needed to be more specific.
The curtains gave what I can only describe as an annoyed little shake. This stirred up more dust, making the air hazy. I heard a noise behind me and whirled around. The stack of papers on the table tipped over. Papers were being flung in all directions by an unseen, angry hand.
“So—you’re not Matthew Fairchild?” I said, fighting the urge to sneeze. “Look, it’s fine if you aren’t—we just want to help—we’ll keep looking—”
The papers stopped flying. The room was quiet again. Hushed, even, like the inside of an Institute. I guessed our phantom friend had departed and I realized I was disappointed. I’d really been hoping we’d find an answer…
Then Julian laid his hand on my arm. And pointed. Goosebumps exploded across my skin. In the dust on the floor, an invisible finger was writing words in the old-fashioned cursive that had become familiar since our arrival at Blackthorn Hall.
One by the one, the words appeared, the letters shaky and spiky, as if the ghost were agitated.
READ THE DIARY
The image of Tatiana’s diary sprang into my mind. I knew, somehow, that was the diary the ghost was referring to. More words appeared:
READ THE DIARY
READ THE DIARY
READ THE DIARY
“But I have,” I said, without thinking. “I have read the diary.”
Julian turned to look at me, a blank expression of surprise spreading across his face. “Emma,” he said. “What diary?”
JULIAN
Dear Mark,
I’ve been thinking of you a lot lately. It feels like a long time ago now, but I remember asking you at Magnus and Alec’s wedding—maybe I’d had too many dumplings—if you were worried at all about how it would work with Kieran and Cristina. And you just looked at me and smiled and said when people were honest with each other, everything worked out.
I just—
I guess I should tell you about the house project. Things are rolling along—the garden now looks charming rather than like the set for a haunted house movie. You can see where the flowerbeds are, and the old empty greenhouse, and the Italian gardens where there are still a few statues. Looks like Uncle Arthur took the ones he liked to Los Angeles and left the others. I just have to wonder whathe had against Plutarch. Didn’t like the look of him? Too much beard?
The manor, well, I’m having a little trouble with Round Tom regarding the manor. I hadn’t seen him or his workmen inside the house for a while, so I asked him what was up. He hemmed and hawed and finally told me the house was cursed, and he was either going to have to refuse to continue work on it or charge extra for “curse protection.”
I told him the house was haunted, not cursed, and the ghost didn’t mean him any harm. But he stood firm (you know, in a round sort of way) and said he didn’t have a choice. I’m worried about running out of money for the renovations. I guess I could hire mundane workmen, there’d be a lot less sheaves of wheat to worry about, but there’s always the question of what they might find, or be exposed to. It’s becoming clearer and clearer that this house has a lot of secrets…
Okay, imagine me taking a deep breath right now. You know I hate telling people what’s bothering me. But I keep remembering what you said on the beach that day about honesty. Anyway, it turned out the other day Emma found a diary hidden in the manor, and she’s been reading it. It’s the diary of a woman—a girl, really—named Tatiana Lightwood, who married a Blackthorn. Lots of detail about the historical period, and also about the house. Her dad was a bad guy, obsessed with demons and dark magic. He really left his mark on the place. What I’m saying is that she found this book, which might haveinformation in it helpful to our investigation of the ghost, and she just…didn’t tell me. And I don’t know why. It’s a little thing, but I think that’s what bothers me. Why hide it? Why not even mention it? Even once she revealed that she had it, she wouldn’t tell me what was in it. She gave it to me instead, said I could read it myself. It was very odd, very un-Emma. I always thought we didn’t keep things from each other. Not anymore. I kept asking her why she didn’t tell me, and she made that face she does when she’s trying not to cry, where her eyes get really wide. And she just said over and over, I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.
I’m sitting in the ballroom, alone, writing this to you. Leaning against my half-finished mural. I feel—I don’t know what I feel. I want to grab Emma and say: Secrets almost destroyed us in the past. I’m afraid they’ll wreck our future.
But maybe we have different ideas about the future and what it means. I couldn’t blame her. She might not want the same things I do. I have a habit of not telling people what it is I want or am planning for, because I’m so laser-focused on a specific outcome that it’s like reality to me. I feel like it must be obvious to everyone else.
I know what I want my future to be. I know it’s Emma. I guess I’ve been carrying on as if I’ve told her this, and she knows it, but maybe she doesn’t. Maybe she wants something else. Maybe what I have to offer her is like this house—something no one will ever really want, no matterhow much work is done on it, because it was ruined a long time ago.
Anyway. If you can ask Kieran about the house cursing thing, I’d appreciate it. Round Tom is asking to be paid in ancient coins and freshly fallen rain, which seems like a lot of work. Maybe Kieran can institute a Bank of Faerie. Tell him he’d look great on a dollar bill.
Lots of love, your annoying brother,
Julian
