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 blackthorns at Blackthorn Hall. 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, so why no light woods? We may never know.
I always forget about the Lightwoods because I think of it as Blackthorn Hall, 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 thirteen 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 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 onlypiano here isn’t even playable. It rotted through a long time ago.
So, we have a ghost. (At least one.) It doesn’t seem particularly hostile, so far. It could just be a bitty poltergeist, or a passing unquiet spirit. I’ve started going through papers and it’s obvious 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?)
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 know 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 he 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?
TATIANA
From the diary of Tatiana Lightwood
December 27, 1873
I hate Will Herondale.
I hate Will Herondale.
IHATEWill Herondale.
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 diaryOUT LOUDat 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 readingOUT LOUD. I wish she were still playing the spinet now and for the rest of eternity,and that Will Herondale had been utterly drowned out by the racket.
TheHUMILIATION, it is not to be borne. He is aMONSTER. 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’sTRUE NATUREandEVIL INTENTnow 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 stood there gaping at me and whispering, whispering.
Of course Father told me in the carriage on the way home 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.
When we arrived at Chiswick I thought of 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 theyhad 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.
EMMA
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 there are a lot of fae creatures who have been incorrectly classified as demonic by the Clave? Like Curupiras? Most of the old bestiaries direly need correcting.)
It’s 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) anddoing little 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 live in suspense, I guess!
I hope all the projects and the all the renovating will de-creepify the place. I joked about it to Dru when I wrote to her, but I still get the sense that things are lurking in every shadow. Even when I turn my witchlight up to its brightest, it only 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. I mean—Iknowsome bad stuff happened here, back in the nineteenth century. But I bet I’ve been lots of places where bad stuff happened in the nineteenth century. Like, almost everywhere I’ve ever been, probably. But I’ve neverfelt itlike I do here. It’s the chills up and down my spine, and the strange way the glass in the windows fogs up for no reason, and the odd cold spot halfway up the stairs. I keep wanting to reach for Cortana, but this isn’t a 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.
