Secrets of Blackthorn Hall E-Book

Cassandra Clare

• Herausgeber: Daphne Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 284

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2026

Beschreibung

Step into an illustrated Shadowhunters story, told through the letters, diary entries, and texts of beloved characters from the Mortal Instruments, Infernal Devices, Dark Artifices, and the Last Hours. Shadowhunters Emma Carstairs and Julian Blackthorn are travelling the globe when the Clave orders them to clean up Blackthorn Hall, a crumbling Gothic fairytale mansion hidden away in Chiswick, London—or else the Clave will demolish it once and for all. Amidst the clutter and disrepair, Emma and Julian discover secrets Blackthorn Hall has kept buried for years. Something (or someone…) else haunts the Blackthorn family's cursed home. With the help of their friends and family, Emma and Julian must restore the hall to its former glory and solve the mystery of the spectral presence which threatens any who interfere, while entertaining Shadowhunter visitors from both sides of the Atlantic. Join beloved characters and fan-favourites in this lovingly illustrated epistolary adventure that bridges the gap between The Dark Artifices and upcoming The Wicked Powers series. Originally serialized on Tumblr and funded through a hit Kickstarter campaign, Secrets of Blackthorn Hall is now in wide print distribution for the first time.

Leseprobe

AVAILABLE FROM CASSANDRA CLAREAND DAPHNE PRESS

Secrets of Blackthorn Hall

A Sea Change

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First published in the UK in 2026 by Daphne Press

www.daphnepress.com

Copyright © 2021–2024 by Cassandra Clare, LLC.

Illustrations by Cassandra Jean © Cassandra Clare, LLC.

Cover design by Jane Tibbetts © Illumicrate

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All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Hardback ISBN: 978-1-83784-119-6

eBook ISBN: 978-1-83784-122-6

ANZ ISBN: 978-1-83784-156-1

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CONTENTS

Cover

Half-title Page

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Epigraph

Emma

Tessa

Julian

Emma

Tatiana

Emma

Kieran

Mark

Ty

Tatiana

Dru & Kit

Emma

Julian

Magnus

Emma

Emma

Tessa

Jem

Emma

Emma

Julian

Mark

Kieran

Emma

Julian

Emma

Tatiana

Julian

Julian

Tessa

Dru & Kit

Helen & Aline

Emma & Tatiana

Julian

Cristina

Emma

Ty

Emma

Julian

Emma

Julian

Ty

Kieran

Julian

ASH

Emma

Kit & Dru

Emma

Ty

Kit (Unsent)

Livvy

Magnus

Emma

Kit

Emma

Jace

Emma

Jem & Tessa

Emma

Dru & Kit

About the Author

Special thanks to: Emily Houk, Jedediah Berry,

Joshua Lewis, Traci Olsen, Holly Rowland,

Evan Dahm.

If you find yourself in London, why not

visit the real Chiswick House?

https://chiswickhouseandgardens.org.uk

It is much nicer than the fictional versiondepicted herein, and much less haunted.

“Blackthorn Hall was one of theBlackthorn family’s two landproperties: They had a manorin Idris, and a large home inChiswick, on the Thames. It hadonce belonged to the Lightwoods,a long time ago.”

—from Lord of Shadows

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 the beautiful 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, which was 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 anyone like 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 was joking. 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 the GO AWAY message 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.

We’re trying to allow Kit freedom wherever we can. He’s enrolled at the small school in the village. A few of his friends know about the Shadow World and others don’t. There’s a local pack of werewolves who we’ve become friendly with, and some of their children go to school with him. I’ve begun to suspect that Kit has a girlfriend, but he’s secretive about it. I guess that’s another thing that never changes about children—how private they are. I do hope he knows he can tell us anything, especially related to demons, or in Kit’s case, the fae. A hundred and ten years later and I’m still edgy.

He’s a puzzle, our Christopher Jonathan Herondale. About some things he’s opened up and willing to talk to Jem and me freely—what it was like growing up being able to see all sorts of peculiar things but not really understanding why. About being taught to fear Shadowhunters. About his father, and his concerns about his heritage—what it means, what kind of power he might have. I think it frustrates him, not knowing.

Other things he won’t talk about. We have asked him about Ty, as you and I discussed, but he’s like a brick wall about their friendship. Whatever happened, he won’t speak of it. I think Livvy’s death hit him harder than we guessed, too. I’ve heard him call out her name in his sleep, always in this very despairing way. Sometimes he’ll say “Not if you do this. Not if you do this, Ty.” Whatever they fought about, it must have been awful. But people can be terrible when they’re grieving; we both know that.

You can probably tell from everything I’ve said how much I—how much we—love Kit. I just love him, Magnus, like he was my own. He is my own. I’d kill anyone who wanted to hurt him, just as I would protect Mina or Jem with my life. I never thought I’d have this again, this perfect family I love so much it hurts. Strange after so many years to be so surprised by one’s own feelings, but I imagine it’s much the same for you, isn’t it? Speaking of which, I hope you and Alec and the kids are well. Please let Max know we found his superhero cape. It was inside the piano.

I enclose a picture from your last visit here. How adorable they all are!

Love,Tessa

JULIAN

Mark Blackthorn

c/o Helen Blackthorn

Los Angeles Institute

Malibu, CA

Dear Mark,

Don’t worry about the parchment scroll yet, I’ll get to it at the end of the letter.

Hello from Chiswick! It’s pronounced like “chizzick,” it’s just outside central London, and it is a collapsing ruin. The house, I mean, not the neighborhood, which is cozy, a little suburban, lots of green space, quiet. You’d like it.

I should have been in touch before. I know, and I’m sorry. We had to move fast to save this place and I knew a fire-message wouldn’t reach you. Blackthorn Hall may be a ruin, but it’s our family’s legacy, one of the very few things we’ve inherited from Blackthorns past. I feel this sense of responsibility, a need to preserve the place for Tavvy and Dru, for Ty and Liv—well. You know.

It was us or the Clave, and they would have knocked it down and put something else in its place. It’s easily in bad enough shape that knocking it down would be the practical move. But it’s ours, and I kind of love it. I mean, if we don’t love it, who will? I believe it can be truly beautiful again. You should visit when you get a chance—all of you there are invited, of course—but be warned, if you come in the next couple of months, you will be put to work. And you should come! All of you are invited!

This brings me to the parchment, which is the estimate and contract from the faerie builders for the renovation work on the house. I was hoping you and Kieran could look it over for faerie trickery, both in terms of whether their rates seem reasonable, and also to make sure they don’t get Tavvy if we’re late with payment, that kind of thing. They came highly recommended—they’re brownies? I think? They look like big garden gnomes. I mean, it’s probably the pointy hats. They could take them off, of course, but I guess they like them. They must know they look like garden gnomes. Anyway, they seem trustworthy and industrious and all that. But faeries do love tricking humans. Let me know what you think.

Oh, I should explain there is one part of the house that is in all right shape and has all the “mod cons,” as they say here. It was redone in the sixties and, well…it is groovy. The cons are Mod as well as mod. I am not sure you will get that joke, but don’t worry about it, it was pretty stupid. The thing is, I’d never thought about it, but this must have been fixed up by our grandparents. The timing works out. So this must be where Dad grew up. And Uncle Arthur. And I realized: they, too, must have been groovy.

Arthur. Must have. At one point. Been really groovy.

I just want you to sit with that for a moment the way I did. It creates a feeling I believe to have never been felt before by any human being in the world.

You should see the clothes. I mean, really. You should be sure to look through them when you visit. There’s a consignment shop’s worth of vintage stuff here and none of it suits me at all. You’re welcome to it, but it’s almost all synthetic fabrics and would not go over in Faerie itself.

Aaand I know I’m rambling. I was trying to avoid saying this, but there’s something about this house. It reminds me of some of the nights you and I used to wander around the Institute back home. Which I know is weird; London couldn’t be more different than the Santa Monica Mountains—I miss the wildfire tang in the air, the smell of the chaparral and sage, the coarse dirt under our feet. (Do you miss it too? I feel like it must be very different where you are in Faerie.) But there were plenty of times, especially when we were younger, when we’d tell ghost stories out there and scare ourselves that something was watching us. Maybe something was, though I’m inclined to think now that it was something friendly. Here in this house I get the same watched feeling, like there are eyes on me, shadows I see out of the corners of my own eyes that disappear when I turn around.

I wish you were here. I’d bring it up with Emma, but I don’t want to freak her out. She’s started the massive job of sorting through decades of papers and journals that used to belong to the people who lived here, and I’ve started painting the ballroom. I know Emma has been in touch with Cristina; please send my love to her and to K as well!

Your loving bro,Julian

PS: I realize now I don’t know where this letter will find you, so let me clarify that “all of you are invited” from the L.A. Institute, not “all of you are invited” from the Unseelie Court.

EMMA

Dear Dru,

Hey, baby bat! So how’s Shadowhunter Academy? Still having a good time? How’s the roommate—Thais, isn’t that her name? How’s having a roommate? I always kinda wished I’d gotten to go to SA, although obviously the weather was better in California. But you like things dark and gloomy! Just, you know, try to get some sun, okay? While I know you love your ghostly pallor, vitamin D is a real thing.

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 black thorns 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 only piano 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!

XOXOEmma

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.

I HATE Will 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 diary OUT LOUD at 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 reading OUT 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.

The HUMILIATION, it is not to be borne. He is a MONSTER. 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’s TRUE NATURE and EVIL INTENT now 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 they had 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) and doing 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—I know some 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 never felt it like 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.

Some of the boxes have ordinary stuff. There’s beautiful silverware and china that belonged to a Barbara Pangborn (must have married a Lightwood or Blackthorn). Fancy linens and tablecloths with the Blackthorn symbol woven around the edges as a border. A big box of broken toys and china dolls marked “Grace Blackthorn.” There was a runed dagger shoved down among the broken doll heads, so my guess is she was a little girl starting training. Aw! Though the doll heads are creepy. Julian came in when I was partway through unpacking and decided to help by cleaning out the fireplace grate. He got completely covered in soot and was coughing, so I dragged him into the modern wing, pulled off his s hirt, and started mopping him off. And well, he was shirtless and dirty and looking at me with those gorgeous blue-green eyes, and what can I say? I jumped him.

We backed into the bedroom, kissing like crazy, and toppled onto the bed and got soot all over the sheets and it was worth it. (That’s all the detail you get, Bruce.)

I can’t believe I ever thought Jules and I were just friends. It’s almost like I loved him so much I couldn’t see all of it, how big it was. I was standing inside it, looking for that kind of love without realizing I was surrounded by it. Does that make sense, Bruce? I’m not a writer so I’m probably terrible at expressing this kind of thing. I often feel like I should tell Julian I love him more, but he never says anything about it, and so I try to tell him in ways other than words. The way I curl up against him when we sleep, the way I come up behind him and hug him when he’s concentrating on something (not when he’s painting, though, or there’d be splotches on all the canvases). The way—wait. Is someone knocking on the door?

*   *   *

Bruce! You’re not going to believe it, but Cristina is here! And Mark and Kieran are with her! I don’t even know how Kieran managed to get away from Faerieland— something about him making a vow to the land that he’d be here for less than three sunsets—but I’m so happy to see them! Cristina and I danced around like maniacs and hugged each other. Mark and Kieran managed to convince Julian we should go out tonight and see London, so we’re all going to wear clothes from the Super Groovy Sixties Closet and hit as many pubs as we can. I can’t wait. Jules and I need a break. London, here we come! Prepare yourself for Partying Shadowhunters!*

*And a faerie King.

KIERAN

General Winter,

Three sunsets. I told you, I have three sunsets. I will be back in just that amount of time. It is not a very long amount of time. And yet you have written to me, spent your valuable time and mine because you could not wait three sunsets to know whether I prefer velvet in midnight blue or in “more of an eggplant,” I believe was your phrase.