“It’s the most painful rune to get,” said Ty. “But worthwhile.”

“Sure,” said Kit, idly picking up another biscuit—Livvy had sneaked a whole package from the pantry. “Sounds great.”

He looked up in surprise a moment later when Ty’s shadow fell across him; Ty was standing behind him, his stele out, his eyes bright. “Your dominant hand is your right,” he said, “so put that one out, toward me.”

Surprised, Kit choked on his cookie; Livvy sat bolt upright. “Ty,” she said. “Don’t; he doesn’t want one. He was just kidding.”

“I—” Kit started, but Ty had gone the color of old ivory and stepped back, looking dismayed. His eyes darted away from Kit’s. Livvy was starting to get up out of her chair.

“No— No, I do want one,” Kit said. “I would like the Mark. You’re right, it’s time I got a real one.”

The moment hung suspended; Livvy was half out of her chair. Ty blinked rapidly. Then he smiled, a little, and Kit’s heart resumed its normal beating. “Your right hand, then,” Ty said.

Kit put his hand out, and Ty was right: The Mark hurt. It felt like what he imagined getting a tattoo was like: a deep burning sting. By the time Ty was done, his eyes were watering.

Kit flexed his fingers, staring at his hand. He’d have this forever, this eye on the back of his hand, this thing that Ty had put there. He could never erase it or change it.

“I wonder,” Ty said, sliding his stele back into his belt, “where that house of Malcolm’s, in Cornwall, might be.”

“I can tell you exactly where it is,” said the girl standing by the fireplace. “It’s in Polperro.”

Kit stared. He was absolutely sure she hadn’t been standing there a moment ago. She was blond, very young, and—translucent. He could see the wallpaper right through her.

He couldn’t help himself. He yelled.

*

Bridget had led Emma to a bedroom she seemed to have picked out ahead of time, and Emma soon found out why: There were two height charts scribbled on the plaster, the kind you got by standing someone against a wall and drawing a line just above their head, with the date. One was marked Will Herondale, the other, James Carstairs.

A Carstairs room. Emma hugged her elbows and imagined Jem: his kind voice, his dark eyes. She missed him.

But that wasn’t all; after all, Jem and Will could have done their height charts in any room. In the nightstand drawer, Emma found a cluster of old photographs, most dating from the early 1900s.

Photographs of a group of four boys, at various stages of their lives. They seemed a lively bunch. Two of them—one blond, one dark-haired—were together in almost every photo, their arms slung around each other, both laughing. There was a girl with brown hair who looked a great deal like Tessa, but wasn’t Tessa. And then there was Tessa, looking exactly the same, with a gorgeously handsome man in his late twenties. The famous Will Herondale, Emma guessed. And there was a girl, with dark red hair and brown skin, and a serious look. There was a golden sword in her hands. Emma recognized it instantly, even without the inscription on the blade: I am Cortana, of the same steel and temper as Joyeuse and Durendal.

Cortana. Whoever the girl was in the photograph, she was a Carstairs.

On the back, someone had scrawled what looked like a line from a poem. The wound is the place where the Light enters you.

Emma stared at it for a long time.

*

“There’s really no need for you to yell,” said the girl crossly. Her accent was very English. “I’m a ghost, that’s all. You act as if you haven’t seen one before.”

“I haven’t,” Kit said, nettled.

Livvy was on her feet. “Kit, what’s going on? Who are you talking to?”

“A ghost,” said Ty. “Who is it, Kit?”

“My name is Jessamine,” said the girl. “And just because you didn’t see me before doesn’t mean I wasn’t trying.”

“Her name is Jessamine,” Kit reported. “She says she’s been trying to get our attention.”

“A ghost,” said Ty, looking toward the fireplace. It was clear he couldn’t see Jessamine, but also clear he had a good idea where she was standing. “They say a ghost saved the London Institute during the Dark War. Was that her?”

Kit listened and repeated. “She says she did. She looks very smug about it.”

Jessamine glared.

“She also says she knows where Malcolm lived,” said Kit.

“She does?” Livvy moved over to the desk, grabbing a pen and a notebook. “Will she tell us?”

“Polperro,” said Jessamine again. She was very pretty, with blond hair and dark eyes. Kit wondered if it was weird to think a ghost was attractive. “It’s a small town in southern Cornwall. Malcolm used to talk about his house plans sometimes, when he was in the Institute.” She waved a translucent hand. “He was very proud of the house—right on top of some famous caves. Dreadful he’s turned out to be a villain. And poor Arthur,” she added. “I used to look after him sometimes when he slept. He had the most awful nightmares about Faerie and his brother.”

“What’s she saying?” Livvy asked, her pen poised over her paper.

“Polperro,” said Kit. “Southern Cornwall. He was very proud of the location. She’s sorry he turned out to be an asshole.”

Livvy scribbled it down. “I bet she didn’t say asshole.”

“We need to go to the library,” Ty said. “Find an atlas and train schedules.”

“Ask her something for me,” said Livvy. “Why didn’t she just tell Evelyn where Malcolm’s house was?”

After a moment, Kit said, “She says Evelyn can’t really hear her. She often just makes things up and pretends Jessamine’s said them.”

“But she knows Jessamine’s here,” said Ty. “She must be a faint spirit, if none of the rest of us can see her.”

“Humph!” said Jessamine. “Faint spirit indeed; it’s clear none of you have practice observing the undead. I have done everything to get your attention outside of smacking one of you in the head with a Ouija board.”

“I just saw you,” said Kit. “And I’ve never practiced being a Shadowhunter at all.”

“You’re a Herondale,” said Jessamine. “They can see ghosts.”

“Herondales can usually see ghosts,” said Ty, at the same time. “That’s why I wanted you to get the Voyance Mark.”

Kit swiveled to look at him. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“It might not have worked,” said Ty. “I didn’t want you to feel bad if it didn’t.”

“Well, it did work,” said Livvy. “We should go wake up Julian and tell him.”

“The older boy, with the brown curly hair?” said Jessamine. “He’s awake.” She chuckled. “It’s nice to see those lovely Blackthorn eyes again.”

“Julian’s up,” Kit said, deciding not to mention that the ghost might have crush on him.

Ty joined Livvy at the door. “Are you coming, Kit?”

Kit shook his head, surprising himself. If you’d asked him a few weeks ago if he’d be pleased to be left alone with a ghost, he would have said no. And he wasn’t pleased, exactly, but he wasn’t bothered, either. There was nothing terrifying about Jessamine. She seemed older than she looked, a little wistful, and not at all dead.

She was, though. She drifted in the waft of air from the closing door, her long white fingers resting on the mantel. “You needn’t stay,” she said to Kit. “I’ll probably disappear in a minute. Even ghosts need rest.”

“I had a question,” Kit said. He swallowed hard; now that it had come to the moment, his throat was dry. “Have you—have you ever seen my father? He just died a little while ago.”

Her brown eyes filled with pity. “No,” she said. “Most people don’t become ghosts, Christopher. Only those with unfinished business on earth, or who have died feeling they owe someone something.”

“My father never thought he owed anyone anything,” muttered Kit.

“It’s better that I haven’t seen him. It means he’s gone on. He’s at peace.”

“Gone on where?” Kit raised his head. “Is he in Heaven? I mean, it seems so unlikely.”

“Christopher!” Jessamine sounded shocked.