“Seriously,” said Kit. “You didn’t know him.”

“I don’t know what comes after death,” Jessamine said. “Tessa used to come and ask me too. She wanted to know where Will was. But he didn’t linger—he died happy and at peace, and he went on.” Her hands fluttered helplessly. “I am not like Charon. I am no ferryman. I cannot say what lies on the other side of the river.”

“It could be awful,” said Kit, making a fist, feeling his new Mark sting. “It could be torture forever.”

“It could be,” Jessamine said. There was wisdom in her featherlight voice. “But I don’t think so.”

She bent her head. The firelight glinted off her pale blond hair, and then she was gone, and Kit was alone in the room. There was something in his hand, though, something that crackled when he moved.

It was a folded piece of paper. He opened it, scanning the words quickly; they had been sketched in a delicate, feminine hand.

If you steal any of the books from the library, I will know, and you’ll be sorry.

It was signed, with several flourishes: Jessamine Lovelace.

*

When Livvy came into Julian’s room, he was lying flat on the bed, like a dropped piece of toast. He hadn’t even bothered to change his clothes or get under the covers.

“Jules?” Livvy said, hovering in the doorway.

He sat up, fast. He’d been trying to sort through his thoughts, but the sight of his younger sibling—in his room, this late at night—banished everything but immediate, atavistic panic. “Is everything all right? Did something happen?”

Livvy nodded. “It’s good news, actually. We figured out where Malcolm’s house is—the one in Cornwall.”

“What?” Julian scrubbed his hands through his hair, rubbing at his eyes to wake himself up. “Where’s Ty?”

“In the library.” She sat down on the corner of Julian’s bed. “Turns out there’s a house ghost. Jessamine. Anyway, she remembered Malcolm and knew where his house was. Ty’s checking on it, but there’s no reason to think she wouldn’t be right. Evelyn’s been talking to her for days, we just didn’t think she really existed, but Kit—”

“Can see ghosts. Right,” said Julian. He felt more alert now. “All right. I’ll go tomorrow, see what I can find out.”

“And we’ll go to Blackthorn Hall,” Livvy said. Blackthorn Hall was one of the Blackthorn family’s two land properties: They had a manor in Idris, and a large home in Chiswick, on the Thames. It had once belonged to the Lightwoods, a long time ago. “See if there’s any papers, anything about Annabel. Kieran can’t really leave the Institute, so Mark can stay here with him and Cristina and they can look in the library.”

“No,” said Julian.

Livvy set her jaw. “Jules—”

“You can go to Blackthorn Hall,” he said. “You’ve certainly earned that much, you and Ty, and Kit, too. But Mark goes with you. Kieran can amuse himself weaving daisy chains or making up a ballad.”

Livvy’s mouth twitched. “It seems wrong to make fun of the Fair Folk.”

“Kieran’s fair game,” said Julian. “He’s annoyed us in the past.”

“I guess Cristina can watch him.”

“I was going to ask her to come to Cornwall,” said Julian.

“You and Cristina?” Livvy looked baffled. Julian couldn’t blame her. It was true that their group fell into established patterns based on age and acquaintance. Jules and Emma, or Jules and Mark, made sense. Jules and Cristina didn’t.

“And Emma,” Julian added, cursing silently. The thought of extended time with Emma, especially now, was—terrifying. But it would be considered bizarre if he went without her, his parabatai. Never mind that Emma wouldn’t sit still for it. Not a chance.

Bringing Cristina would help, though. Cristina would be a buffer. Having to put someone between himself and Emma made him feel sick, but the memory of the way he’d snapped at her in the entryway made him feel sicker.

It had been like watching someone else talking to the person he loved the most in the world; someone else, hurting his parabatai on purpose. He had been able to do something with his feelings while she’d been with Mark—twist and crumple them, shove them far underneath his skin and consciousness. He had felt them there, bleeding, like a tumor slicing open his internal organs, but he hadn’t been able to see them.

Now they were there again, laid out before him. It was terrifying to love someone who was forbidden to you. Terrifying to feel something you could never speak of, something that was horrible to almost everyone you knew, something that could destroy your life.

It was in some ways more terrifying to know that your feelings were unwanted. When he had thought Emma loved him back, he had not been completely alone in his hell. When she was with Mark, he could tell himself that it was Mark keeping them apart. Not that she would rather be with no one than be with him.

“Cristina knows a great deal about the Black Volume,” Julian said. He had no idea if this was true or not. Graciously, Livvy didn’t pursue it. “She’ll be helpful.”

“Blackthorn Hall, here we come,” said Livvy, and slid off the bed. She looked to Julian like a little girl from an old illustration in a picture book, in her puffed-sleeve blue dress. But maybe Livvy would always look like a little girl to him. “Jules?”

“Yes?”

“We know,” she said. “We know about Arthur, and what was wrong with him. We know you ran the Institute. We know it was you doing all of it since the Dark War.”

Julian felt as if the bed were tilting under him. “Livia . . .”

“We’re not angry,” she said quickly. “I’m here by myself because I wanted to talk to you alone, before Ty and Dru. There was something I wanted to say to you.”

Julian still had his fingers in the bedspread. He suspected he was in some kind of shock. He’d thought of how this moment might go for so many years that now that it was happening, he had no idea what to say.

“Why?” he managed finally.

“I realized something,” she said. “I want to be like you, Jules. Not this second, not right now, but someday. I want to take care of people, other Shadowhunters, people who need me. I want to run an Institute.”

“You’d be good at it,” he said. “Livvy—I didn’t tell you because I couldn’t. Not because I didn’t trust you. I didn’t even tell Emma. Not until a few weeks ago.”

She only smiled at him, and came around the side of the bed to where he was sitting. She bent down, and he felt her kiss him softly on the forehead. He closed his eyes, remembering when she’d been small enough for him to lift her in his arms, when she’d followed him, holding her hands out to him: Julian, Julian, carry me.

“There’s nobody else I’d rather be like than you,” she said. “I want you to be proud of me.”

He opened his eyes at that and hugged her awkwardly, one-armed, and then she pulled away and ruffled his hair. He complained, and she laughed and headed for the door, saying she was exhausted. She flipped off the light as she went out of the room, leaving him in darkness.

He rolled under the blanket. Livvy knew. They knew. They knew, and they didn’t hate him. It was a weight off him he had almost forgotten he’d been carrying.

17

HAUNTED

It was a perfect English day. The sky was the color of Wedgwood china, smooth and blue. The air was warm and sweet and full of possibilities. Julian stood on the front step of the Institute, trying to prevent his smallest brother from choking him to death.

“Don’t go,” Tavvy wailed. “You were already gone. You can’t go again.”

Evelyn Highsmith sniffed. “In my time, children were seen and not heard, and they certainly did not complain.”