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Dishing out some Little Mermaid vibes for Mermay

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The ides of March is coming up what’s everyone getting me?

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Ke Huy Quan wins the Oscar for Best Supporting Actor for Everything Everywhere All at Once 

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Dru texts Kit

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The Very Secret Diary of Miss Tatiana Lightwood

6:00 p.m.

Dear Diary, I am inconsolable. As planned, I importuned Papa to beg him for mercy. It was my last-ditch attempt to be permitted to stay home tonight rather than to attend the ball at the Institute. It was a bad plan, I recognize now. He was in his private study, and he hates to be interrupted there; when I came in he had only an unfriendly look for me, and I should have retreated right then. Lessons learned, I suppose.

The upshot is that I, quote, must, unquote, attend the ball at the Institute tonight, as—so I am told—the Name of the Lightwoods depends upon it. I told him that if Gabriel attended — as Gideon has abandoned us for Spain — this would surely be enough to show the Lightwood flag. But he only shook his head, muttered something about how “tongues would wag,” and waved me away. I suggested that I could be reported to be unable to attend due to temporary illness of a non-specified womanly nature. For that suggestion I was cast out of the study immediately, of course.

The name of the Lightwoods! What care I for the name of the Lightwoods? What good has the name of the Lightwoods ever done for me? My only purpose in life, after all, is meant to be to find a better last name to replace it with. And what a grand entrance I will make at this party towards that purpose, attending the ball on the arms of my disgusting brothers, my escorts of last resort.

Not that I will find any sympathy in this house. Gabriel seems perfectly happy to attend the ball without escorting any lady besides his sister. He does not understand, being soft of brain and even softer of heart, that the favor of our father is bestowed easily, carelessly, upon him, because he is a boy, whereas I must work ten times as hard for less than one-tenth the approval. By the Angel…Gideon abandoned the family to drink wine and sun himself in Spain, and Papa still treats him better than me. His travel year! As though it is some unbreachable commandment handed down by Raziel himself. It is tradition and tradition is happily broken for the sake of family. We need Gideon here—Papa needs Gideon here. I will never forgive him for having left us, the great lummox.

Gabriel, of course, only grows worse in the absence of his personal hero Hideous Gideon. He wishes to be taken seriously now and so he acts like Father, and it is like watching a dog try to walk on its hind legs. An embarrassment of pomposity and egomania the like of which is, I daresay, a black mark on the Lightwood name far worse than any harm I could do by staying home from a party.

I go now to dress for the ball, weighed down by the burden of my fate.

Midnight

Dear Diary, I know I am not in the habit of writing more than once in a day but I had to take you up immediately upon returning from the party because a miracle has occurred. I have met a boy—no, a man, a wonderful man. His name is Rupert Blackthorn — though he is not one of the tedious Blackthorns from the Cornwall Institute. He usually lives in Leeds, but he is here visiting family friends. He is the most beautiful man ever to have lived. His hair is deep black as midnight, and his eyes are emerald orbs that gaze into one’s soul. Every girl in the Institute was watching him, hoping he would give them a dance, and he came right to me, without hesitation, and smiled at me and asked me. And I danced with him and it was glorious. Even better yet, he had no interest in anyone at the party but me. I do believe he even gave Gabriel the cut direct when Gabriel tried to start talking about himself, at one point. I am not entirely sure; it was quite loud and he might only not have heard. But I choose to believe it was a deliberate snub. From the most desirable boy in the whole detestable building.

When I wrote earlier I was the lowest of the low in this house, but now I am raised up triumphant. I danced with a beautiful dark-haired man who said my name as though it were poetry. The name of the Lightwoods indeed! Take that, Will Herondale!

[didyoujust3165]

TY TO JULIAN AND EMMA

Hi Julian and Emma,

There are lots of things in this letter, so I have made them into an ordered list.

Don’t worry. The device I’ve included is not dangerous and is in no danger of exploding. (Obviously.) (When Professor Hardcastle saw me packing it up, she suggested I tell you up front it is not a bomb. I told her that you know I would never send you anything dangerous without taking all appropriate precautions. She said yes, but it looks like a bomb.)

I started looking through the records. Nothing so far about Blackthorn Hall being haunted. Plenty of weird stuff happened there in the past, so it’s definitely possible there are ghosts that haven’t been reported. But I’ll bet plenty of weird stuff has happened at every big old Shadowhunter manor. Are all of them haunted? Now that I think about: it’s possible.

I’m not done with the records yet, just letting you know what I’ve found so far. I’m still looking. The library is huge, and the Cohort left it very disorganized. So finding particular documents can be a challenge. Genealogies aren’t hard to come by, but given all the intermarrying among Shadowhunter families there’s a lot of tracing up and down ancestors and cross-referencing, and yes, I know what you’re going to say, and I do like cross-referencing. But the volume is still very high. Also, Professor Loss warned me that a lot of the Shadowhunter family trees are inaccurate, and there was a period where Shadowhunter families would create fanciful family trees, like a… marriage wish list. But there’s some accurate truth beneath all this mess and I am resolved to find it.

The only thing I’ve learned that might be helpful so far is that before the place was Blackthorn Hall, it was Lightwood House, and occupied in the mid-19th century by a Benedict Lightwood who got into some kind of legal trouble. I’m not sure what kind. His death is recorded as by “misadventure,” but that could mean anything. Oh, and there are records of demons being found on the grounds at various points but that doesn’t mean anything, sometimes demons wander onto grounds.

You probably find this lack of information frustrating. I find it frustrating. I will be devoting myself to uncovering the history of this house in the fashion of Sherlock Holmes, although I do not have the hat with me.

On the topic of the Scholomance, and how I am doing here. I have been putting together a curriculum, with the help of Prof. Loss, aimed in the direction of investigation and detection. So far it includes: Signs & Sigils, Alchemy (closest I will get here to forensics), Tracking, Law, and Downworld Relations (apparently this one used to be a real doozy back in the pre-Accords days, when it was called “Interrogation.” The older profs still call it that sometimes). You will see the glaring omission here. I need a course on criminology, but the term only dates to the late 1800s and that is not nearly enough time for the Scholomance to have put together a class by now. They move very slowly.

This is maybe more like 6A. A friend suggested that I put together my own syllabus for a course on the history of non-mundane crime. That sounded good to me, so I’ve been doing that on top of my own academic work.

The device. Since the situation sounds urgent and I don’t have much yet, Anush and I rushed to put this together for you. It’s a modified Sensor—instead of picking up demonic energies, it’s sensitive to spectral energies. At least, it’s supposed to be. The design is theoretically very sound, but I admit this is the first prototype. Normally I would want to go through a couple of revisions before I shared it with anyone, but I trust you. So I hope it works and will help you to feel better about the house. I would appreciate it if you tell me anything about it that doesn’t work, or that works differently than you expect, or functionality you’d like it to have, so we can put those changes into the next version. This is Anush and my first real invention, and it’s more like a hack for an existing tool. Anyway, the more feedback you can provide, the better.

Will you send me a fire-message next time you’re going into London? I’d like you to pick up a couple things for me. I should have expected this, but it’s really hard to do any shopping in the Carpathian mountains.

Love,

Ty

PS. If you do find a ghost, treat it kindly. I don’t think all ghosts mind being ghosts, as long as people are nice to them.

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Mark to Ty

Greetings and Salutations, Tiberius.

I hope this missive finds you well at the Scholomance. For my own part, I am rather hungover. We took to the clubs of London and ended up swept away in the festivities of Kraig’s retirement party. ‘Who is Kraig?’ you may ask. That is a very good question, Tiberius. As of this morning, I have no idea.

You will be relieved to know that none of this is why I’m writing to you. It’s rather about what happened afterwards.

As you know, Julian and Emma are staying at Blackthorn Hall, attempting to get it fixed up. Emma has been going through stacks of old papers and ephemera, and Julian has been dealing with the particulars of the needed repairs. Julian also mentioned that he’s been working on a mural, though he keeps it covered with a cloth so I don’t know what it depicts. Whatever the subject matter, I am glad that he is finding time to paint.

This is my first visit to Blackthorn Hall since I was a child, and I must say that Julian and Emma have their work cut out for them. Especially because it seems to be haunted.

Yes, haunted. I woke early this morning to the sound of an exclamation. Having passed out upon the stairs for some reason, I was directly across the hall from the ballroom, where I found Julian in the throes of dismay. There was paint spilled all over the ballroom floor. Julian has been working on the mural up there, and was quite upset by the mess. I wondered whether wild animals could have been responsible—the place certainly looks like it could be harboring numerous bands of cunning raccoons *—but then I saw that there were footsteps in the paint. They looked to be old-fashioned shoes, not like any soles I’d seen before. Since the house itself contains many garments of earlier eras, we looked for matches, but found none.

I felt a sort of chill in the ballroom that reminded me of my time with the Hunt. A hint of the cold of the grave. I suppose that is why I am inclined to agree with Emma and Julian that this mess is the work of a mischievous ghost, and not a strangely-dressed housebreaking vagrant. (Emma mentioned the term ‘cosplay’ but I do not know what that means.)

Julian, being who he is, blames himself. He keeps muttering about how he shouldn’t have gone out, how it’s his responsibility to take care of the place, and so on. You know how hard he can be on himself. I hate to hear it. I’d like to get to the bottom of this—for Julian’s sake, for the restoration of the house, and for the sake of all of us, because mopping up so much paint was not enjoyable, especially with a clanging headache—and that is why I am appealing to you, Ty, for aid. You’re at the Scholomance, and as a student you have at your fingertips a vast quantity of books, family trees, and historical records. Could you look and see if there are any references to Blackthorn Hall being haunted? If we know who the ghost is, it will be much easier to dispel them—lay them to rest, I should say. I cannot imagine it is enjoyable to be a ghost.

Please reply to Julian with any information, for unfortunately Kieran, Cristina and I must depart the day after tomorrow; Kieran cannot be away from the Land too long, and Cristina and I have work to do in New York.

I must go—Kieran has come to fetch me. Cristina and Emma have prepared a cream tea in an effort to lighten the mood. Kieran assures me that the sandwiches are extremely tiny, and that he cut the crusts off himself, with great accuracy.

I love you, Tiberius. I wish you were here with us, but I know you are doing great work in the Scholomance. I am proud to be your brother.

MARK

* Julian informs me there are no raccoons in England, whatever Disney films might have indicated to the contrary. I cannot express the depth of my betrayal.

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Kieran to General Winter

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 one in more of an eggplant, I believe was your phrase.

Forgive me my temper. I am not really angry with you. I am only somewhat out of sorts this morning, after a night of merriment and whimsy on the streets of London-Town, along with my Nephilim friends. Now, obviously any faerie revel contains such dark delights as mortals can only dream, and so on. But after the previous night I must concede a grudging respect for the reveling capacities of an unexpected group: London businessmen of late middle-age. In our journeys we encountered what is known here as a “Retirement Party,” a kind of movable feast in which these businessmen traverse the city in celebration of a chosen one. In this case I knew him only as “Kraig.”

We met his Party thrice last night! The first time, at the Tongue & Grapes, we shared only a mutual acknowledgement of fellow celebrants passing in the night. The second time, at the Inn of the Shaved Werewolf, there were mutual roars of recognition from both parties, and a ceremonial exchange of beverages, as is custom. And the third time, at the Pigeon & Spoon, we were welcomed and—a great honor—inducted as honorary members of the Party, whereupon we were bestowed with festive hats and jersey-cotton smocks proclaiming the majesty of the great Kraig.

So you will understand if I am shorter of patience than I would like, this day, for I have a vile headache engendered by too much of what mortals call “shandy”, a repellent beverage with a kick like an angry kelpie. It quite left my darling Cristina asleep on a rather sticky table at the Pigeon and Spoon; Mark and I had to carry her back to the Institute. She is awake now, of course, and demanding coffee with rather more force than usual. Given that my time is short, I shall endeavor to answer your queries as well as I can.

I like the midnight blue, for the throne room. I think it sets off the creeping vines well, and also I think that you were hinting you prefer it as well. Next, I am in general agreement that the overall aesthetic of the throne rooms should move in the direction of an opulent Gothic feel, rather than its previous occupant’s preferred mood of “blasted hellscape.” Let us remind our Court that we are the Moon, as the Seelie Court is the Sun; rather than that they are Beauty, and we Tackiness.

However, I disagree about the skulls. I think they should remain. Skulls are perfectly appropriate in an opulent Gothic setting. In fact, I am hard-pressed to think of a style in which skulls would not be an improving presence. If such a style exists, it would definitely not be a good choice for the throne rooms of the Unseelie Lord, let us at least agree upon that.

Lastly, I am disturbed to hear that the Seelie Court continues to rebuff my requests for a summit of peace. You were right when you noted your suspicions earlier; they have become more secretive in this past year, even for them. We will see if our scouts manage to learn anything, although in my experience our scouts mostly seem to fall into forbidden romances with Seelie scouts and then they run off together; we lose something like four out of five that way. I suppose what I am saying is that I am not exactly holding my breath. (A charming human expression, is that not?)

You do not need to suggest to me that I contact Adaon; he is my own brother and I speak with him often. Whenever I bring up the possibility of a united court, or a meeting between myself and the Seelie Queen, he says the same thing: now is not the time for a summit that might lead to discord — now is the time to preserve the fragile peace between the two courts by leaving well enough alone. He has the Queen’s ear, so I must trust he knows what I do not. Still, you know it is not in my nature to do nothing and call it progress.

Speaking of that fragile peace, I must inquire—have your redcaps learned any more about the strange presence that has been noted in Faerie, and whether it is beneficial or antagonistic to our interests? I feel it through my connection to the Land — I am woken sometimes, feeling that presence I cannot define, knowing it is both of Faerie and not of it, and that the Land itself is afraid.

Enough of that. I trust that you can manage to keep the Court in working order for the thirty-six remaining hours I will be gone. If more color selection is necessary before my return, I trust you to go with your instincts, which have always served you well.

Until then I have the honor to remain Your Eternal Sovereign, Master of the Hob and the Domovoi, Breaker of the Broken Lands, Crown Under the Hill, Dark Star of the Evening, Friend of Kraig, and King of the Unseelie Court —

Kieran

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Emma to Diary

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 that there are a lot of fey creatures who have been incorrectly classified as demonic by the Clave? Like Curupiras? Most of the old bestiaries direly need correcting.)

It’s actually 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 figuring out 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 have to live in suspense, I guess!

I really hope that when this place is all fixed up it does something to de-creepify the place. I joked about it to Dru when I wrote to her but I still get that sense that things are lurking in every shadow. Even when I turn my witchlight up to its brightest, it just 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. It’s in the chills up and down my spine, and in the strange way the glass in the windows fogs up for no reason, or the odd cold spot halfway up the stairs. I keep wanting to reach for Cortana, but this isn’t the kind of 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. *shudder*)

Some of the boxes have perfectly normal stuff in them. There’s some beautiful silverware and china that belonged to someone named Barbara Pangborn (must have married a Lightwood or Blackthorn.) Fancy linens and tablecloths with the Blackthorn symbol of thorns 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 just 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 shirt, 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. (And that’s all the details you get, Bruce. Stop asking.)

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 know 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 other ways 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 a second. Is that someone knocking on the door?

[One hour later]

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, and somehow Mark and Kieran managed to convince Julian we should go out tonight and see London. 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.

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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 was 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 standing there gaping at me and whispering, whispering.

Of course Father told me in the carriage on the way home that 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 about 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.