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purplebass · 4 years

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Dark Light - Last Chapter // Blackdale

Hi everyone! Thank you for reading this. It was the first multi-chapter fan fiction I finished, so this is a great accomplishment for me. I really hope you enjoyed this. I loved writing it, and I hope you will also check out my work in the future. Enjoy, and thank you!!! 🥺🌼✨

Couple/Characters: Blackdale, Lucie Herondale and Jesse Blackthorn Rating: T

10. Last Chapter + Epilogue

There wasn’t time to do anything, because the moment they took Tatiana Blackthorn away, they also asked for Lucie and Jesse to come back to London. It is probably temporary, Lucie thought, since they just needed them to testify against the woman. Deep down, she wanted to return to the Institute for good. Maybe it was too early to hope that the Clave would change their mind about their exile. She didn’t want to keep her hopes up for them to be crushed again, so she didn’t hope for anything.

That night, she enjoyed Cordelia’s company in front of the fire. The others had left already, and they had taken Jesse with them. She knew he would stay at uncle Gabriel’s house, and the thought comforted her, but she wished she could have a moment to speak with him. She was curious, but also afraid of what he might have to say about her confession.

Had she been impulsive? Definitely. She had harbored these feelings for so long, deep in her heart, but she had never given them a proper name. Or probably just ignored them, thinking that they would just hurt her if she acknowledged them. But they were there, and couldn’t look away anymore. She wondered if things would change, once they returned to the Cornwall Institute.

“What are you thinking? Can’t you believe you’re home?” Cordelia asked, and grabbed Lucie’s hand.

Lucie had been staring at the hearth. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening,” she apologized, and sighed. Bridget had brought them cookies when they arrived, and she took one from the plate.

“You must be shook,” Cordelia said. “She might have killed you.”

“She wanted to kill her son,” her voice shook, and her shoulders sagged. “She tried to poison him.”

Cordelia gasped, and put a comforting hand behind Lucie’s back. “Now he is safe, though. Wait, Lucie,” she peered at her. “Do you love him?”

“Is it evident?” she wondered, and covered her face with her hands.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Cordelia continued. “I also love James.”

Lucie frowned for a second, but then she smiled at her friend. “I knew it!” she exclaimed, and grabbed Cordelia by the shoulders. “I knew you loved him.”

There was an unspoken, I wish you would have told me, between the two, but no one said anything. The most important thing was that the truth was out.

…

The following morning, Lucie woke up disoriented. Then she remembered, with a bitter laugh, that she was in her room at the Institute, and in her bed. She better enjoyed it while it lasted, she thought, and got ready to go downstairs to eat breakfast. She found everyone but her parents in the kitchen. Cordelia stood from her chair and came to hug her. James, who was talking to Matthew, waved at her. The former also winked at Lucie, and gave her a tight hug.

“How are you doing, Lucie?”

“How are you doing, Matthew?” she cocked her head to the side, one eyebrow raised.

“He’s okay, he’s okay,” James interjected, grabbing him by the shoulders.

“I know how to talk, thank you very much,” Matthew said, sitting down in front of Cordelia. “Let’s talk later if we have time, shall we?”

“Whenever you want,” Lucie responded, and gave him a bitter laugh, wondering if that moment would ever come. She didn’t know how much time she had left before they would ask her to go back to Cornwall.

Bridget had prepared bread and butter pudding, which was Lucie’s favorite, and she enjoyed it to the very last bite while talking to her closest friends. James told her that Christopher and Thomas would get there in a few hours with Anna, whom she hadn’t seen in two months. No one said anything about Jesse. It was as if he didn’t exist, or if they didn’t mention him because he wasn’t part of their group.

Everyone was gathered in the drawing room, when her parents finally arrived. Yes, because her father had been screaming Lucie’s name so loud that it was impossible not to know they were back. Each one of the people present stopped whatever they were doing and looked at each other, frowning. They all knew Will’s antics, so it’s not like they were surprised.

“Uncle Will must be cheerful that Lucie is back,” Christopher said, and they all laughed, until Will stumbled in the room. His cheeks were red, as if he had raced there.

Lucie came near her father, concerned. “Papa, what’s wrong?” there was fear in her tone. Let’s hope he doesn’t say I have to go back. Let’s hope he doesn’t say-

“Lucie, my dear!” Will beamed, and hugged his daughter. “They let you go!”

“Who let me go?” she questioned.

“Come on, I mean the Clave!” Will replied, glancing in Lucie’s eyes. ��They decided that since you didn’t use the Black Volume after all, but just stole it, and caught the person who indeed used it in the past, they wanted to grace you with freedom. Of course, not just you. Tatiana’s boy has no blame either. On the other hand, he’s one of her victims.”

Tears welled up in Lucie’s eyes, and she couldn’t do anything but cry of joy on her father’s chest.

…

The following two weeks, they received news about Tatiana Blackthorn. She was put before the Inquisitor, tried with the Mortal Sword, and taken to the Silent City to be locked for the rest of her life. She hadn’t wanted to go to the trial, but she was asked to go as a witness. Tatiana not only admitted that she tried to kill her own son. She also planned to kill Lucie and take him away with her somewhere, and she enlisted a warlock to do that. Tatiana had uttered a name, but it later turned out to be a vagabond who lived in the slums. The warlock or whoever helped the woman might have been powerful and aware of what they were doing, if they were able to run away just like this. Lucie wondered if they ever found this person, but at this point, she did not care.

She wanted to know how Jesse was doing. Where was he, what were his thoughts. If he was feeling alone. Lucie decided to be bold and ask her mother casually over tea, the day after Tatiana’s trial. She couldn’t go on not knowing, especially after confessing her love to him. She had let two weeks fly and waited for a sign, which did not come. Was this his way to kindly reject her? She thought it wasn’t something he would do. He was too honest to just move on with his life and ignore her. If he didn’t feel the same about her, he would tell her.

“He’s decided to live at uncle Gabriel’s until he finds another place, that’s what your aunt Cecily told me,” Tessa said, sipping her white tea. “They are happy because they never got to know him, and now they can. Gideon and Sophie decided to take a trip back from Idris just so they can also spend time with him. I’m sure he’s surrounded by people who love him.”

Lucie nodded. “Yes, I’m sure it’s true.”

Once the tea was over, Lucie decided to go back to her room. She was inspired to write, or better. She hoped that writing would help her not think about Jesse. She wondered when it would be okay for her to visit him at the Lightwoods, without seeming too suspicious. They all knew that Jesse had stayed two months with her in Cornwall, but no one knew the extent of their relationship. They didn’t know they had known each other before he was revived, and that she had already developed feelings for him back then. She didn’t know how to handle all of this.

Lucie caught someone coming out of her father’s office on her way back to her room. If it wasn’t for the straight black hair, she would have thought it was her brother. But it wasn’t James. It was Jesse. She was too far to hear what they were saying, but she believed they were having a friendly conversation because she heard her father’s jovial laugh.

She advanced. She hadn't seen Jesse for a few weeks, and her spirits soared upon seeing him. It sounded like a repeat of her first stay at the Cornwall Institute, but in a different place.

Both men turned to her when they heard her heels on the carpet. Jesse smiled slightly, and so did Will.

"Lulu, good morning," her father said. She widened her eyes at the mention of her nickname from him. Her cheeks warmed, and she glared at him. “Lucie, good morning,” he said again, and made an apologetic smile.

"I didn't know you had guests," she said, trying not to look too obvious when she gazed up at Jesse. She frowned at him, trying to let him know that she would have loved to know about what he had been up to. It hurt. It felt like he had been avoiding her, but perhaps he had just been busy with his found family. “You could have called for me.”

"I was surprised too, my dear," Will replied, and Lucie bit her lip. Was she too obvious? "Mr. Blackthorn came to personally bring us the invite for an informal ball at his house."

"A ball?"

"It's not a ball per se, but a party to celebrate my return," Jesse grinned. "I have decided to restore Chiswick to its splendor, with my uncles and aunts help. There is still so much to do, but I decided to start from the ballroom, which was the room which required less effort to tidy up."

“I… see, and I’m glad to participate,” Lucie murmured. Those news lifted her mood. Warmth filled her chest, and their eyes locked for a long time, until her father cleared his voice.

“Alright, I believe Mr. Blackthorn has to go,” Will announced, and Lucie snapped back to reality, glancing away from the weird duo before her. “We will be honored to join you for this special event, next Saturday. I can’t wait to see Chiswick’s ballroom again, you know why,” he continued. Jesse nodded a greeting at Lucie before her father put an arm behind his back to lead him away from her.

She asked herself why Jesse would know the reason her father wanted to see his ballroom again, but it probably had to do his and her mother’s past. She shrugged.

…

Saturday couldn’t come any sooner, but Lucie knew that time was slower when one was eager to do something they wanted. Lucie’s mother Tessa had taken her daughter to Bond Street to buy her a new dress for the event. It wasn’t the first time they had shopped for dresses together, and Lucie was happy with the suggestion because she had already deemed all of her clothes unfit for the occasion. She wasn’t vain, but she thought she needed a fresh start, and her mother agreed, so they spent more than they would normally do. This night would also celebrate the end of Lucie’s exile, and she wanted to look good.

And she thought she did. She chose an embellished satin blue dress with short sleeves, which complemented her eyes, and put her hair up. She reached Chiswick with her family, but once the carriage stopped, she ran off. No one said anything, since it wasn’t rare for Lucie to go inside and go find her friends. She caught sight of Cordelia, and she waved at her, but before she could reach her, Lucie muttered that she had to do something first.

She had thought a lot during the last few days, and resolved that she needed to act. It was nor or never. She couldn’t wait for Jesse anymore to make the first step. If he would ever move, that is. She found him by the table filled with cocktails and food, speaking to a few people she couldn’t recognize. His eyes found Lucie’s in an instant, and he excused himself and went to her. She thought he looked amazing in his black and white evening suit.

“You came,” he said softly. “You’re late.”

Lucie rolled her eyes. She knew he was joking. “The people who count always come late,” she told him, smirking, and raised an eyebrow at him.

He grinned. “Come on, let’s go somewhere quieter to talk,” he suggested, and Lucie followed him outside of the ballroom, which was in a separate wing of the building.

There were a lot of people, she saw, all over the property. He must have invited the whole Clave. She was too distracted looking around that she shivered when he secured her hand in his and smiled warmly at her.

They were walking on a path in between the grass, and Lucie realized that she had already been there in the past. Her suspicions were confirmed when they stopped in front of the greenhouse doors. He opened one for her, and she entered, ready to face the disruption she had seen the last time she had been there, but she was astonished when she saw the place looked entirely different from the way she remembered it. Most of the plants had been either cut or substituted by new ones, and fresh, colorful flowers grew at the sides of the greenhouse. Now it was bright and clean like she had never seen it before. A witchlight here and there lighted the ambient and made it look like some place out of a fairytale.

“Do you like it, Lucie?”

“It’s wonderful,” she commented, seeing how many types of plants were actually there. “How did you do this?”

“I called several gardeners, and-” he interrupted himself, because she was rolling her eyes at him. “Okay, I’ll stop humoring you, Lucie. I was saying-”

“Why didn’t you come to see me after we got back?” she interjected. She understood that he wanted to tell her about the greenhouse and how he had restored it, but she needed to talk about important matters first. “I thought you would come,” she murmured, trying not to seem too hurt. “I believed you would talk to me.”

“I also asked myself the same thing,” he admitted, and she thought he was honest. “I needed time, Lucie. Time to think. I thought about what I wanted to do with my future, now that my mother has been taken away. If I could live as a shadowhunter, or I would rather live as a mundane. Do you know that my father left me a hefty inheritance? I could sit down all day and do nothing for the rest of my life, and I would still have money to survive,” he chuckled.

“Exercise is important,” Lucie said, and they both laughed.

“Yes, and not only that,” Jesse’s face turned serious. “It didn’t take me long to resolve what I wanted to do. The first thing I decided to dedicate myself to, was remodeling this house. I talked about it with my uncles, and they all agreed to help me with this. They are all incredibly nice and sweet, and I’m angry at my mother for lying about them. She said they were evil, and I even believed her. But now I know better,” he glanced at a cactus for a moment, and sighed. “Can you believe they said that they want me to keep Chiswick?”

“I do believe you, Jesse,” she nodded. She was aware of her uncles and aunts’ generosity.

“The second thing I resolved to do, was trying to understand if I could be a shadowhunter. You know that my mother also forbade me to live this life, literally, and I told myself: you should do it if you want to do it. I still don’t know much about it, but I am a good learner.”

“Yes, you are,” she agreed again, and he smiled at her.

“And if you’d help me, and you’d teach me, I’m sure I’ll get better in no time,” he said, and got closer to her.

“Of course I will help you. Of course.”

“Be with me, Lucie,” he took her hands in his. “Marry me.”

Lucie’s jaw dropped, and her skin flushed. Her heart would leap out of her chest if it could, she was sure. “But… don’t you believe it’s too early for this? I’ve just turned seventeen, we’re both seventeen, and…”

“We can wait until you are ready to make this step, but I can’t wait for you to give me an answer. I’ve lost seven years of my life already. I don’t want to lose more time and lose more occasions. I want to finally live my life,” he said with hope.

It was an honest request.

“With me?”

“Why does it sound too weird to you, Lucie? I think my life gained color when I first met you. After then, it was a crescendo of hues. You let me live even when I couldn’t. I wouldn’t want to tie your life to mine, knowing that I was dead. I wouldn’t want to subject you to the fate of loving someone who couldn’t be the person you deserved by your side, because I was half-alive. I would have never confessed my feelings for you, had I stayed a ghost.”

“Do you… love me?” her voice shook, and tears started to well in her eyes.

“Again, I wonder why does it sound impossible to you that I love you, Lucie?” Jesse asked, caressing her cheek tenderly. “I think I fell for you before I gave your brother my last breath. I thought I loved you because you were the only other person who could see me, but I was wrong. I waited for the night to fall so I could be with you. I missed you. I never developed any affection for anyone before you, and I realized it’s because you are special. And the Jesse Blackthorn who spent two months with you before I regained my memories knew it too.”

“Do you remember?”

“Yes, I remembered what happened after you brought me to life. I remember that I doubted you, but then asked for your help and you hid me while we figured how to get my memories back. I remember the first rune you drew on my arm when we entered this very house to bring the Black Volume back, and your shock when you saw me at the Cornwall Institute. I also remember our first kiss, and the way I fainted,” he laughed. “I already remembered after Magnus Bane finished performing that spell on me. I couldn’t place those frames at first, but then they clicked. Everything fell into place. And I… had to do something about it.”

“You organized a ball,” Lucie commented with a grin.

“I wanted to celebrate my life… Selfish, isn’t it?”

“Nah, you deserve it, Jesse Blackthorn. You’re the least self-centered person I know, although you are arrogant at times,” she shrugged, and he frowned. “And I love you. I want to be with you as long as life allows us to be together.”

He beamed, and smiled widely. “Can I kiss you, Lucie?”

“You can kiss me anytime you want,” she replied. “And this, of course, goes both ways,” Lucie said, and she rose on the balls of her feet to kiss him before he would do it.

He gave her his family ring next, and slid it on her fourth finger. They agreed on telling the news to everyone that night, and Jesse confessed that her parents already knew.

“That’s why I came to the Institute personally the other day,” Jesse told her as they returned back to the party. “I asked your father the permission to marry you.”

“And what did he say?” she asked, curious.

“He said that it was up to you. It wasn’t up to him to give me his permission. You were the only one who could accept or refuse my proposal. He added that if you said yes, he would know that I was worthy of you, because you would never choose somebody who didn’t deserve you.”

Lucie laughed. “Come on, let’s hurry. I think he is eager to find out what i said.”

...

EPILOGUE 6 Years Later

London, Spring 1910

“And then, the princess exclaimed: I came to destroy you! You dared to make the prince fall into a deep sleep, and I’ll never forgive you for this!” Lucie exclaimed giddily, as she dressed her son in the green pants and white shirt she had chosen for the event they were throwing that night. Lucie believed the baby needed to shine as much as his parents, since this party was also for him. “No, you won’t crush me! You��re just a little girl!” she continued, and the baby laughed as she put on his socks and shoes. “I’m not a little girl!” she said in a different one of voice, pretending she was fifteen years younger than she was now.

“Is prince Theodore ready, my lady?” Jesse asked from the doorway, as Lucie finished the last touch on their son’s outfit, a cute dark green bow tie.

Theodore was a healthy two year old baby with Lucie’s brown hair and blue-green eyes. Not quite like the color of either of his parents, but more of a mix between the two. Perhaps it would turn into the Blackthorn-Herondale trademark color. Who knew.

“He is now,” she replied, and she turned her face to let her husband of four years kiss her on the lips. “And so am I, thanks for asking.”

“I helped you close the zip of your dress because it got stuck, earlier,” he winked, and grabbed his jacket from the chair, then picked baby Theodore from the changing table, and kissed his cheek. The baby giggled excitedly.

Lucie checked herself in the mirror one last time, then they went down at the top of the stairs outside to wait for their guests, as they usually did on such occasions. It was their fourth wedding anniversary, and they had made it a tradition to throw a party at Blackthorn Hall every year. Blackthorn Hall used to be Chiswick House. They thought it deserved a name change after they had restored the place, to symbolize its renovation and brand new life.

They saw a few carriages approach, and Lucie smiled to herself. The party was about to begin.

“The zip of my dress didn’t get stuck,” she said out of the blue, continuing the conversation they were having inside. “I just gained weight on my stomach,” she glanced at him with a smirk.

Jesse frowned at first. “It’s okay Lu-” he said, then realized what she meant, and his eyes widened, filled with surprise but also joy. “Are you with child?”

Lucie smiled lovingly at her husband. “Happy Fourth Anniversary, my love,” she told him, and he gave her another kiss.

“I wanted to wait later to give this to you, but since we’re here,” he said, and took a white envelope from his pocket and gave it to her. “It came in the mail this morning. It looks thick.”

She glanced at her husband with expectations and hope. “Let’s open it,” she muttered, and started reading as fast as she could. She was trying to finish before the carriages would get too close to the house. “By the angel, by the angel!”

“What does it say?”

“Mrs. Lucie Blackthorn, we are happy to inform you that we found your manuscript interesting and creative, and we look forward to working with you. We would love to publish your work as soon as possible. Please come to our office as soon as you can, to sign the contract. Sincerely, Parks of London Publishing House,” she said, and she started jumping on the spot. “They will publish my book!”

“Careful, careful, though,” he advised, putting an arm on her shoulder and kissing her head. “I’m so happy for you, my beloved. Happy anniversary.”

And they all lived happily ever after.

Taglist (if you want to be added or removed, send me a PM): @princesslucretia @kit-12 @immortal-enemies @lucian-evander @esa-emery @danieldyers @blackthorn-trash @rinadragomir @fortunesandfables @itsdaughterofthemoon @silvenys@thomastair3 @livvyheronstairs @ holding-infinity-and-a-book @lovelaces @axoloteca

#tsc #tlh #blackdale #jesse blackthorn #lucie herondale #the last hours #the shadowhunter chronicles #chain of gold #chain of iron #chain of thorns #tweety.writes

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tmagbr · 4 years

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Aviso de conteúdo: bullying, escola, traição, abuso de idoso, horror corporal, remoção de ossos, dano a animal (rato doméstico), sangue, menção a ratos, morte

MAG 017 – CASO 9991006 – “O conto do vira-ossos”

ARQUIVISTA

Depoimento de Sebastian Adekoya, a respeito de uma aquisição na Biblioteca de Chiswick. Depoimento original fornecido em 10 de junho 1999. Gravação em áudio por Jonathan Sims, Arquivista Chefe do Instituto Magnus, Londres.

Início do depoimento.

ARQUIVISTA (DEPOIMENTO)

Livros são incríveis, não? Quer dizer, se a gente pensar sobre o que eles são de verdade. As pessoas não dão à realidade da linguagem a importância que merece,eu acho. Palavras são uma maneira de expressar seus pensamentos, uma versão de si próprio, e oferecê-lo a outra pessoa. Depositar seus pensamentos na mente de qualquer um. Não é um método perfeito, é claro, já que existe uma grande margem para mudança e corrupção entre a sua mente e a do ouvinte, porém isso não muda a essência do que a linguagem é. Caso dito em voz alta, o pensamento logo se dissipa se não captado. Simples vibrações que somem quase assim que são criadas, e caso encontrem um hospedeiro onde podem se alojar, proliferam-se e talvez se espalhem mais. Ainda assim, não é um método confiável em termos de duração de pensamento, visto que humanos são criaturas frágeis e raramente vivem um século.

Um livro, entretanto, é outra história. Existem escritos que sobreviveram à civilização que as criou. Imagine, pensamentos de centenas, milhares de anos de idade, preservados e prontos para serem lidos novamente. Danificados ou traduzidos, talvez, por uma cultura que não as compreende, mas ainda assim, ideias que ultrapassaram a existência da mente que primeiro as conceberam. Teriam os primeiros pensamentos que passaram pela cabeça de Shakespeare alguma vez deixaram de ser relembrados por alguém em algum lugar? E um livro, tão denso com as criações fossilizadas da mente, é de se admirar que a ele tenha sido atribuído tamanho poder ao longo das eras? Ou que uma antiga biblioteca, com tomos pesados cobrindo cada parede, aparenta o ter tal peso, além da presença física dos textos que abriga?

Eu trabalhava na Biblioteca de Chiswick. Apesar de não ter esse tipo de pensamento na época. Apenas sabia que adorava livros, sempre adorei, e quando surgiu uma oportunidade de trabalhar na biblioteca local eu me joguei nessa chance. Fui um leitor voraz desde que tinha idade o suficiente para segurar um livro sozinho, mesmo antes disso minha mãe me contou que eu vivia pedindo para que ela lesse para mim. Suponho que você diria que minha mente sempre foi receptível aos pensamentos que se ocultam nas páginas escritas. Mesmo assim, a Biblioteca de Chiswick está longe das bibliotecas abarrotadas e austeras que estaria imaginando. É iluminada e ampla, com estantes de livros e carpetes que falam mais sobre o orçamento limitado da prefeitura do que a rica majestade da sabedoria. Há uma extensa seção infantil e a grande maioria do estoque é formado por gastas edições de bolso de literatura criminal, ficção e livros de referência. Possui uma modesta coleção de audiolivros e a atmosfera, apesar de silenciosa, está longe de ser opressiva. Em uma palavra, eu poderia resumir o lugar como “inofensivo”.

Foi três anos atrás que aconteceu. Eu trabalhava lá havia um ano quando o livro apareceu pela primeira vez. Pois bem, costumamos comprar todos os livros novos, e eu nunca fiz nenhuma aquisição para a biblioteca, então não posso dizer quando ou de onde ele havia sido comprado, mas parecia velho e bem usado quando o notei pela primeira vez. Havia sido devolvido junto com outros quatro livros na mesa da frente, e eu estava escaneando quando percebi que um dos códigos de barra não conferia. O código e ISBN ambos estavam registrados como “Trainspotting” de Irvine Welsh, mas o livro mesmo era praticamente um encadernado preto genérico, tinha um título na frente em uma fonte serifada gasta: “O conto do vira-ossos”.

Eu fiquei meio confuso e chamei a bibliotecária, Ruth Weaver, para perguntar sobre ele. Ela não se lembrava de tê-lo visto antes, mas na capa havia a marcação ex-libris da Biblioteca de Chiswick, além da lista de empréstimo que continha um bocado de carimbos datando até muitos anos atrás. Ruth deu de ombros e me disse para que não me preocupasse demais com aquilo – nós iríamos catalogá-lo e inseri-lo no sistema apropriadamente, mas algo nessa situação me incomodou, então resolvi verificar o registro do homem que o havia devolvido. O nome dele, ao menos de acordo com sua carteira da biblioteca, era Michael Crew, e também que há três semanas ele pegou emprestado quatro livros de nós. Especificamente os quatro outros livros que haviam sido devolvidos. Eu sugeri a Ruth que ele poderia ser um autor de auto-publicações tentando se infiltrar em nossas prateleiras, e ela riu, concordando, apesar dos motivos que levariam alguém a passar por todos esses problemas só para chegar às prateleiras da Biblioteca de Chiswick estavam além da sua compreensão. O livro até parecia desgastado, inclusive, como se estivesse sendo lido durante décadas, tinha um vinco marcado na espinha e metade da capa estava desbotada do Sol. Nem mesmo, até onde pude ver, indicava algum autor.

Foi nesse momento que Jared Hopworth entrou, e eu tive que deixar o livro de lado. Jared e eu fomos amigos antes, crescemos na mesma rua, frequentamos a mesma escola, passamos muito de nossa infância inseparáveis. Porém ele sempre foi, bem, não querendo ser grosso mas já sendo, burro feito uma porta, e quando entrei na universidade, ele ficou para trás. Eu acredito que ele viu isso como uma espécie de traição, e quando eu finalmente voltei, soube imediatamente que algo havia mudado entre nós. Enquanto estive fora ele dedicou seu tempo ao crime, e com o meu retorno iniciou-se o que acabou virando uma campanha dos pequenos terrores. Ele sempre teve muito cuidado e parava antes de se envolver em alguma coisa que pudesse envolver a polícia, e eu creio que ainda havia restante uma afeição de toda uma infância vivida juntos que nunca me fez pensar realmente em denunciá-lo. Era p--

ARQUIVISTA

Oh, er... Olá, Elias.

ELIAS

Poderia me ceder um momento?

ARQUIVISTA

Na verdade não, estou no meio de um assunto.

ELIAS

Compreendo, é que Senhorita Herne fez uma reclamação formal.

ARQUIVISTA

Reclamação? Eu é que deveria reclamar por ela ter feito perder meu tempo!

ELIAS

Não é assim que funciona, Jonathan.

ARQUIVISTA

Eu nem mesmo precisaria ter feito a gravação se Rosie mantivesse o equipamento em melhores condições.

ELIAS

A propósito, eu gostaria que você não hostilizasse mais ninguém relacionado à família Lukas. Eles são patronos do Instituto, afinal.

ARQUIVISTA

Está bem, está bem, serei mais amável. Agora posso voltar ao trabalho?

ELIAS

Muito bem. Aliás, tem visto Martin?

ARQUIVISTA

Ah, ele tirou licença essa semana. Problemas no estômago, creio eu.

[sai Elias]

Alívio divino, se quer saber.

Continuação do depoimento.

ARQUIVISTA (DEPOIMENTO)

Era pior ainda quando Jared visitava a biblioteca, porque isso inevitavelmente significava que ele estava entediado o bastante para vir atrás de mim procurar confusão. E claro, ele iniciou uma conversa comigo, bobagens sem sentido que serviam para matar tempo até Ruth, que não sabia de nada sobre os problemas de Jared comigo, voltasse ao seu escritório e fechasse a porta. Assim que ela o fez, ele se virou e com um único movimento virou o carrinho de metal das devoluções, espalhando os livros recém recebidos pelo chão. Ele sorriu para mim e se desculpou. Eu fiz o melhor que pude para não demonstrar qualquer irritação, ou qualquer reação enquanto dei a volta para me abaixar e começar e recolhê-los. Quando me levantei eu senti um impacto na parte de trás da cabeça e cambaleei. Atrás de mim, Jared estava parado segurando o livro que eu havia deixado de lado, “O conto do vira-ossos”, e aparentemente tinha pegado para me acertar com ele. Mas ao invés de se desculpar falsamente ou fazer outro ato violento, os olhos dele estavam fixos no livro. Nós ficamos parados ali em silêncio por alguns segundos até que ele disse alguma coisa sobre precisar de algo novo para ler, deu meia volta e foi embora.

Isso foi, tenho que admitir, perturbador. Até onde me lembro nunca tinha visto Jared ler... bem, nada, na verdade. E o olhar dele quando ele saiu tinha alguma coisa que não era completamente diferente de medo. Ainda assim, era um alívio bem-vindo a partida dele, e eu rapidamente arrumei o restante dos livros antes que Ruth percebesse algo faltando.

Não houve mais nada que me lembre ter acontecido naquele dia, mas na volta para casa eu passei pela casa de Jared. Eu voltei para a casa dos meus pais enquanto me organizava depois da universidade, e ele nunca saiu da sua casa de infância, então ainda morávamos na mesma rua. Era final de setembro, então no horário em que voltava da biblioteca já estava escuro e eu percebi um pequeno vulto se movendo na piscina de luz laranja abaixo do poste de luz.

Ao me aproximar, percebi com um sobressalto que se tratava de um rato, e não daqueles sujos de esgoto, mas sim um rato grande e branco, bem cuidado e claramente de estimação. Mas havia alguma coisa muito errada com ele. Estava se arrastando devagar, puxando pelas pernas da frente, e eu vi que a metade de trás estava achatada, como se tivesse sido desinflado de alguma forma. Eu pensei que ele tivesse sido atropelado, mas não havia sangue, nem sinal de fratura, nem mesmo parecia estar sofrendo de alguma dor. Ele apenas tinha a parte de trás caída e que se contorcia de uma maneira obscena enquanto seguia gradualmente seu caminho pela via iluminada até a escuridão. Eu fiquei ali e observei, paralisado, até que ele sumiu de vista. Pensando agora, lembrei que a cabeça dele estava virada em um ângulo estranho, fazendo uma volta muito mais longa do que deveria, apesar que talvez eu tenha me confundido. Muitas dessas experiências surgem juntas quando eu penso nelas agora. Não havia luz na casa de Jared, e eu corri para minha casa depois disso.

Eu fiquei sem ver Jared de novo por um tempo. A princípio eu fiquei feliz com o espaço, mas com os dias se tornando semanas, eu comecei a sentir uma coisa que não esperava: preocupação. Se não fosse pelo jeito que ele saiu na última vez, isso provavelmente não teria me preocupado, mas ele me pareceu tão estranho, e mesmo que ele não viesse à biblioteca, era raro passar uma semana sem vê-lo. Agora já fazia quase um mês. Mesmo assim eu resisti ao impulso de verificar na casa dele. Se descobrisse que ele estava bem, então seria um convite meu para um mundo todo de aborrecimentos, e além disso, eu repetia a mim mesmo, ele não era mais problema meu.

Era final de outubro quando a mãe dele veio até mim. O dia estava quase acabando, e lá fora já estava escuro. Eu estava montando um display com recomendações de leitura de Halloween antes de ir para casa, quando ouvi a porta abrir. Eu me virei e lá ela estava. Levou alguns segundos para reconhecê-la, para ser honesto. Havia anos que não a via, desde que Jared e eu éramos próximos, e ela envelheceu visivelmente. Sra. Hopworth vestia um casaco volumoso, apesar de nem estar tão frio ainda, e seu braço estava imobilizado em uma tipoia. Alguma coisa no ângulo do braço e o jeito que estava pendurado, me pareceu levemente anormal, e eu me perguntei se ela o havia fraturado.

Quando perguntei a Sra. Hopworth se ela estava bem, ela apenas me encarou, seus olhos queimando de ódio. Com o braço bom ela mexeu algo dentro do casaco e tirou um pequeno livro preto. Ela o atirou no chão sem dizer uma palavra e se virou para sair. Sem conseguir evitar, eu perguntei a ela se Jared estava bem. Ela se voltou para mim e começou a me xingar violentamente, disse que não era para me meter com o filho dela, e que eu, e meus livros deveriam ficar longe dele. Enquanto ela falava, eu não conseguia desviar o olhar do braço dela e do jeito estranho que ele se retorcia enquanto ela gesticulava. Como seus dedos pareciam se dobrar de um jeito errado. Fiquei aliviado que Ruth tinha ido embora mais cedo, pois não queria ela presenciasse esse confronto perturbador que aparentemente eu havia causado.

Quando terminou a Sra. Hopworth cuspiu na minha direção, e eu notei que ela teve o cuidado de evitar cuspir no livro que agora estava caído no chão entre nós, e saiu. Eu pus de lado o exemplar de “Misery” de Stephen King, que só então percebi que estava segurando, e me aproximei do livro descartado que jazia no carpete. A capa preta puída parecia a mesma de quando a vi semanas atrás, com aquele título em fonte branca desbotada na frente: “O conto do vira-ossos”. Eu me abaixei para pegá-lo, mas antes que fazê-lo um pensamento passou pela minha mente, a lembrança da última vez que vi Jared, e eu peguei uns lenços de papel de cima da mesa antes de pegar o livro. Mesmo assim senti a pele se arrepiar enquanto o segurava.

Eu decidi não lidar com isso naquela noite. Não estava bem certo de que lê-lo durante o dia seria melhor, mas as sombras que se formavam no lado de fora pareciam muito mais espessa desde que o livro havia retornado à biblioteca, e isso me assustava. Eu o depositei no carrinho de devoluções e saí, checando novamente se a porta estava firmemente trancada atrás de mim.

Chovia intensamente naquela noite. Meu quarto é um sótão convertido e quando o tempo está ruim é como se conseguisse ouvir cada gota de chuva contra a janela que fica logo acima da minha cama. Não era uma tempestade, não tinha vento para isso, era apenas aquela chuva pesada que tamborilava e castigava o vidro sobre mim. Eu não conseguia dormir. Havia uma incômoda apreensão em minha mente, tanta que depois de três horas deitado na cama se transformou quase em pânico. E se Ruth chegar antes de mim amanhã e pegar nele? O que aconteceria com ela? Será que eu deveria tê-lo destruído?

Essa última ideia foi rapidamente descartada. Eu não tinha certeza se seria capaz de destruir um livro, até mesmo um que despertasse tamanha estranheza. Foi surpreendente para mim a facilidade para aceitar que “O conto do vira-ossos” tinha poderes obscuros, mas eu presumo que eu sempre senti que os livros possuem uma certa magia. Então, na verdade foi apenas uma confirmação daquilo que eu sempre suspeitei, bem no fundo, por muito tempo.

Era duas da madrugada quando eu resolvi que não conseguiria apenas deixar como estava a noite toda. Eu me levantei, vesti-me rapidamente, e saí debaixo da chuva até a biblioteca, me certificando de que levei minhas luvas. Meu casaco deveria ser à prova d’água mas ainda assim ficou encharcado nos vinte minutos que durou a minha caminhada até ali. Eu tinha a chave que usei para trancar a porta na noite passada, e desativei o alarme quando entrei.

Estava quase completamente escuro lá dentro, e parte de mim queria deixar como estava, mas acendi o máximo de lâmpadas que eu consegui sem que ficasse imediatamente óbvio visto de fora. Não eram muitas, e eu ainda precisei tatear o caminho entre o saguão e a biblioteca propriamente dita. Ao me aproximar da mesa e do carrinho de devoluções de livros onde eu deixei o “O conto do vira-ossos” eu comecei a andar com menos cuidado. Estava escuro naquele canto da biblioteca e eu estendi a mão para me apoiar na alça do carrinho de metal. Naquele momento eu tirei as luvas e as mão saíram molhadas. Rapidamente eu remexi para pegar a lanterna que apanhei antes de sair de casa e a acendi. Algo vermelho pingava e pulsava do carrinho, encharcando páginas e formando uma pequena poça ao redor. Os livros estavam sangrando.

Eu gargalhei para isso. Parecia-me muito apropriado de certa forma, era tão perfeitamente correto que aqueles livros vizinhos deveriam sofrer, deveriam ser contaminados por aquilo. Do mesma forma pareceu certo e adequado que, quando a lanterna encontrou “O conto do vira-ossos”, ele estava seco, intocado pela cena macabra à sua volta.

Eu vesti as luvas de volta e cuidadosamente peguei aquele volume sinistro e o depositei sobre a mesa. Talvez eu deveria ter lutado mais contra a tentação de olhar dentro dele, mas a curiosidade era muito forte. As grossas luvas tornaram virar as páginas individualmente quase impossível, e eu ainda mantive o bom senso de continuar com elas, então apenas abri em uma página aleatória e comecei a ler. Talvez eu estivesse sendo paranoico. Afinal, eu toquei no livro com as mãos nuas quando ele apareceu pela primeira vez na biblioteca, e não tive problema, porém a imagem da mãe de Jared não saía da minha cabeça. O jeito que o braço dela se contorcia quando ela se mexeu. Eu decidi ficar com as luvas.

Estava escrito em prosa, e certamente aparentava ser uma espécie de história. A parte que eu li falava de um homem sem nome, em diversas passagens referido como o Boneturner, o Bonesmith ou apenas o Turner, observando uma reunião de um grupo de pessoas que se encaminhavam a um pequeno povoado. Não era claro pelo que pude ler se ele estava viajando com eles ou simplesmente seguindo-os, mas me lembro de ter ficado incomodado pelos detalhes que ele observava neles: o jeito que o pároco movia mão por sua boca sempre que ele olhava por muito tempo para as freiras ou o modo que o cozinheiro olhava para a carne que ele preparava com os mesmos olhos que olhavam para o vendedor de indulgências. Foi só nesse ponto que eu percebi que o livro estava descrevendo os peregrinos de “Os Contos da Cantuária”.

Agora, isso com certeza não se tratava de um capítulo perdido do clássico de Chaucer. Era escrito em inglês moderno, sem nenhuma grafia arcaica ou pronunciação do original, e além disso a escrita mesmo era de qualidade questionável. Havia algo de atraente nele, no entanto. O debate sobre a finalização de “Os Contos da Cantuária” era... Bem, um debate levado a sério. No prólogo são prometidos mais de cem contos, porém a versão mais completa sobrevivente não chega nem a duas dúzias. O livro simplesmente termina, com Chaucer adicionando um pequeno epílogo implorando perdão a Deus. Uma súplica que geralmente era lida como sarcasmo ou retórica.

Eu folheei algumas páginas à frente, e descobri que o Bonesmith aparentemente se esgueirou para Miller enquanto ele dormia. Descrevia ele silenciosamente alcançando dentro do outro e... É meio confuso. Só o que eu me lembro com clareza é a frase: “e de sua costela uma flauta para tocar aquela alegre melodia medular tirou”. Quanto ao resto, eu não me recordo em detalhes, mas eu sei que quase vomitei, e que Miller não sobreviveu. Isso foi na página dezesseis, e era um livro grosso.

Eu voltei para a página de rosto desesperadamente curioso de como esse livro terminou na nossa biblioteca. Sob a forte luz da lanterna era possível ver as rugas e cantos descascados da etiqueta da Biblioteca de Chiswick, o que geralmente significava que tinha sido removido e recolocado, ou tirado de outro livro mesmo. Eu até conseguia enxergar as bordas de outra etiqueta por detrás. Com uma tesoura, eu cuidadosamente tirei a que estava por cima, mas me decepcionei. Era a etiqueta de outra biblioteca, provavelmente o último lugar onde foi deixado, apesar de que eu acho que deveria ser na Escandinávia, porque era alguma coisa tipo a biblioteca de Jergensburg, ou Jurgenleit, ou Jurgerlicht ou algo assim. Não me ajudou em nada.

Eu estava pronto para retomar a leitura daquela coisa, quando ouvi o barulho de vidro se quebrando atrás de mim. Eu me virei e vi Jared Hopworth de pé em frente à janela estilhaçada. Ou pelo menos, eu presumo que era Jared, pois exigiu o livro de mim com a voz de Jared, mas vestia calças largas e um grosso casaco com um capuz que cobria quase todo o rosto dele. Ou o rosto daquilo.

Ele era mais comprido do que Jared, e se erguia em um ângulo estranho, como se as pernas estivessem rígidas demais para se usar. Quando ele gesticulou para o livro, eu vi que seus dedos pareciam... Afiados, como se a pele da extremidade estivesse esticada em uma ponta fina por alguma coisa de dentro. Eu disse que a biblioteca estava fechada, porque na hora eu não conseguia pensar em nada mais para falar. Ele me ignorou, e exigiu de novo que eu desse o livro a ele. Foi então que eu fiz uma coisa meio bruta, para dizer que eu dei um soco nele.

Eu nunca tinha socado alguém de raiva antes, nem de desespero, então me veio como uma surpresa quando eu consegui projetar um único, sólido punho no plexo solar dele. Mas no momento em que fiz isso, e essa é a parte que me ainda me causa pesadelos, eu senti a carne dele ceder e quase retrair, fazendo que eu me aproximasse. E então eu senti as costelas dele se mexerem, elas se fecharam ao redor da minha mão, como se a caixa torácica dele estivesse tentando me morder. Elas eram mais afiadas do que eu imaginava ser possível, e por fim, isso foi o que me fez começar a gritar. Eu nunca havia gritado daquele jeito antes até então, e continuo surpreso com a minha capacidade de produzir tal barulho, mas ali estava.

Em meu pânico eu deixei cair a cópia do “O conto do vira-ossos”, e em menos de um segundo Jared saltou para cima dele. Ele soltou a minha mão e apanhou o livro com desespero frenético, antes de se virar para fugir pelo mesmo caminho de onde veio. Eu comecei a perseguí-lo, até que vi como ele se movia. Quantos membros ele possuía. Ele havia... adicionado alguns extras. Foi naquele momento em que finalmente aquilo era demais para mim; eu parei de correr. Não era meu livro, não era minha responsabilidade e eu não fazia a menor ideia do que eu estava lidando, então não o faria. Eu apenas fiquei parado entorpecido e assisiti a coisa que um dia foi Jared desaparecer na chuva. Eu nunca mais o vi novamente.

A polícia chegou pouco depois. Ao que parece alguém ouviu meus gritos e fez uma denúncia. Eu inventei uma história sobre ter pego no sono na minha mesa e ser despertado por uma tentativa de assalto. Deus sabe como eu expliquei sobre os livros sangrentos, porque não foi uma lenda urbana. Levei semanas para superar. Todos pareceram acreditar em mim, no entanto, e por milagre eu continuei no emprego. Eu não vejo Jared há anos desde então, e nem fiz mais nenhuma pesquisa sobre o livro. O melhor cenário que eu consigo imaginar é que este depoimento é a última vez em que ouço ou falo sobre Jared Hopworth ou “O conto do vira-ossos”.

ARQUIVISTA

Fim do depoimento.

Bem, isso me deixa... profundamente descontente. Eu mal arranhei a superfície dos arquivos e já descobri evidências de dois diferentes livros sobreviventes da biblioteca de Jurgen Leitner. Antes dele mencionar isso, eu estava tentado a desprezar completamente, porém tal como está agora eu acredito em cada palavra. Já vi do que o trabalho de Leitner é capaz, e essa informação, mesmo com 17 anos de atraso, ainda me é muito preocupante. Terei uma conversa com Elias sobre o que podemos fazer para abordar o caso. Eu sei que ele apenas virá com o velho “gravar e estudar, não interferir ou conter” discurso de novo, mas ao menos eu preciso que ele esteja a par.

Tim e Sasha cruzaram referências dos eventos daqui com os relatórios da polícia, e é claro que havia um pedido de prisão para Jared Hopworth por destruição e invasão, além de agressão. Ele nunca foi encontrado, entretanto, e os crimes não eram graves o suficiente para manter o caso em atividade por muito tempo. Eu mesmo estive pesquisando o máximo possível, porém o livro parece ter desaparecido junto com ele.

Pedi a Martin para tentar localizar Sr. Adekoya em pessoa para uma confirmação, mas fui informado que ele faleceu em 2006. O corpo foi encontrado caído no meio da rua na noite de 17 de abril. Apesar do fato de que não haviam fraturas ou marcas de traumas no corpo, o inquérito o classificou como atropelamento por conta do estado de mutilação em que foi encontrado. O funeral foi realizado com o caixão lacrado.

Fim da gravação.

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w9carpets-blog · 6 years

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Woodfloor West London

#Woodfloor West London #Carpets in chiswick

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danismm · 6 years

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Carpet Factory in Chiswick, London 1902. Arch. C. F. A. Voysey.

#london #1900s #architecture #vintage factory #moderne bauformen

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lcarpert · 8 months

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ncfan-1 · 6 years

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ncfan listens to The Magnus Archives: S1 EP017 (’The Bone-Turner’s Tale) and S1 EP018 (’The Man Upstairs’)

Body horror and another episode that reminds me of Ito Junji’s work. Not a good pair of episodes for people with weak stomachs.

No spoilers past Season 1, please!

EP 017: ‘The Bone-Turner’s Tale’

- Sebastian’s gushing about the power of books is kinda sweet, though the power we see displayed in this episode is anything but. (And I happen to have in my possession a few books—not first editions, of course—that have outlived the societies that produced them, so I get the wonder on that account.)

- And Michael Crew (mentioned in ‘Page Turner’) has snuck another Evil Book into an innocent Chiswick library. What the hell, man?

- And we get static when Jonathan reads out the title of the book—‘The Bone-Turner’s Tale.’

- Jared Hopworth sounds like a piece of work, though the fact that he still seems so fixated on a guy who was his friend and now he seems to want to believe he hates is a little… sad. I doubt Sebastian felt much, if any, sympathy for him, but I suppose that as a listener, I can feel sorry for him. Or, at least, I feel sorry for him now. All sympathy dies soon.

(And I’ve since learned that I was mishearing the name ‘Gerard Keay’ as ‘Jared Key.’ Personally, in Sims’s voice the names ‘Jared’ and ‘Gerard’ sound frankly identical, but okay. I’ll call him ‘Gerard’ from now on to avoid confusion.)

- And we have an intermission and our first proper introduction to Elias, where he proceeds to tell us just how badly Jonathan’s first attempt to interact with a statement giver went. And that the creepy, creepy Lukas family is one of the Institute’s patrons. I’m sure that’s not a bad sign at all.

- “I’ll… be more lovely.” No, you won’t.

- Yes, I’m just sure Martin’s off sick. Normal sickness, being shut into your apartment by a living hive of flesh-eating worms.

- Sebastian, I understand not wanting to create unnecessary drama, but it might be better to tell your coworkers if someone’s harassing you if you think there’s any chance he might drag them into it as well.

- It’s odd that Jared would walk off with the book even if he seems a bit frightened by it. Some sort of compulsion, perhaps? Or maybe he’s run into Michael Crew before and recognized a book that had once been in his possession.

- The thing with the poor rat is the reason why I will not be revisiting this episode, not unless I just do a big re-listen of the series in general. It’s also the thing that completely evaporated my sympathy for Jared (Even before we saw what he did to his mother). That was his pet, an animal without any significant ability to hurt him in its own defense the way a cat or a dog could. It probably trusted him unhesitatingly, didn’t even consider Jared might hurt it until he did. And I know a lot of people don’t like rats, but tame rates make for really cute, cuddly, affectionate pets. I do mean affectionate—they have the same capacity for empathy and bonding with owners that cats and dogs possess. And Jared did that to it. I will not go out of my way to listen to this episode again for the very simple reason that animal cruelty, especially cruelty towards your pets, turns me right off.

(I probably would have scooped the rat up and taken it to the vet once I realized it was a tame rat. Of course, given the state it was in, probably the only thing the vet would have been able to do was euthanize it so it wouldn’t suffer any more than it already was. But I can understand Sebastian not wanting to pick up a strange animal.)

- I can understand Jared’s mother taking her anger out on Sebastian. It’s probably a lot safer being angry at him than at Jared, considering the new skill Jared’s picked up. I note we never see her again after she presumably steals the book to take it back to the library. I doubt that bodes good things for her fate.

- We get static again when Jon reads out the title of the book.

(I listened to the first episode again today, and there was static when Jon read out the “Can I have a cigarette?” spoken by the entity of the episode, too.)

- I was curious as to whether pseudo-Chaucerian tales were a thing, and sure enough, it turns out that during the Medieval era it was for a time the fashion to write pseudo-Chaucerian tales in an effort to “finish” The Canterbury Tales. Some people decided to add on to the Cook’s Tale, which Chaucer died before he could complete, or to write new ones whole-cloth. One is called The Plowman’s Tale, another is called The Tale of Beryn.

- It’s a pity the thing with the rat affected me the way that it did, because the rest of the story is quite engrossing.

- And ‘The Bone-Turner’s Tale’ is so evil it makes other books bleed. That’s… definitely something.

- And we get static when Sebastian describes the books bleeding.

- Sebastian pointing out how ambiguous it is as to whether the bone-turner is traveling with the other pilgrims or if he’s just following (stalking) them feels… right, for this kind of series. Horror thrives on ambiguity, on puzzles where there’s just enough empty space or there’s a couple of pieces missing, so we don’t know what the whole picture is supposed to look like.

- The fact that the technical quality of the prose is mediocre is oddly hilarious. Because, you know: evil book that gives people the ability to manipulate bones.

- More static when Sebastian quotes the book.

- Why am I not surprised it’s a Jurgen Leitner book? From now on, I’m just going to assume that any weird book that shows up in this series is a Leitner book.

- The description of Jared’s “modifications” is excellent. Especially the extra limbs and the ribcage modified to be a mouth. Pushing the boundaries on what counts as human, aren’t we?

- I wonder how Jared was running. Was he scuttling along like a giant spider, or something?

- I do wonder what the cops (and the library staff, for that matter) thought about the bloody books. How do you look at something like that without having some kind of comment?

- And Jonathan is predictably rather ill with the thought of another surviving Leitner tome having slipped through the cracks.

- Yeah, Jared attacked and mangled Sebastian so severely that he died, and had a closed-casket funeral. I really doubt Mrs. Hopworth is still with us.

EP 018: ‘The Man Upstairs’

- Here’s another one that reminds me of Ito Junji’s work.

- I understand that in the U.K., the floor numbers in buildings go top-bottom, instead of bottom-top. At least, that’s the impression I’ve gotten. So the fact that Toby Carlisle is said to live on the first floor I take to mean that he lived in what in the U.S. would be called the second floor.

- The smell Christof associates with Toby in the beginning—a combination of pavement after rain on a hot day and spoiled chicken—makes me wonder when exactly Toby started nailing up the meat. Did he start small at first, so that you’d only notice if you got a whiff of it through an open window or door? Or was it his association with the entity in question that made him smell like that—did he just carry the odor of decay with him wherever he went?

- It’s interesting that Toby did the hammering meat onto the walls once every two weeks, on the dot. Did he have a schedule he had to keep to?

- The description of the carpet in front of Toby’s door… ick.

- Interestingly enough, I think we got a little bit of static when Toby said “What do you want?” Do the distortions extend to human agents of the entities we’ve seen in the series?

- Oh, God, I’ve finally figured out what the viscous, off-white liquid seen in the episode is. It’s liquefied fat, isn’t it?

- The plumber’s visit… You know, my senior year working towards my anthropology degree, the washing machine in the dorm above the one my roommates and I lived in broke down and flooded the upstairs dorm—and ours, too, eventually. I can’t begin to describe how fortunate I feel right now that the only thing that came pouring out of the light fixtures in the kitchen was soapy water.

- The interior of Toby Carlisle’s flat, this is what reminded me of Ito Junji’s work. Can’t you just imagine him drawing something like this? I’m pretty sure he has drawn something at least vaguely similar to this before; I’d go and check, but that would require me to look at it again, so no, thank you. (I think it was in a oneshot manga called ‘Greased.’ Only vaguely similar, but way too similar for me to want to look at it.)

- The description of the flat is actually quite good. Probably the only reason I can deal with it is because I don’t have to look at or smell it.

- Was… Toby trying to summon some kind of meat entity with this nailing up meat all over his flat? Was that why the meat thing with all the eyes was in the kitchen? And I suppose it just sort of winked out of existence when it realized it had been spotted.

- “It opened its eyes. It opened all its eyes.” I’ll… just leave this here.

- It’s interesting that the cops, the fire department, and the hospital all give such different accounts. I would have liked to see what the inconsistencies entailed. I feel like that could be very telling.

- I’m glad Christof got some counseling.

- I think the stinger in this episode is the best one up so far. Where was Toby getting all the meat?

#ncfan listens to The Magnus Archives

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selenaparker · 3 years

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fibreclean · 3 years

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the-magnus-archives-archiver · 6 years

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The Boneturner’s Tale

Case:9991006

Name: Sebastian Adekoya Subject: New acquisition at Chiswick Library Date: June 10th, 1999 Recorded by: Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London

Books are amazing, aren’t they? I mean, when you think about what they really are. People don’t give the actuality of language the weight it deserves, I feel. Words are a way of taking your thoughts, the very make-up of yourself, and giving them to another. Putting your thoughts in the mind of someone else. They are not a perfect method, of course, as there’s plenty of scope for mutation and corruption between your mind and that of the listener, but that doesn’t change the essence of what language is. Spoken aloud though, the thought dies quickly if not picked up. Simple vibrations that vanish almost as soon as they are created, though if they find a host then they can lodge there, proliferate and maybe spread further. Still, it is not a reliable method in terms of a thought’s endurance, as humans are fragile creatures and rarely last a century.

A book, though, is another story. There are written texts that have outlived the civilisations that created them. Imagine, thoughts hundreds, thousands of years old, preserved and ready to be taken again. Corrupted, or translated, perhaps, by a culture that does not understand them, but still, ideas that have outlived by lifetimes the mind that first conceived them. Will the thoughts that first ran through Shakespeare’s head ever stop being thought by someone, somewhere? And a book, so dense with a mind’s fossilised creations, is it any wonder they have been ascribed such power throughout the ages? Or that an old library, with heavy tomes covering every wall, seems to have such a weight to it, beyond the physical presence of the texts it holds?

I used to work at Chiswick Library. I didn’t have such ideas back then, though. I just knew I loved books, always had, and so when the opportunity arose to work in my local library I jumped at the chance. I had been a voracious reader ever since I was old enough to hold a book for myself, and even before that my mother tells me I would pester her constantly to read to me. I suppose you might say my mind has always been receptive to the thoughts that lurk in the written page. Still, Chiswick Library is a long way from the cramped and austere libraries you’re probably imagining. It’s light and airy, with bookshelves and carpets that speak more of cash-strapped local councils than of the rich majesty of knowledge. It has an extensive children’s section and the vast majority of its stock are dog-eared paperbacks of true crime, literary fiction and reference books. It has a modest collection of books on tape and the atmosphere, though quiet, is far from oppressive. In a word, I would sum the place up as ‘unthreatening’.

It was three years ago when this happened. I had already been working there for about a year when the book first turned up. Now, we used to buy all of our books new, and I never did any of the acquisitions for the library, so I couldn’t say when or where it might have been bought from, but it looked old and pretty beaten up when I first noticed it. It was handed back with four other books at the front desk, and as I was scanning them through I noticed that one of the barcodes didn’t seem to match up. The barcode and ISBN both registered as being that of Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh, but the book itself was an almost featureless black paperback, with a title on the front in a faded white serif font: The Boneturner’s Tale.

I was a bit confused, and called the librarian, Ruth Weaver, over to ask about it. She didn’t recall seeing it ever before, but stuck in the front was the ex-libris bookplate of Chiswick Library, as well as a lending label with a handful of stamps going back several years. Ruth shrugged and told me not to worry too much about it – we’d get it recorded and put on the system properly, but something about the situation bothered me, so I decided to check the record of the man who had returned it. His name, at least according to his library card, was Michael Crew, and sure enough three weeks ago he had borrowed four books from us. Specifically, the four others he had returned. I suggested to Ruth that perhaps he was a self-published author who was trying to trick his way onto our shelves, and she laughed, saying it was probably it, although why anyone would go to the trouble of faking it just to get on the shelves of Chiswick Library was beyond her. The book even looked worn, though, like it had seen decades of being read, with a line creased down the spine and one half of the cover faded from the sun. Nor, from what I could see, did it list any author at all.

It was at that moment that Jared Hopworth came in, and I had to put the book to one side. Jared and I had once been fast friends; growing up on the same road, attending the same schools, we had spent much of our early life as inseparable. But he had always been, well, not to put too fine a point on it, thick as mud, and when I went away to university, he stayed behind. I think he saw it as something of a betrayal, and when I finally returned, I knew immediately something had changed between us. He spent the time I was away becoming a bit of a crook, and upon my return began what would eventually become a campaign of petty terror. He was always very careful to stop before he did anything that might get the police involved, and I guess there was enough leftover affection from a childhood spent together that I never really thought about reporting him. It wa–

[John: Oh, erm, hello Elias.

Elias: Do you have a moment?

John: Not really, I’m sort of in the middle of something.

Elias: I understand, it’s just that Miss. Herne has lodged a complaint.

John: A complaint? I could just as easily complain about her wasting my time!

Elias: That’s not how it works, Jonathan.

John: I wouldn’t even have had to do the recording if Rosie kept her equipment in better condition.

Elias: Regardless, I would prefer that you not antagonise anyone connected to the Lukas family. They are patrons of the Institute, after all.

John: Fine, fine, I’ll be more lovely. Now, can I get back to work?

Elias: Very well. By the way, have you seen Martin?

John: Oh, he’s off sick this week. Stomach problems, I think. Blessed relief if you ask me. Statement resumes.

It was worst when Jared visited the library, because that inevitably meant that he was bored enough to seek me out for harassment. Sure enough, he started chatting with me, meaningless jibes that served to wait it out until Ruth, who didn’t know about Jared’s problems with me, returned to her office and closed the door. As soon as she had done so, he turned and in a single movement tipped over the metal returns cart, spilling the recently received books all over the floor. He smiled at me and apologised. I did my best not to show any irritation, or indeed any reaction at all as I slowly walked around and bent down to start collecting them. As I rose to my feet I felt an impact on the back of my head and staggered. Behind me, Jared stood holding the book I had put aside, The Boneturner’s Tale, and had apparently picked it up to hit me with. But rather than offering me a fake apology or further violence, instead his eyes were locked on the book. We stood there in silence for a few seconds until he said something about needing something new to read, turned around and walked off.

I was, I will admit, a bit unsettled. As far as I could recall I had never seen Jared read... well, anything, really. And the look in his eyes when he had left had something in it not entirely unlike fear. Still, it was a welcome relief to have him gone, and I quickly tidied up the rest of the books before Ruth noticed anything amiss.

There was nothing else I recall that happened that day at the library, but on the way home afterwards I passed by Jared’s house. I had moved back in with my parents while I got everything sorted out after university, and he had never moved out of his childhood home, so we still lived on the same street. It was late September at this point, so by the time I had walked back from the library it was dark, and I noticed a small shape moving in the pool of orange light below the streetlamp.

As I got closer, I realised with a slight start that it was a rat, and not a dirty, wild rat but a large, white one, quite well-kept and clearly once a pet. But there was something very wrong with it. It was dragging itself slowly, pulling from the front legs, and I saw that the back half of it was flat, as though deflated somehow. I thought it must have been run over, but there was no blood or sign of crushing, nor did it seem to be in any actual pain. It just had a back half that flopped and twitched obscenely as it made its gradual way across the lighted pavement and out into the darkness. I just stood there and watched, transfixed by it, until it disappeared from view. Thinking about it now, I remember its head was turned at a strange angle, far further round than it should have been, although I might be getting confused. Many of these experiences run together when I look back on them. There was no light on in Jared’s house, but I hurried home quickly after that.

I didn’t see Jared again for some time. At first I was just happy for the space, but as the days turned into weeks I started to feel something I wouldn’t have expected to – worry. If it hadn’t been for the way he had left last time it probably wouldn’t have bothered me, but he had looked so strange, and even without him coming to the library it was rare I would go a week without seeing him. By now it had almost been a month. Still, I resisted the urge to go to his house and check. If it turned out he was fine, then I’d be inviting a whole world of unpleasantness, and besides that, I reminded myself, he wasn’t my problem anymore.

It was late October when Jared’s mother came in. It was near the end of the day, and outside was already dark. I was putting up a display about good Hallowe’en reads before heading home, when I heard the door open. I turned around and there she was. It took me a few seconds to recognise her, if I’m honest. I hadn’t seen much of her in the years since Jared and I had been close, and she had aged noticeably. Mrs. Hopworth wore a bulky overcoat, though it wasn’t that cold yet, and her arm hung down in a sling. Something about the angle of the arm and how it hung there seemed faintly abnormal, and I wondered if she had broken it.

When I asked Mrs. Hopworth if she was okay she just stared at me, her eyes burning with hatred. With her good arm she reached into her coat and pulled out a small, black paperback. She threw it on the floor without saying a word and turned to leave. I couldn’t help myself, I asked her if (17) was alright. She spun back and started to swear violently at me, told me I had no business with her son and that I, and my books, were to stay away from him. As she spoke, I couldn’t look away from her arm and the odd ways it twisted as she gestured. How her fingers seemed to bend the wrong way. I was glad that Ruth had gone home early as I didn’t want her to witness the disturbing confrontation I had now apparently caused.

When she had finished, Mrs. Hopworth spat towards me, though I noticed she was careful to avoid spitting at the book that now lay on the floor between us, and left. I put down the copy of Stephen King’s Misery that I now realised I’d been clutching, and approached the discarded volume that lay on the carpet. The battered black cover seemed the same as when I had first seen it weeks ago, with that faded white title on the front: The Boneturner’s Tale. I reached down to pick it up, but before I did so a thought flashed across my mind, a memory of the last time I had seen Jared, and I grabbed some tissues from the desk before using them to pick up the book. Even then I felt my skin crawl as I held it.

I decided not to deal with it that night. I wasn’t entirely sure that reading it in the daytime would be that much better, but shadows cast from outside seemed to have gotten that much starker since the book had been brought back into my library, and it scared me. I placed it in the book returns cart and left, double-checking I had firmly locked the door behind me.

It rained heavily that night. My room is in a converted attic and when the weather is bad it’s as if I can hear every raindrop against the window that is just above my bed. It wasn’t a storm, there wasn’t the wind for it, it was just that heavy pounding rain that drummed and beat on the glass above me. I couldn’t sleep. There was a nagging apprehension in my mind, something that after three hours lying in bed had turned into almost a panic. How could I have just left the book? There was something wrong with it, that much was obvious. What if Ruth came in earlier than I did tomorrow and took it? What would happen to her? Should I have destroyed it?

That last thought was quickly pushed away. I wasn’t sure I had it in me to destroy a book, even one with such a strangeness to it. It surprised me just how easily I accepted that The Boneturner’s Tale had dark powers, but I suppose I’ve always felt that books have a sort of magic to them, so it was really just a confirmation of what I had suspected, deep down, for a long time.

It was two in the morning when I decided that I couldn’t just leave it there overnight. I got up, dressed and, quietly, headed out into the rain towards the library, making sure to take my gloves. My coat was supposed to be water resistant but still managed to soak in the twenty minutes it took me to walk there. I had the key from locking up that night, and deactivated the alarm as I entered.

It was almost pitch black inside, and part of me wanted to keep it that way, but I turned on as many of the lights as I could without it being immediately obvious outside the building. It wasn’t many, and I still had to half-feel my way through the foyer and into the library proper. As I approached the desk and the book returns cart where I had left The Boneturner’s Tale I began to step less cautiously. It was darker in that corner of the library and I put a hand out to steady myself against the handle of the small metal cart. I’d taken my gloves off at that point and my hand came away wet. I quickly fumbled for the torch I had snatched before heading out and turned it on. Red dripped and pulsed from the cart, soaking the pages and forming a small pool around it. The books were bleeding.

I laughed at that. It seemed so appropriate somehow, so utterly correct that those neighbouring books should suffer, should be contaminated by it. Just as it seemed right and proper that, when my torch found The Boneturner's Tale, it was dry, unmarked by the gory scene around it.

I put my gloves back on and carefully took out that sinister volume and placed it on the desk. Perhaps I should have fought harder against the temptation to look inside but my curiosity was too strong. The thick gloves made turning individual pages almost impossible, and I still had enough good sense to keep them on, so I just opened it on a few random pages and started reading. Perhaps I was being paranoid. After all, I touched the book with my bare hands when it was first given in to the library, and had no problems, but the image of Jared’s mother wouldn't leave my head. How her arm had twisted when it moved. I decided to keep the gloves on.

It was written in prose, and certainly seemed to be a story of some kind. The part I read dealt with an unnamed man, at various points referred to as the Boneturner, the Bonesmith or just the Turner, watching an assembled group of people as they made their way into a small village. It's unclear from what I read whether he is travelling with them, or simply following them, but I remember being unsettled by the details he observed in them: the way the parson would move his hand over his mouth whenever he stared too long at the nuns or how the cook looked at the meat he prepared with the same eyes that looked at the pardoner. It was only at that point that I realised the book was describing the pilgrims from The Canterbury Tales.

Now, this certainly wasn't some lost section of a Chaucer classic. It was written in modern English, with none of the archaic spelling or pronunciation of the original, and besides that the writing itself was of questionable quality. There was something compelling about it, though. The debate about how finished The Canterbury Tales were... well, it's a very real debate. In the Prologue, over a hundred tales are promised, but the most complete surviving version doesn't even reach two dozen. The book just sort of ends, with Chaucer adding a short epilogue imploring God for forgiveness. A plea that is generally read as sarcastic or rhetorical.

I flicked ahead a few pages, and found the Bonesmith had apparently crept up to the Miller while he slept. It described him silently reaching inside him, and... it's a bit hazy. All I remember clearly is the line “and from his rib a flute to play that merry tune of marrow took”. And as for the rest, I don't recall in detail, but I know that I almost threw up, and that the Miller did not survive. This was on page sixteen, and it was a thick book.

I turned to the frontispiece, desperately curious as to how this book had ended up in our library. In the harsh light of the torch, I could see the creases and peeling edges of the Chiswick Library label, which usually meant it had been removed and re-stuck, or taken from another book entirely. I could even see the edges of another label underneath. Using a pair of scissors, I carefully peeled off the top one, but was disappointed. It was the label for another library, probably the last place it had been left, although I think it must have been in Scandinavia, because it was something like the library of Jergensburg or Jurgenleit or Jurgerlicht or something like that. It didn't help me.

I was all set to return to reading the thing, when I heard the sound of breaking glass behind me. I turned around to see Jared Hopworth standing in front of the shattered window. Or at least, I assume it was Jared, as it demanded the book from me in Jared’s voice, but wore lose fitting trousers, and a thick coat with a hood that almost completely covered his face. Or its face.

He was longer than Jared had been, and stood at a strange angle, as though his legs were too stiff to use. When he gestured for the book, I saw that his fingers looked... sharp, as though the skin at the ends were being pushed into a tight point by something inside. I told him that the library was closed, because at that moment I could think of nothing else to say. He ignored me, and demanded again that I give him the book. That was when I did something a little rash, which is to say I punched him.

I had never really thrown a punch in anger before, or even desperation, so it came as quite a shock to me when I managed to drive a single, solid fist into his solar plexus. But as I did this, and this is the part that still gives me nightmares, I felt his flesh give way and almost retract, drawing me in close. And then I felt his ribs shift, shut tight around my hand, as though his ribcage were trying to bite me. They were sharper then I would have thought possible, and at last, this was what actually started me screaming. Never before or since have I ever screamed like that, and I'm still a bit surprised I'm capable of making such a noise, but there you have it.

In my panic I dropped the copy of The Boneturner's Tale and, in less than a second, Jared was on it. He released my hand and grabbed it with a frantic desperation, before he turned to run back out the way he came in. I started to chase after him, until I saw how he was moving. How many limbs he had. He had... added some extras. That was the moment it finally all got too much for me; I stopped running. It wasn't my book, it wasn't my responsibility and I had no idea what I was dealing with, so I didn't. I just stood there in a daze and watched the thing that was once Jared disappear out into the rain. I never saw him again.

The police turned up soon after. Someone had apparently heard my screams and called in a report. I spun some tale about falling asleep at my desk and being woken up by an attempted robbery. God knows how I explained the bloody books, because it wasn't some disappearing phantom. It took weeks to get out. Everyone seemed to believe me, though, and miraculously I kept my job. I haven't seen Jared in the years since, and I haven't done any further research on the book. The best scenario I can possibly imagine is that this statement is the last I ever need to hear or speak about Jared Hopworth or The Boneturner's Tale.

Archivist Notes:

Well, this makes me... deeply unhappy. I've barely scratched the surface of the archives and have already uncovered evidence of two separate surviving books from Jurgen Leitner's library. Until he mentioned that, I was tempted to dismiss much of it out of hand, but as it stands now I believe every word. I've seen what Leitner's work can do, and this news, even 17 years out of date, is still very concerning to me. I'm going to have a discussion with Elias as to what we can do to address the issue. I know he'll just give me the old “record and study, not interfere or contain” speech again, but I at least need to make him aware of it.

Tim and Sasha have cross-referenced the events here with police reports, and sure enough there was a warrant issued for the arrest of Jared Hopworth for breaking and entering, as well as assault. He was never found, though, and the crimes weren't serious enough to keep the case active for very long. I've been doing as much research myself as possible, but the book seems to have vanished along with him. I asked Martin to try and hunt down Mr. Adekoya himself for a follow-up, but have been informed that he passed away in 2006. He was found lying dead in the middle of the road on the night of April 17th.

Despite the fact that there were no crushing or trauma marks on the body, the inquest ruled it a hit-and-run car accident due to the mangled position in which he was found. It was a closed casket funeral.

Source: Official Transcript and Podcast (MAG 17 The Boneturner’s Tale)

#the magnus archives #magnus archives #MAG #MAG17 #MAG 17 #TheBoneturnersTale #the boneturner's tale #Statement #Leitner #Jurgen Leitner #The Library of Jurgen Leitner #book #The Flesh

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purplebass · 4 years

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Dark Light Ch. 2 // Blackdale

Here’s Chapter 2! Hope you like it .💜💖

Couple/Characters: Blackdale, Lucie Herondale and Jesse Blackthorn Rating: T

✨ You can also find it on AO3 ✨

Chapter 1

Lucie got back to the Institute right before her brother James knocked on her door at seven, telling her that breakfast was about to be ready. She barely had the time to hide the Black Volume under her bed, take off her cloak, and jump under her blanket. She lazily opened her eyes when James’ head peeked inside of her room. She washed her face and moved on with her day as if nothing had changed overnight. She couldn’t do it otherwise.

She was amazed at how easily she had kept a straight face, not betraying a hint of emotion in front of her friend Cordelia either, whom she met for lunch.

She replayed what happened only when night descended, and she was alone again.

Jesse woke up. He woke up but didn’t remember her. He also forgot that he had died, along with everything he did while he was a ghost. Including knowing her. That had hurt Lucie the most, but she didn’t want to think about it too much. It could be solved, she believed. But she didn’t know how. Perhaps his memories would return with time.

She was planning to visit Chiswick again, when she heard someone laugh in the corridor and she came out of her room.

“Oh, Lucie. You’re still awake?” questioned Matthew. He didn’t have his jacket on, and looked wasted. He was probably keeping James company.

“It’s not that late, Matthew,” she shrugged, and passed him to go to the drawing room.

She found Thomas and Christopher there, sitting on the carpet in front of the fire. They both greeted her when she entered the room, but then kept playing chess.

She shook her head. Of all the nights, they had to be here… “What happened to the Devil’s Tavern?” she asked abruptly.

“It’s still there, Lucie,” Thomas replied, not taking his eyes off the board.

“I still haven’t blown that up,” Kit giggled, glancing at her briefly. “Wait, you meant why are we not there?”

“Yes.”

“Go ask your brother,” Kit answered, making Lucie impatient. If she wanted to sneak out, she had to plan her exit carefully.

She left the boys alone, and returned to her room. She had kept the lights dim, because she didn’t plan on writing that night. For some reason, she wasn’t inspired. She had been too bothered by real life to care about her stories. But it may help to write, since she hadn’t been able to think about anything else.

She was about to sit at her desk when she jumped. She tried not to make any sound, because she didn’t want the intruder to think they had scared her. She had noticed a figure in the shadow corner of her bedroom in time. “I saw you, James,” she said, then started arranging her things in order to start writing something in the meantime the boys in the other room would fall asleep and she could sneak out. She turned to the shadow. “James, you can move. I saw you,” she chuckled. “I’m not little anymore. You didn’t scare me.”

She didn’t notice that he had gotten closer to the desk. “I have a few doubts about it.”

She jumped in her seat, but this time, she gasped. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“You seemed eager to take me with you, yesterday,” Jesse said. He was smirking. At least his smile was still the same.

“What changed your mind?”

“Grace. I met her when I was about to get in my house, and she couldn’t believe -” he sighed, casting a glance at Lucie’s typing machine for a moment,” she was shocked. She confirmed that I have been dead for seven years, and that you were trying to help my case.”

“So you believe me, now,” she raised an eyebrow.

“I believed Grace. You have yet to prove yourself, Lucie Herondale,” he answered cautiously.

“I don’t have to prove anything to you,” Lucie replied surly, unable to keep a neutral tone. She turned to face the window. The room turned cold all of a sudden, and she was getting discouraged.

Who was this person and where her boy from the forest had run to? The Jesse she knew wasn’t this haughty. Well, not this much. He was conceited, but not like this. As a ghost, he never acted as if he was above everyone else, and he hadn’t been distrustful.

She had never met Jesse before he died. What if he had been like this? What if being a ghost smoothed his personality? She would never know. The only thing she could do was accept that he may never return the person she knew the past few months.

Lucie turned. He was still hovering on the desk, but this time, there were a few papers in his hand. He was reading what she had written.

She marched towards him and seized the papers as if they were catching fire in his hands and she needed to protect him. Or herself. She had let him read some of her writing while he was a ghost, but there were things that she would never disclose to anyone. Especially because some of those stories concerned him.

“Manners,” Lucie said, aggravated.

“I couldn’t help myself,” he said, shrugging. “I apologize.”

She glared at him and used a rune to light the fire in the hearth. She could feel him moving behind her.

“About what I read, though,” he continued, his voice close, “it wasn’t bad quality. Why don’t you want anyone to read it?”

Lucie turned abruptly when she was done, and her eyes widened. She realized he had gotten closer, but still far enough for comfort. She focused on his eyes. “I read those to you,” she said benevolently. “When you were a ghost.”

He nodded. “I’m sorry I can’t remember.”

He seemed genuinely upset about it. Something constricted in Lucie’s chest. Me too, she thought. Me too.

“You apologized two times in less than an hour,” she said instead. She was teasing him, of course. That was the closest he ever got to the way he used to be. Perhaps he had been just wary the day before.

He managed a smile. “And I’m not done with apologies,” he sighed, and sat down on Lucie’s armchair in front of the hearth. He extended his arms towards the fire, and she realized that he hadn’t changed his clothes. “In fact -”

“You must be freezing,” Lucie murmured, interrupting his sentence.

He gazed at her, but she had already grabbed the blanket she kept on the edge of her bed, and offered it to him. He didn’t hesitate to take it. She didn’t miss the shy smile he made when he wrapped it around himself. “I wanted to apologize to you, Lucie,” he continued, “you were right about my mother.”

Lucie was surprised. “Didn’t you say Grace was right?” she inquired, raising an eyebrow.

“Grace is right, but so are you,” he admitted. “I told you that when I was about to enter the house, my sister intercepted me. She said you had sent her a message claiming that you had made it, and to come as soon as possible.”

Lucie was grateful that the message had come through, at least.

“She warned me not to let my mother see me, lest she will not let me out of her sight,” he recounted, glancing at the flames as he spoke. “It sounded like madness, but she used to do it when we were young; it wasn’t completely out of character. My sister told me she is residing at the Bridgestocks, and to hide for the time being.”

“So you came here,” she said, matter of factly.

Jesse gazed up at her. “I haven’t been brought up a shadowhunter like you, Lucie, but I know that Institutes also serve as shelters for other shadowhunters.”

Lucie felt a pang of sadness in her stomach. She realized he hadn't come because of her. “And since I live in one, you came to me.” Saying out loud hurt less. She managed a smile, and crossed her arms on her chest. “Well, we can’t help it, then,” she said gravely, trying not to betray her true emotions.

“Does this mean I can stay?” he wondered with elation.

“Of course you can stay, Jesse,” she said. “But you must stay in this room.”

“What?”

“Look, you were dead. No one but me and your sister knows you’re alive, and your mother is going to find out once she goes to check on your casket,” she informed him. “And I, I -” Lucie shook his head, trying to make whatever scenario she was conjuring up there go away, “If someone were to find you’re alive, it won’t take much to find out how you came back to life.”

“Because they would point their fingers at you,” Jesse realized.

“Exactly,” Lucie confirmed, walking around the room. “I don’t want to limit your freedom, Jesse. But i think it’s better for you to stay here until we know what your mother is going to do.”

He nodded, and turned to the fire again, setting himself more cozily on the armchair. “You make it sound as if she’s planning murder.”

“Trust me. She might if she knows you’re not where you’re supposed to be and you’re here.”

“Because you’re a Herondale?”

“No,” she replied. “Because I’m a shadowhunter.”

He didn’t say anything more after that, and Lucie went to rearrange her notebooks in the meantime. She locked her door as well. Since James and her cousins were in the other room, they might knock on her door in the morning. She didn’t want Tatiana to find Jesse, but she also didn’t want anyone else to discover him there. A boy in her room. A boy who had been dead until the day before in her room. She passed a hand on her forehead when she thought of the consequences.

She thought he had fallen asleep on the chair a few minutes later, but then he spoke.

“I decided to trust you, Lucie,” he told her. “I’m tired now, I think I’m going to sleep.”

She grinned, unable to help herself. It was all so unreal, yet so tangible. He was there, sitting on her armchair. He was really sitting. The contours of his body were real. She still couldn’t believe it.

“Goodnight, Jesse,” she said.

“Goodnight, Lucie.”

#tsc #tlh #blackdale #lucie herondale #jesse blackthorn #the last hours #chain of gold #chain of iron #chain of thorns #the shadowhunter chronicles #tweety.writes #Tweety.txt

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