"Oh, it's a long way to Fowey," said the waitress. "But the path starts up behind the Blue Peter Inn." She pointed out the window, across the harbor. "There's a walking trail that goes up the hill. You turn onto the coastal path at the old net loft, it's all broken down now, you'll see it easy. It's just above the caves."
Emma raised her eyebrows. "The caves?"
The waitress laughed. "The old smugglers' caves," she said. "I guess you came in at high tide, didn't you? Or you'd have seen them for sure."
Emma and Julian exchanged a single look before scrambling to their feet. Heedless of the waitress's startled protests, they spilled out into the street beside the inn.
She'd been right, of course: The tide had come down and the harbor looked very different now, the boats beached on rises of muddy sand. Behind the harbor rose a narrow spit of land shingled with gray rocks. It was easy to see why it was called Chapel Cliff. The spit was tipped with gray rocks, which twisted narrowly up into the air like the spires of a church cathedral.
The water had lowered enough so that a great deal of the cliff was revealed. The sea had been pounding against the rocks when they'd arrived; now it sloshed quietly in the harbor, retreating to reveal a small, sandy beach, and behind it, the dark openings of several cave mouths.
Above the caves, perched on the steep slope of the cliff, was a house. Emma had barely spared it a glance when they'd first arrived-it had simply been one of many small houses that dotted the side of the harbor across from the Warren, though she could see now that it was farther out along the spit of land than any of the others. In fact, it was quite distant from them, standing small and alone between the sea and the sky.
Its windows were boarded up; its whitewash had peeled away in gray strips. But if Emma looked with her Shadowhunter eyes, she could see more than an abandoned house: She could see white lace curtains in the windows, and new shingles on the roof.
There was a mailbox nailed to the fence. A name was painted onto the box, in sloppy white letters, barely visible from this distance. They certainly wouldn't have been visible to a mundane, but Emma could see them.
FADE.
18
MEMORIES OF THE PAST
Jia Penhallow was seated behind the desk in the Consul's office, illuminated by the rays of the sun over Alicante. The spires of the demon towers glittered outside the window: red, gold, and orange, like shards of bloody glass.
She had the same warmth in her face Diana remembered, but she looked as if much more time had passed since the Dark War than five years. There was white in her black hair, which was pinned up elegantly on top of her head.
"It's good to see you, Diana," she said, inclining her head toward the chair opposite her desk. "We've all been very curious about your mysterious news."
"I imagine." Diana sat down. "But I was hoping what I had to say would stay between the two of us."
Jia didn't look surprised. Not that she would show it if she was. "I see. I'd wondered if you'd come about the Los Angeles Institute head position. I assumed you'd want to take over now that Arthur Blackthorn is dead." Her graceful hands fluttered as she shuffled and stacked papers, slotted pens into their holders. "It was very brave of him to approach the convergence alone. I was sorry to hear he was slain."
Diana nodded. For reasons none of them knew, Arthur's body had been found near the destroyed convergence site, covered in blood from his cut throat and in stains of ichor that Julian told her grimly were Malcolm's blood. There was no reason to contradict the official assumption that he had waged a solo assault on the convergence and been killed by Malcolm's demons.
At least Arthur would be remembered as brave, though it gave her a pang that he had been burned and buried without his nieces and nephews there to mourn him. That in fact, no one in the wider world would know he had sacrificed himself for his family. Livvy had said to her that she hoped they would be able to have a remembrance ceremony for him when they all went to Idris. Diana hoped so too.
Jia didn't seem nonplussed by Diana's silence. "Patrick remembers Arthur from when they were boys," she said, "though I'm afraid I never knew him. How are the children coping?"
The children? How did you explain that the Blackthorns' second father had been their older brother since he was twelve years old? That Julian and Emma and Mark weren't children at all, really, having suffered enough for most adults' entire lifetimes? That Arthur Blackthorn had never, really, run the Institute, and the whole idea that he needed to be replaced was like an elaborate and terrible joke?
"The children are devastated," Diana said. "Their family has been fragmented, as you know. What they want is to return to Los Angeles, their home."