“That’s only happened a few times. It’s statistically very unlikely.” Ty raised his witchlight. “This is the Cornwall Institute.”

In the distance, Kit could see the glimmer of moonlight on black water. The sea. Above them the church was a heap of gray stone with broken black windows and a missing front door. The spire of the church stabbed upward into swirling clouds, lit from behind by the moon. He whistled through his teeth. “How long has it been abandoned?”

“Only a few years. Not enough Shadowhunters to man all the Institutes. Not since the Dark War.” Ty was glancing between the drawing in his hand and their surroundings. Kit could see the remains of a garden gone to seed: weeds growing up among dead rosebushes, grass far too long and in need of cutting, moss covering the dozens of statues that were scattered around the garden like victims of Medusa. A horse reared into the air beside a boy with a bird perched on his wrist. A stone woman held a dainty parasol. Tiny stone rabbits peeked through weeds.

“And we’re going inside?” Kit said dubiously. He didn’t like the look of the dark windows. “Wouldn’t we be better off coming during the day?”

“We’re not going inside.” Ty held up the drawing he’d brought. In the witchlight, Kit could see that it was an ink sketch of the Institute and the gardens, done during daylight hours. The place hadn’t changed much in the past two hundred years. The same rosebushes, the same statues. It looked as if the drawing had been done in winter, though, as the boughs of the trees were skeletal. “What we need is out here.”

“What do we need?” said Kit. “Indulge me. Explain what this has to do with my idle comment about ravens being unreliable.”

“It would be unreliable. The thing is, Malcolm didn’t say the raven was alive, or a real bird. We just assumed.”

“No, but—” Kit paused. He’d been about to say it didn’t make any sense to give your messages to a dead raven, but something about the look on Ty’s face silenced him.

“It actually makes more sense for them to have just left the messages in a hiding place,” said Ty. “One they could both get to easily.” He crossed the grass to the statue of the boy with the bird on his wrist.

A little jolt went through Kit. He didn’t know much about birds, but this one was carved out of glossy black stone. And it looked a lot like drawings he’d seen of ravens.

Ty reached around to run his fingers over the stone bird. There was a clicking noise, and a squeak of hinges. Kit hurried over to see Ty prying open a small opening in the bird’s back. “Is there anything in there?”

Ty shook his head. “It’s empty.” He reached into his pocket, retrieved a folded-up piece of paper, and dropped it into the opening before sealing it back up again.

Kit stopped in his tracks. “You left a message.”

Ty nodded. He’d folded up the drawing and put it in his pocket. His hand swung free at his side, the witchlight in it: Its light was dimmed, the moon providing enough illumination that they could both see.

“For Annabel?” said Kit.

Ty hesitated. “Don’t tell anyone,” he said finally. “It was just an idea I had.”

“It was smart,” said Kit. “Really smart—I don’t think anyone else would have guessed about the statue. I don’t think anyone else could have.”

“But it might not matter,” said Ty. “In which case I would have failed. And I’d rather no one know.” He began to murmur under his breath, the way he did sometimes.

“I’ll know.”

Ty paused in his murmuring. “I don’t mind,” he said, “if it’s you.”

Kit wanted to ask him why not, wanted to ask badly, but Ty looked as if he wasn’t sure he knew the answer himself. And he was still murmuring, the same soft stream of words that was somewhere between a whisper and a song. “What are you saying?” Kit asked finally, not sure if it was all right to ask, but unable to help his curiosity.

Ty glanced up at the moon through his lashes. They were thick and dark, almost childlike. They gave his face a look of innocence that made him look younger—a strange effect, at odds with his almost frighteningly sharp mind. “Just words I like,” he said. “If I say them to myself, it makes my mind—quieter. Does it bother you?”

“No!” Kit said quickly. “I was just curious what words you liked.”

Ty bit his lip. For a moment, Kit thought he wasn’t going to say anything at all. “It’s not the meaning, just the sound,” he said. “Glass, twin, apple, whisper, stars, crystal, shadow, lilt.” He glanced away from Kit, a shivering figure in his too-large hoodie, his black hair absorbing moonlight, giving none of it back.

“Whisper would be one of mine, too,” said Kit. He took a step toward Ty, touched his shoulder gently. “Cloud, secret, highway, hurricane, mirror, castle, thorns.”

“Blackthorns,” said Ty, with a dazzling smile, and Kit knew, in that instant, that whatever he’d been telling himself about running away for the past few days had been a lie. And maybe it had been that lie that Livvy had been responding to, when she’d snapped at him outside the magic store that day—the kernel inside his own heart that had told him he might still be leaving.

But he knew now that he could reassure her. He wasn’t leaving the Shadowhunters. He wasn’t going anywhere. Because where the Blackthorns were, was his home now.

22

THE MOST UNHOLY

When Emma woke the next morning, she found she had managed not to tie herself in a knot around Julian while sleeping. Progress. Maybe because she’d spent all night having terrible dreams where she saw her father again, and he peeled off his face to reveal that he was Sebastian Morgenstern underneath.

“Luke, I am your father,” she muttered, and heard Julian laugh softly. She staggered off to find her gear so she wouldn’t have to watch him getting up adorably sleepy-eyed and tousle-haired. She changed in the office while Julian showered and dressed; they met up for a quick breakfast of toast and juice, and were off to find Annabel.

It was nearly noon and the sun was high in the sky by the time they made it to Porthallow Church—apparently what was close for piskies wasn’t what humans would call nearby. Though Emma kept hearing the high voice of the piskie in her head. Killing close, it had said. Whatever that meant, she didn’t like the sound of it.

The church had been built on a cliff over a headland. The sea spread out in the distance, a carpet of matte blue. Clouds brushstroked across the sky, like a ball of cotton someone had picked apart and scattered. The air was full of the hum of bees and the scent of late wildflowers.

The area around the church was overgrown, but the building itself was in decent shape despite having been abandoned. The windows had been carefully boarded up, and a KEEP OUT: PRIVATE PROPERTY: YOU ARE TRESPASSING sign was nailed to the front door. Some small distance from the church was a little graveyard, its gray, rain-washed tombstones barely visible among the long grass. The church’s single square tower was cast in lonely relief against the sky. Emma adjusted Cortana on her back and glanced over at Julian, who was frowning down at her phone.