It’s been a quiet couple of days, and I’ve hated every single second. After I gave Jules the diary, he retreated to the half-painted ballroom to read it. When he’d come out, he’d look thoughtful, sometimes serious, but he didn’t want to talk about what he’d read. And Bruce — neither did I. Even though I knew Jules was upset with me for not telling him about the diary, I couldn’t explain why I hadn’t. And when I tried to think about why I hadn’t, my mind just skipped over the question, like a needle over a broken groove in a record.
We talked about other things. Round Tom, the curse on the house, a letter from Ty, a letter from Luke at the Academy about some trouble Dru got into with her roommate. (I feel like this is a good sign that she likes her roommate. It’s always good to have someone to be bad with.) But there was something faraway in Julian’s eyes, something distant and unapproachable.
It made me think of the bad times, when Julian and I couldn’t really talk, and every time I wanted to talk to him I couldn’t say what I felt, that I loved him, that I always would love him, because it was illegal and impossible. I had to fold the real meaning of what I wanted to say into ordinary conversation, so when I’d say How are you, or Are you using the car today, I’d really mean, I love you, I love you.
I was sitting on a stool in the kitchen this afternoon, marking boxes. Some of the old stuff in the manor we’re keeping to make a permanent part of the house. Some of it is getting packed up for the kids to go through, see if there’s anything they want to keep. There’s an old clock I think Ty will like, and some tin toy soldiers for Tavvy, and lots of creepy old lace for Dru to examine. I was kind of listlessly marking the contents of each box with a pen when Julian came into the kitchen, an odd expression on his face.
“Ask me about the diary, Emma,” he said.
I started a little. He looked so strange, and a little pale (maybe that’s just lack of sun . . . sorry, England!) So I put my pen down and asked him how reading the diary was going.
“I don’t remember,” he said, and then closed his eyes. When he opened them again they were blazing, like someone lit a fire behind that gorgeous blue-green color I love so much. “Except I do. I remember. But my mind doesn’t want me to say so. Mark texted me,” he added, and I nodded along, like I knew what this had to do with anything. “He said the diary was probably enchanted. And of course it is. Don’t you see? There’s a slippery sort of enchantment on it, one that makes you not want to talk about it after you’ve read it, or even think about it that much.”
Of course. It made so much sense — why I never seemed to remember to tell Jules about the diary, or anyone else; why I kept it hidden under the bed instead of in plain sight on the nightstand. I exhaled a shuddery breath. “I feel so stupid —“
“No.” Jules was across the room to me in a flash. He took my face between his hands, and a shiver went up my spine. He looked so serious, so intense. Jules had to grow up so fast, and in moments like this he almost scares me with how adult he seems — not that either of us are children, and we’ve been through a lot more than most people our age, but there’s something about his presence that he can summon up sometimes, something commanding.
It’s pretty hot, actually.
“No,” he said again. He gently stroked my cheekbone with his thumb. “Emma. It was a spell. It made you not think about the diary, it literally pulled the thoughts out of your mind — I know because it’s been happening to me, too. You can’t blame yourself. You can blame me — I should have guessed what was going on. I was too busy worrying that you were keeping something from me, when I should have known better.” His voice dropped, low and raspy. “Be angry at me,” he said. “I deserve it.”
I turned my head, kissed the palm of his hand. Felt the shiver that went through him. “There’s nothing to be angry about,” I whispered. “Just . . . “
“Take me to bed,” I said. I blushed, too. I don’t usually say that kind of thing but I didn’t care at the moment. His eyes widened and he pulled me right off the stool, lifted me up in his arms. I wrapped my legs around his waist, grabbed the lapels of his shirt, and kissed him. He groaned and kissed me back and then he was carrying me through the house, and we were kissing like we couldn’t breathe otherwise. He kicked open the door of the bedroom and we fell on the bed together . . .
And that’s it, Bruce. No more details for you. Suffice it to say that it was a while later and the sun had almost set when we started talking again, at least in words of more than one syllable. We were tangled up in the paisley sheets, and Jules was leaning over me, propped on one elbow. I was dancing my fingers up and down his arm, which was hard with muscle (thank you, Shadowhunter training.)
“Well,” I said. “That was nice, but I’m not sure it totally solved our problem.”
“Nice?” Julian looked outraged. “Puppies are nice. Fuzzy pajamas are nice. Kraig’s retirement party was nice. That was . . .”
“Spectacular,” I said. “There, are you happy?”
“Spectacular is a start.”
He grinned. “No. It doesn’t solve the problem. The diary has a spell on it, and we shouldn’t mess with it until the spell is off. I think we should go to the Shadow Market. See if we can find someone willing to remove the enchantment.”
“You don’t want to ask Magnus?”
“We can’t keep bothering Magnus.” He sat up, which provided me with a nice view. I enjoyed it for a while while he rummaged in the drawer of his nightstand. He turned back to me, holding a gift-wrapped package. He was wearing a serious expression. “I meant to give you this for Valentine’s Day,” he said. “But I don’t want to wait. I know you said there’s nothing to be angry about, but I’m still so sorry, Emma. I trust you, entirely. There’s never been anyone I trusted more.”
He gave me the package, which was good because I thought otherwise I might cry. It had been an emotional day. The present turned out to be a gorgeously framed picture of the two of us on the London Eye; I couldn’t even figure out how he’d gotten it framed, or when.
“We look so happy,” I said, delighted.
“I always want you to be that happy,” Julian said. “I want to make you that happy. And I’ll spend my life doing it.”
Then I did cry, and he kissed me, and well, that’s all you need to know, Bruce. Maybe I’ll tell you about the Shadow Market when we go. Until then . . .
