Hey, how are things? I wanted to update you on the situation here at Blackthorn Hall and find out how everything is going at Polyamorous Cottage, as Emma calls it. We think you guys should lean into that, by the way, maybe give the house a deliberate name like Polyam House or, like, Maison de Beaucoup Amours.
Sorry, I’m just teasing. You know we love you guys and we love that you’re all together. We miss you and look forward to visiting you at Booty Palace as soon as it’s feasible.
Meanwhile I’ve got a story for you—a story in which a warlock was wrong. Very, very wrong.
So as you know, we only have one more object to find of the ones Tatiana used to power the curse on Blackthorn Hall. Ragnor Fell pointed out a couple of locations intersecting ley-lines in central London that he thought would be likely places to look. One of them led us (eventually) to the Lightwood candlesticks. The other pointed to a random townhouse in an alley in Soho which Ragnor identified as the location of the “Hell Ruelle.” He said when he knew it, it was a Downworlder club of some notoriety—a “salon” where Downworlders came to discuss art and politics, gamble, drink, and watch other Downworlders dance erotically: his words, not mine. He made it sound like it was quite scandalous in his day, known for a kind of bawdy excess but also for attracting all the most prominent and intellectual Downworlders of the city. Like, halfway between an academic symposium and a burlesque club, that’s open 24 hours and serves alcohol. We could tell from Ragnor’s tone that he disapproved, but since I’ve almost never known Ragnor to approve of anything, that wasn’t a big surprise.
He also said that they weren’t fond of Shadowhunters, so we put on the clothes we thought might be most appropriate to a Soho club — Emma put on a little flowered dress and I grabbed a couple of things out of the Groovy Sixties Wardrobe, figuring they had a hipster vibe at this point — and went when we thought it would be busy, around ten on a Friday night.
Sooooooo it turns out that Ragnor’s information was somewhat out of date. The Hell Ruelle is still a club all right, and a Downworlder club, but now it’s the other kind of club. The one full of very old men in leather armchairs reading newspapers. Downworlder old men, at least. Some very white-haired werewolves, vampires dressed like it was 1840 (or they were on their way to a cosplay convention), some faeries that, speaking frankly, looked like gigantic dried fruit that had learned to read newspapers. There are little nooks and crannies that I guess must have been used for assignations and rendezvous and so on but now were mostly occupied by irate prunes complaining to equally pruny waiters that their soup wasn’t hot enough.
There is still a bar, of course. And gambling, though it seems to mostly be bridge. Poker would be a little too high-energy for this crew, I think. Anyway I have no idea what they made of us; Emma and I thought they would complain about our outfits or our being Shadowhunters but nobody paid us any attention at all. We were even walking around with the Sensor out and pointing it at things but no reaction.
The Sensor went off a few times but nowhere near any objects, just at random spots around the house, which Emma suggested were probably other ghosts not relevant to us. It certainly felt like the kind of place that would have a bunch of resident ghosts.
Finally the Sensor went off near an actual object. Unfortunately, it was a cardboard box—a little smaller than a shoebox, stuffed above some old books on one of the bookshelves, all of which, box, books, shelves, were covered in a significant amount of dust. The box looked like it had been wrapped as a gift—it was wrapped in bright gold paper and there was some ribbon tied around it—but when we opened it up it was totally empty.
We didn’t know what to do. I thought maybe the box itself was the cursed object, but I knew that was ridiculous. It must have been the thing that had been in the box. Eventually we worked up the courage to ask the bartender if we could see someone in charge, and surprisingly he just went in the back to get the guy, no questions asked. I guess there isn’t a lot of excitement there and he was happy to have something to do.
Anyway, the Hell Ruelle is run these days by a warlock named Zebulon Spoon, and his thing is that he has a cat head. Like, instead of a human head, his head is shaped like a cat’s, with the giant eyes and the whiskers and fur. He had cat ears on the top of his head but they were folded over, kind of like a dog’s. He was also wearing a jaunty brown hat with holes cut out for the ears. (“Magnus got off easy with his warlock mark” was my main takeaway.)
Anyway, he didn’t meow or anything, just narrowed his eyes at us and asked our business. He started to go into the Ruelle’s licenses and how they were all supporters of the Accords and I think there must be some history where the club refused membership to some Shadowhunters. We reassured him that we weren’t here about that but were instead doing some family history research, that we’d been led to this box but we weren’t sure what had been in it or where that thing had gotten to.
Spoon harumphed at us—he did a lot of harumphing—and said, “I do happen to know that box. I thought it had been discarded long ago. It contained a fish slice.”
“Like a knife?” Emma said.
Spoon looked affronted. “Like a fish slice,” he said to us, in a tone that suggested he thought we might be idiots.
Luckily Emma had her phone with her, and this turned out to be a bit of a language barrier between American and British language. Here, a “fish slice” means…well, a spatula.
“Someone gave a spatula as a present?” I said. “Just a spatula?”
The warlock looked more and more affronted by every question. “This fish slice was sterling silver,” he said. “It was a wedding present, long ago, from some Shadowhunters to some other Shadowhunters. It must be a hundred years or more. Here, I think there are some names on the outside, if they’re still readable.”
He was right. There was ink on the side, and it was fairly smudged with time, but we were able to make it out: “Congratulations W&T, with love from Henry and Charlotte.”
“Who were Henry and Charlotte?” Emma asked.
“No idea,” said Spoon. “This is all decades before I was born. I’m only seventy years old, you know.”
“A veritable spring chicken,” I said, and he looked pleased. Anything to keep him talking, I suppose.
“As I say, I don’t know how it made its way here,” Spoon went on. “When I came in here I found it in the Dark Magic Room.”
Obviously, we asked him what the “Dark Magic Room” was.
“You know,” he said, puzzled. “The Dark Magic Room. A lot of odds and ends are left here, you see, and most of them are just exploding with dark magic. None of the staff want anything to do with dark magic, of course. So those things are kept in the Dark Magic Room, which used to be a larder, I suppose, but it’s long been strongly warded. Occasionally someone comes looking for something they’ve left, so we keep them…safe.”
The way he looked at me I suddenly understood. It was not just a Lost and Found. They kept the dark magical artifacts safe…from Shadowhunters finding out about them and investigating.
“How often does that happen anymore?” said Emma, saying what I was thinking. The crowd in the club didn’t seem like they would bring in that kind of excitement.
“Well, the Ruelle used to be a lot different than it is today,” Spoon allowed. “We’ve done a lot of work over the years to make it a more respectable place, where Downworlders can find a little peace and quiet. That’s a rarer and rarer commodity, I’ve found, peace and quiet. Intrigue and adventure they can get in all the rest of the city, these days.”
“You were telling us about the Dark Magic Room,” I politely said. “And the fish slice.”
“Quite,” Spoon said, blinking. “As I was saying, when I came on we set a new policy for the Dark Magic Room. Anything over a hundred years old was getting binned. Or at least it wasn’t staying here. Immortal we may be, but it’s my feeling that if a vampire or a warlock doesn’t need something for a hundred years, they probably aren’t going to need it later either.” We nodded. Spoon folded his arms. “So I traded the fish slice to a phouka for a hat.”
The last sentence was so abrupt that I just said, “Pardon?”
“I traded the fish slice,” said Spoon in a reasonable tone of voice, “to a phouka. For a hat. This hat, in fact. You see it has holes for my ears to stick through.”
Emma nodded thoughtfully in a way that suggested she had no idea what to say. “Couldn’t you just have cut ear holes in a regular hat?” I said.
Of course not, Spoon explained. “That would ruin the hat,” he said. “This one was made like this. Also, as I said, I was trying to get rid of the fish slice. Frankly, just having it around was upsetting the mermaids. They were very relieved to have it out of here. Fish slicing indeed.”
“But it doesn’t actually slice fish,” Emma said. “It’s just a spatula.”
“Fish slicing indeed,” Spoon said. “Upsets them. Cuts them to the bone, in fact!” And then we had to wait about a full minute while he laughed at his own joke.
And now we get to the heart of the letter: we’re trying to track down this phouka and hoping Kieran might have a thought. A phouka who…makes hats? Maybe he likes to wave a silver spatula around? It’s a long shot, but it’s all we’ve got to go on. We don’t want to spook him, so if you do find him, you can tell him we want to commission some hats. I mean, we don’t need holes for cat ears but he does sound like he knows his stuff, hat-wise.
My love to K and C. Hope to hear from you soon.
