Magnus and the Lightwood brothers stood in the doorway of the London Institute, where stacks of piled chests, suitcases, and bags stood, waiting to be moved out of the entrance hall and unpacked. In the hands of the two boys were letters. Gideon's chest hurt with the fading memory of the manor, visions of the place already shifting and slipping away. He hadn't spent enough time there recently. He hadn't said goodbye. He put a hand to his chest, at the point where his ribs met, and let out a long and steadying exhalation. Gabriel, on the other hand, was glaring at the skirting board where the wall met the floor as if it had committed a personal injustice to him. He could not – would not – show any sign of grief or weakness. But his whole body was leaden with overwhelming sadness. His eyes narrowed in outward anger, and internal blinding agony.

"Can I help you take this upstairs?" Magnus offered, nodding to the belongings in the hall. "Magic is a marvellous thing. I could move all of this to your rooms in moments."

"We're quite alright. Thank you." Gabriel said hollowly, not trusting himself to look up at that warlock. Magnus, however much the Lightwood was untrusting of him, radiated an aura of understanding that made Gabriel want to tell him how much it hurt. But he wouldn't, of course. He turned his face away and to the floor.

Magnus nodded and turned to leave.

"Magnus, wait." Gideon said and the warlock turned in the doorway. "We...we did not have much luck in speaking to Camille on our last mission. We would like for you to accompany us next time we attempt it."

Magnus nodded. "It would be my pleasure." He said, and shut the door behind him, clicking his fingers to ensure the bolt flew home in a cloud of blue.

The two brothers turned in different directions when the hallways forked, and disappeared to their own rooms. Whilst neither wanted to be alone, they also wanted to give one another privacy to grieve. Gabriel laid the letter addressed to his sister, Tatiana, out on his dresser and sat on the bed to read his own correspondence. His father's cursive on the envelope was shakier than usual and his heart heaved. He reached for the butter knife on the tray of afternoon tea Sophie must have brought before he arrived, and prised open the envelope. He edged out the parchment inside and began to read.

Dear Gabriel,

You, your brother and sister, are the heirs to the Lightwood name. You are what is left of a noble family that has endured for centuries. It is a title that precedes you. You must shape what it means to be a Lightwood now, and make it something that is worth further endurance. Treat your fellow shadowhunters with the eloquence, elegance, and dignity the Lightwood name commands and hold yourself tall with pride, honour, and the intelligence that I know you to possess.

With Gideon gone for so long, I know you often have felt alone. You are not. Make peace with your brother, and know that in dark days the Angel watches over you. Let your stoicism bring honour to Raziel and the family name. Accept help, and know it can be found in the most unlikely of places from the most unlikely of people.

As I know you will believe it, Gabriel, know this is not your fault. The world's burdens do not fall upon your shoulders alone, my son. It was my own actions, and my lust remains my hamartia, my undoing. No one must know of the sickness, Gabriel. You must carry it to your grave. I know that is a responsibility, but you are innocent, and your hands are clean of blood. It is not your fault.

Father.

Meanwhile, down the hallway, Gideon – sat atop the trunk at the end of his bed – began reading his own letter, his stomach twisting for fear of his father's words. It was Benedict who had been so keen for Gideon to train abroad, but it had not been in his instructions to abandon him on his deathbed. There was just somehow a part of Gideon that thought, by distancing himself, he could reduce the pain. It hadn't worked. He hadn't wanted to make things worse by being there, but he hadn't realised his presence might actually have helped rather than hindered. As Gideon's eyes ran down the page, drinking like an antidote for his poisonous grief, he could not be afraid.

Dear Gideon,

If I am not dead when you receive this, please tell me of your training in Spain. You were always talented at languages. I wish to know all about your time in Madrid, which must be drawing to a close now, surely? Is your trip not almost concluded? I do wish to know of it. And if I do not live long enough to find out, know that I regret that most terribly, Gideon.

You, Gideon, are my eldest child, and I ask that you look after your siblings when I am gone. I know it is a task, but it is one I know you will approach with the quiet elegance and tact with which you approach all aspects of your life. You may not remember, but as a child, you would race through the Institute grounds, with Tatiana on your back, and Gabriel running after you in your wake. You have always been the one your siblings heeded to, and have shaped them into the fine people they are today. If you continue to do that, I will always be proud.

As the eldest child, I tell you this; family is more important than you can ever understand. When you have your own children, make it known to them that family loyalty is everything. Sometimes, it is all we have.

Gabriel misses you terribly. Even now, if you have reconciled, know that he misses that childhood closeness. You are his closest friend. He will never tell you, but he needs you terribly. He needs you, and I know you will be there. He is lonely, but he need never be alone when he has you. Be strong, my Gideon.

Father.

Gideon pushed open the door to Gabriel's room and sat down beside him on the bed. The view out of the window Gabriel stared out at swam and slipped like water, and it had little to do with the rain that ran in rivulets down the glass panes. He blinked until he felt the steely grip of control flood back through him, then he turned to Gideon.

"Did you open your letter yet?" Gideon asked.

Gabriel nodded. "Yes. Did you?"

"Yes. I...It was...I like having something left. Something more personal than an heirloom. I didn't talk to Father enough in his last months. This feels like a proper goodbye. I finally feel like what we needed to say has been said, finally know that he understands what I wanted to say, even if I could never voice it." Gideon looked across. "Does that make any kind of sense at all?"

"No." Gabriel said. "But it does to me."

"He said it wasn't my fault." Gabriel said, after a long, silent interlude.

"Well, it wasn't." Gideon told his brother, who shrugged. "It isn't." he insisted.

"Perhaps." Gabriel sighed.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there when Father needed me." Gideon said. "But more so, I'm sorry I wasn't there when you needed me."

"I don't need..." Gabriel interrupted himself. It wasn't true anyway. "Thank you." He amended. "But you're here now."

"Don't give up on me, Gabriel." Gideon said quietly. "I promise I'm trying. Don't give up on me yet."

"I won't." Gabriel said solemnly. "You're family. You don't give up on family." Then he looked across at his older brother. "And you don't give up on your closest friend. Luckily for you, you're both."

Charlotte was nothing short of astounded when both Lightwood boys arrived downstairs for dinner that evening, but arrived looking collected and together than they had since they had first come to the Institute.

Well, that was one less problem to worry about, she thought. But her wards were the main thing occupying her mind – that and the slow burning anger every time she looked around the Institute she ran practically single-handed, and knew she would never get full credit for its upkeep. Because, apparently, though she could fight and lead as well as any man, her power was worthless as long as she was a woman. She cast a look down the table to her husband, Henry, who sat marking blueprints and scribbling theories. Her heart clenched with fierce, protective fondness. She loved him, of course, with all her heart. But when Charlotte was the one to speak up in meetings, to command assemblies, to coordinate missions, and yet Henry was still credited purely because he was a man, it made her just want to give up the fight for the role of Institute Head.

But then there was the ever-present concern if the Institute's wards' wellbeing.

There was Jessamine, who rarely appeared for meals and never appeared for training. Charlotte knew how much the girl despised the shadowhunter way of life, knew she wished only to be a mundane woman. Charlotte cast a look down the table to where Jessamine speared a potato with angry delicacy. She was sour and disagreeable and unpleasant, but mostly, she was miserable. Charlotte knew, behind her anger, was immense sadness. Jessamine was trapped in a life she never asked for, and did not want.

Similarly, Will too was suffering, cloaking his pain in arrogant, sarcastic stand-offishness. In fact, the only person who seemed to know will at all, was Jem. Bringing Charlotte's mind to her biggest problem: Jem was growing sicker. Some days, he seemed almost healthy, racing down the streets and sparring with Will. Other days, he seemed barely able to get out of bed. But, most days, he was like this, Charlotte thought, casting a look down the table at him; smiling, laughing, kind, but with hands that shook as he raised his teacup, a gait that spoke of tiredness and eyes dully-edged with enervation. If Jem died, a prospect that was becoming more and more likely by the day, Charlotte was not certain how – or if – Will would ever face the world again. Gone to the outside world was the boy who had hidden beneath his bed and cried when his family arrived to see him, demanding Charlotte send them away. But she knew that boy remained, for he was alive in Jem's perception of Will. She remembered once, when Will was spent all his nights walking the streets, Charlotte had finally turned to Jem, furiously saying there was nothing she could do; he would never be happy.

"He's just afraid." Jem had told her, serious and comforting. "He just hasn't let you get to know him yet. But when he does, you'll like him. You mustn't ever stop loving him, because he needs you. He can't help it."

It was as if he was telling her about someone she'd never met. And, she supposed, he was. But when she looked down at the two of them, Jem tilted forward on his elbows to lean into the conversation, Will's eyes alight, she couldn't show her concern, couldn't rob them of their time together – however limited.

"We – Gabriel and I – think we should go back to Camille Belcourt's headquarters tomorrow afternoon." Gideon declared, taking a sip of water. "What are your thoughts on that proposal?"

"My thoughts are that you're stupider than I thought." Will replied, earning the glare of both of the Lightwoods and an exasperated sigh from Charlotte.

"Tactically, I have to agree." Ciel nodded. "I don't wish to be pessimistic..."

"Ciel, you're the greatest pessimist who has ever walked the earth." Will put in. "It is a wonder you don't go to sleep at night expecting the sun not to rise the next day."

"But it seems foolish to attack again so soon after our last attempt failed." Ciel finished.

"Listen," Gideon said determinedly. "You are not thinking like strategists. You're thinking like you failed. We got information, diminished the vampires' defences, scoped out her headquarters. None of the vampires will expect attack so soon, meaning this timing is perfect. And if we strike in daylight, they will be sleeping and weakened by the sun – definitely not full capacity to defend."

"He may be right." Jem said.

"Of course he is." Will sighed. "Isn't it revolting?"

Jem nodded to the Lightwoods. "It is agreed. We attack tomorrow."