Hey, guys :) I felt like updating today, so enjoy!

Reviews are greatly appreciated! I worked really hard on this.

Emma slipped back into the foyer silently, slightly dazed. She wasn't quite sure if what she had seen was real, or if she was going slightly mad. Either way, it was nice to have a companion slightly less flighty and moody than Ben, though not by much.

"What do you think you're up to?" The voice startled Emma, who turned to see Mrs. Tanner, the Institute's housekeeper, standing in front of the grandfather clock, frowning. She wasn't sure how the woman had escaped her notice before -all bones and sharp angles, and a long beaky nose to boot, one could hardly miss her. She was slender to the point that Emma had dubbed her Beanpole. Her eyes were black and beady, and her hair was a dark, chestnut brown color. Her hands were planted on her skinny hips. "Well?"

Emma looked down at her scuffed flats. "I was bored," she said lamely. It was true, of course. It seemed that she had been in a state of either perpetual boredom or sadness since she had arrived in London.

"Oh really?" Mrs. Tanner demanded, training her beady eyes on Emma. Her gaze alone could have bored a whole right through Emma's skull, she had no doubt. "Who were you talking to, then?"

Emma stared at her blankly, scrambling for a believable response and wondering if the woman had had her ear pressed up against the door. She and Jessamine hadn't been talking exceptionally loud, and Mrs. Tanner didn't have the aid of runes—she wasn't a Shadowhunter. "You heard that?"

"I heard everything, including Mrs. Montclaire's request for you to remain in the drawing room," the woman replied pointedly, her frown deepening. She looked like an angry dog when she frowned, Emma thought. "Now spit it out. Who were you talking to?"

Emma's palms were beginning to sweat. She knew she had no real reason to be nervous, but being under Mrs. Tanner's scrutiny was enough to make anyone sweat, according to Ben. She could tell the truth, but the woman would never believer her. Emma wasn't quite sure if she even believed herself. There weren't many people who could see ghosts, and it seemed somewhat of a deterring anomaly, at least in Emma's eyes. "Sometimes," she said hastily, "I talk to myself."

Mrs. Tanner's expression quickly turned from one of annoyance to one of sympathy, concern even. "Go back to the drawing room, child. I'll fetch you some warm milk. See if that'll make you feel better."

The glass of warm milk joined the plate of peanut butter and jelly, untouched on the desk. Mrs. Tanner had come into the drawing room nearly half an hour earlier holding the white foamy liquid. Milk, Emma believed, was a detestable beverage.

"You're quite a picky eater." Mrs. Montclaire was standing in the doorway, her rusty colored coat brushing the toes of her tasteless grey boots. She brushed a stray strand of grey hair out of her eyes and motioned for her husband to follow. He murmured something to her in French, his voice hushed, as if Emma could actually understand him. Mrs. Montclaire shrugged and took a seat on the old sofa opposite Emma. "You know, it took me quite some time to find the peanut butter for your sandwich." She wrinkled her nose distastefully, as if the thought of peanut butter upset her. "It's not something we have a lot of in London. But when I asked Benjamin what he thought American children liked, he said, peanut butter and jam."

Emma was surprised by the gesture; the Montclaires had been nothing but cold and unsympathetic to her since she had arrived. Perhaps that was what happened when you grew old: the grief of others seemed distant and empathy was rendered a worthless quality. They didn't seem to like children very much either. She was surprised that they didn't come outside and shake their fists when she walked on the lawn.

"Not all American children," Emma grumbled, slipping her shoes off and curling her legs under her.

"What was that?" Mrs. Montclaire's blue eyes flashed dangerously.

"Thank you," Emma said. "I'm just not very hungry."

"Yes, grief will do that to you," the woman said dismissively, her expression flat.

"The time for misery has passed," her husband cut in. Mr. Montclaire, who had taken the seat next to his wife, was a pudgy man with a receding hairline. A single swatch of grey-brown hair was centered on the crown of his head. His eyes were a watery green color, like jade. The normally quiet man appeared to be miffed, as if grief was one of the inconveniences of life that could be avoided by simply choosing not to feel it. "Now you must return to what you once were."

Emma fought back tears. This was their way of saying, Get over it. Move on. Hurting for the dead isn't going to change anything, so why bother? In a way, she agreed with them. Yet she feared she would never simply move on. Was it even possible? Her parents were a part of her; she still saw them every night in her dreams. "What if I can't?" she said quietly.

"Speak up, Emma," Mrs. Montclaire snapped. "I can hardly understand a word you're saying. Honestly."

Emma shook her head dismissively. "Nothing."

Mrs. Montclaire straightened up. The old sofa creaked under the combined weight of her and her husband. "Well. Where to begin?" She flashed a fleeting yellow-toothed smile at Emma, which was clearly forced. "We made arrangements for you to be sent to America. You'll be shipped off to the Los Angeles Institute in just as soon as the war is over. It will be soon, I should think."

A strange crush of emotions enveloped Emma at the moment. She had figured that the Montclaires didn't particularly like her, but she hadn't figured that they would "ship her off." As much as she enjoyed the thought of going back to America, she couldn't help but feel a little hurt that they didn't want her. What if the Los Angeles Institute didn't want her, either? They hadn't asked to acquire another orphan, a misfit.

Then there was the war. Emma hadn't heard much about it from her parents. They had gone to fight, to defend Idris-she knew that much. They hadn't expected it to last. She wasn't exactly sure what the war was being fought over or who was being fought. Demons, she guessed. But weren't the wards meant to do that? She wasn't sure, but she had heard talk of a man, Valentine, who had stolen the Mortal Sword from the Silent City. He surely couldn't have been on their side, but in truth Emma wasn't sure what side she was on. The war had stolen her parents from her. She didn't think she agreed with it at all.

Mrs. Montclaire was looking at her Emma expectantly. "Are you pleased? We thought this would be best. We're simply too busy to care for you. Benjamin is nearly eighteen, and he'll be away to Idris soon to study, so they'll be no companions for you here."

"I used to live in Los Angeles," was all Emma said.

"Then it's settled," said Mr. Montclaire, standing. He was heavy enough to require the aid of the sofa arm to hoist himself up. "You'll be off by the end of the week."

Mrs. Montclaire stood up too, making a comment in French. Her tone of voice was deceptively relieved. Her husband made an affirmative noise. "No dinner tonight, Emma," she said, brushing off her coat, as if dust could have settled over it within the last five minutes. "You have plenty." She motioned to the peanut butter and jelly and milk.

The door shut behind them. "Are you going to eat that?" A cool voice inquired. Emma looked up. She hadn't noticed Ben slip into the room, which didn't surprise her. He moved like a silent wind throughout the Institute and had already snuck up on her a number of times during the relatively short duration of her stay.

Emma stalked over to the plate and tore a reluctant bite out of the sandwich, washing it down with a swig of milk. The pair tasted as awful as she had anticipated. Ben flopped down on the sofa where the Montclaires had been seated. He was a tall boy, thin with corded muscle running up and down his arms. He was blonde, like Emma, but had the most mischievous green eyes. He reached under the sofa and pulled out a little green book. It seemed an odd place for a book, and an old one at that. She guessed he must have stowed it there for his own enjoyment, though Ben didn't strike her as the reading type. He opened the book, saying,

"So they're sending you away are they?" He grinned at her broadly. "I'd like to know what you've done to them now. I'd have done it ages ago if I'd known they'd send me off."

Emma crossed her arms over her chest, glaring first at her unfinished dinner, then at Ben. "I didn't do anything to them," she said defensively.

"You must have," Ben said. "They hate you. Raquel was talking about you, by the way. Right before she left she said that she was relieved you're going. And something about a sandwich."

"You were listening?" Emma was quickly realizing that there were snoops lurking about the Institute.

"Of course." Ben sat up, the book tumbling to the floor. He pointed to a rune inked in black on his forearm. "I've heard practically everything they've been saying about you. And it's nothing kind."

"You sound like Beanpole," Emma said, downing the rest of her milk. She fiddled with the crusts of the sandwich. She wished there was dog around to feed them to.

Ben chuckled at the use of Mrs. Tanner's nickname. "She's a hawk, isn't she?"

Emma nodded. She pointed at the book, which was laying spine up on the floor. "What's that?"

Ben shrugged, deftly plucking the book from the ground and placing it in Emma's hand. "A book," he said. "Do they not have them in America?"

Emma rolled her eyes. "Of course we do. What meant was—never mind." She paused for a moment, absently turning the book over in her hand. "Do the Montclaires really hate me?"

"It would seem so," Ben said matter-of-factly. "They haven't got that much work. If they wanted you to stay, you would stay. They won't even have you call them by their first names. They're generally cold people, make no mistake, but they've been positively frosty towards you, little Emma."

"But why?" Emma asked.

He began to stuff the remnants of her sandwich into his mouth, leaving only crumbs on the plate. "There's a reason, I'm sure," Ben said around his mouthful, spewing bits of bread onto Emma in the process. She brushed them off. "We just don't know it." He shrugged. "Just be glad you're leaving them in the confinements of London. I'm hungry." As he turned to leave, he was tripped up by Emma's shoes, which were still lying in front of the recliner. He kicked them towards her. "Do something with those," he muttered in annoyance, shutting the door behind him.

Emma smiled faintly as she examined the book Ben has left her with. The binding appeared fragile—she was surprised that it had survived the drop from the couch. The spine was crooked, the lettering faded to nonexistence. She flipped it open. On the title page—the book was apparently called Vathek—was a short blurb scrawled in ink. It was so faded that Emma could hardly decipher the writing.

Caliph Vathek and—

Are bound for Hell, you won't be bored

—in me will be—

Unless this token you find untoward

—poor gift you have ignored—

—Will

It was a strange little poem, Emma thought, at the same time wondering who "Will"might have been. She remembered Jessamine mentioning something about a Will while they were on the porch. Perhaps she would know.

Flipping through the book further, Emma discovered more writing, in the margins this time, though it clearly was not in the same hand. This writing was cramped, and though the ink was darker and clearly less dated, it was just as illegible as the last. Phrases, even entire pages and passages, were underlined, arrows indicating notes that were to be associated with them. Why anyone would deface a book, Emma wasn't entirely sure, but in her attempt to decipher the chicken scratch, she realized that there was yet another set of handwriting. These letters were flowery and delicate, clearly that of a woman. Written directly beneath the cramped handwriting, her notes seemed to a correspondence of sorts.

Emma set the book down, wistfully wishing for a correspondence of her own. Breathing in the scent of peanut butter, she belatedly realized that she had smeared some of the stuff across the book's back cover. It joined the melee of various other stains that the book had accumulated over the years, blending in to the point where it almost wasn't noticeable, though she doubted that any of them was peanut butter.

Emma knew she didn't belong in a land without peanut butter. Perhaps Montclaires really thought they were doing the right thing by sending her to Los Angeles. She knew she would be happier there. Perhaps Ben was wrong, and they didn't hate her at all. Mrs. Montclaire had made her the sandwich, after all.

Emma gazed at the empty plate on the desk, pondering the implications of a peanut butter sandwich.

Just a friendly reminder: I did work extremely hard on this chapter and previous chapter, and I would really like some feedback on it, even if you didn't like it.

I don't want to sound thirsty for reviews, but I'm asking nicely! Have a good day, everyone!