The Malevolent Tides

September 1929

Brooklyn, New York City, USA

Margaret Blackthorn dreamed of being a journalist, but sometimes she thought that she should be an actress, instead.

After all, she had spent most of her life pretending: pretending to be alright, pretending to be well-adjusted, pretending to be happy and carefree and well-rested. Pretending to be a girl without anxiety so awful it clung to her like a shadow – unshakable and ever with her. Pretending to be a girl who could sleep through the night without waking from night terrors; pretending to be a girl who was not afraid of the dark.

It was a bit ironic, Margie thought, for one to be afraid of the dark and a Shadowhunter; Shadowhunters worked at night, and they lived their lives under the moon as often as they were out in the light of day. They had their methods to cope, of course – night vision runes, witchlight stones – but Margie never quite got used to these adjustments. She had spent too long in the dark; she didn’t want to be unable to see, ever again.

It was why, deep down, Margie thought she wanted to be a journalist; people did not belong in the dark. They deserved to see the truth in the light, not spend a lifetime of obscurity in the night.

Margie sighed now, shaking the memories away. She had likened her childhood memories of that time of darkness (that time of trauma, her cousin who fancied himself a psychologist, Erich, would have said) to many things over the years – cobwebs, ghosts, shadows that grew with the absence of light. But cobwebs were always re-spun, and ghosts haunted their subjects, and shadows could not be shaken – and Margie was stuck with the memories, like an awful, unbreakable curse.

She had been doing so well these past few months. The distance helped; she missed her beloved London, but she could not help but admit it felt liberating to leave the city she so closely associated with her pain behind. New York was a glittering metropolis, a city of wild young passions and a million fresh starts; she lost herself in the whirlwind fantasy of it all, and for a time, however briefly, she thought she might at last be free.

And then the cobwebs were re-spun. The ghosts came back to haunt her. The shadows grew once more.

She could talk to Elizabeth, she knew, but Elizabeth had her own worries; she saw how she was retreating further and further inwards, her grief over her broken relationship with Owen stretching out to tarnish her present as well as her past.

In some ways, Margie thought they had pulled off a grand illusion. Here they were in New York City, their families thinking they were off and partying and having the time of their lives. And in some ways, it was true; Margie loved New York with an intensity she had not expected, and her time here had been full of vibrant joy and new experiences, love and gratefulness for her life like she had never known before. In other ways, it had only been a temporary reprieve; her and Elizabeth had brought all their pasts along with them, their cobwebs or ghosts or shadows or trauma or grief, and there was no place for them to put them down.

Margie could not quite discuss what she was feeling with her parabatai – she could not burden her further, and besides, she wouldn’t understand. Only one person would – the person who had lived the experience with her.

Edmund stepped through the portal at 8:00 AM on the dot – ever punctual as always, though Margie supposed it was easier for him to be up and ready, as it was already 3:00 PM in Athens.

Margie couldn’t help herself; she let out a little sob at the sight of her brother, throwing her arms around his neck and nearly knocking him off balance, right there in the middle of Magnus Bane’s Brooklyn loft.

Magnus, for his part, did not look pleased about the early wake-up call; he was still dressed in his silk maroon pajamas and slumber cap, his dark locks perfectly in place despite his otherwise bedraggled appearance. He held a steaming mug of coffee in one hand, and snapped unenthusiastically with the other; as he did so, the portal to Athens disappeared.

Margie was also still in her pajamas, a long dressing gown thrown over her nightgown. She had spent the night at Magnus’s loft the evening prior – she was perhaps the closest to Magnus out of all her friends, for her and Magnus loved to share news and gossip. Magnus was also very supportive of Margie’s journalistic aspirations; he was always sending her fire messages with leads and tips, and he wrote to her every time he came across one of her pieces in the Idris Gazette or, more recently, the Downworlder Uptown.

Margie adored her Uncle Magnus; he had been there for her family after the accident in 1917, and he had always been there for all the Blackthorn kids, ever since. Margie understood he had been her grandparents’ friend first – Vienna, wild conspiracy theorist that she was, was convinced that Magnus and Will had been lovers many years ago – but he had been there for all the London Shadowhunters, over the years and generations. Margie’s mum and Uncle James were always telling their children about the wild things they got up to with Magnus when they were younger – apparently he had once magically duplicated Tower Bridge during a demon fight – and now, in turn, their children had their own secret dealings with Magnus. It was just the way of the world.

Admittedly, Margie’s secret dealings had less to do with fighting her prince of hell grandfather, and more to deal with face masks, warm cups of tea, and nights spent in Magnus’s guest room so he could sneak her brother over from Athens early the next morning. Margie was not an early riser – she would sleep anywhere for a few extra minutes to lay in bed in the morning.

“Why are you in your pajamas?” Edmund said, which Margie thought was a little redundant; she had not seen her beloved big brother in months, and all he wanted to inquire about was her attire?

“Teddy,” she groaned, but still didn’t let him go; Margie missed all her family very much, but her and Edmund were especially close. It was odd, she thought, to be away from him now; she had never known a world without her big brother there.

Edmund laughed, now, pressing a quick kiss to the top of her head and rubbing her back comfortingly. Margie could tell he was tense – he tended to worry, like their father did at times, and Margie hoped her note had not set him on edge all week.

“Thank you, Magnus,” Edmund said, releasing Margie with a final clap on the shoulder to greet him. “It is good to see you.”

“Your grandfather tells me he is proud of you, for driving your father to despair,” Magnus said, blowing on his coffee with a frown. “He said that you keep flipping back and forth between Athens and London, and Jesse has just about run out of patience. Which is impressive – your father is very patient.”

“And I am very indecisive,” Edmund said, eyeing Magnus’s coffee with clear envy. Magnus snapped, and a mug appeared on the table beside Edmund. Edmund took it gratefully, murmuring his thanks; he definitely looked tired, and Margie definitely felt guilty. “I do not know what to do. My family is in London – my whole life is there, really – but my research is in Athens. I love both cities, but I always find myself missing whichever one I am not currently in.”

“That is the pain of traveling, the pain of loving people and cultures and experiences in more than one place,” Magnus said, his eyes gleaning with a sharp intelligence. “The Spanish have a word for it – saudade. Missing what you know is out there, or bittersweet melancholy. One cannot yearn for what one does not know, but one can miss what one has known.”

Magnus looked at his wristwatch, stretching his back and sighing.

“I’m late to a meeting in Oslo that was meant to commence two hours ago. What a pity.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry-” Margie began, feeling guilty.

Magnus waved a hand in a dismissive gesture, seeming entirely unbothered. “They’ll wait for me, and I got some extra sleep,” he said, winking. He waved his hands, starting to make another portal. “Let yourself out, Margie. You have a key, right?”

“Yes,” Margie said, gathering her and Edmund’s mugs and starting to wash them in the adjoining kitchen sink. Edmund made a noise of protest – his still wasn’t empty. “Thank you, Magnus! Enjoy Oslo.”

Magnus waved and stepped through the portal, and then he was gone.

“Why do you have a key to Magnus Bane’s apartment?”

Margie smirked; she loved impressing her older brother, even if it wasn’t that big of a deal. “Because I am his favorite,” Margie said, hanging the clean mugs on the rack to dry. “Because Magnus and I are colleagues dedicated to chasing down the journalistic truth-”

“He just likes you because you remind him of Mum,” Edmund said, which made Margie gasp – she was an individual, not a carbon copy of either of her parents. “Eternally optimistic and always bubbly. Which is why your fire message worried me so much, Marge. What’s going on?”

Margie bit her lip, gazing out the loft’s massive windows. The sun was just beginning to rise over the Hudson, and Margie was overcome by a sudden desperate desire to be outside.

“Let me change, first,” she said, turning from the window to her brother, “and get my bag. We can talk on the walk back to the Institute – it’s over in Manhattan.”

Edmund nodded, and Margie put her hands on her hips, finally studying her brother’s full appearance.

“What did I tell you, Edmund? I said to bring a coat!”

Margie sighed and threw up her hands, and she gasped as she heard Edmund’s mumbled reply on her way back to the guest room: “Just like Mum!”

Margie knew she had to talk to her brother; he had come all this way and, while he tried to hide it, he was clearly worried about whatever had prompted her fire message.

But Margie did not want to dampen their reunion so quickly. Instead, she stalled as long as possible; she forced Edmund to go into a bodega with her in Williamsburg, and the two drank American iced coffees and ate glazed donuts while walking around the streets full of factories and synagogues. She dragged Edmund down to the park by the Hudson, and pointed out how different the birds were in America – how much smaller they could be, than their European counterparts. She pointed out the Manhattan skyline across the river, and the spire of the New York Institute amongst the glass and concrete buildings. Edmund nodded along politely, but Margie could tell he was getting increasingly tense; he could be quite anxious, like she was, and he had seen all these sights before. Margie’s whole family, in fact, had come to New York a few years back, with the Herondales as well; her grandmother Tessa had wanted to show the entire family the city where she grew up, and the trip had been a whirlwind to all the big tourist sights: Times Square, the Statue of Liberty, Coney Island. Back then, Margie had not really appreciated how eclectically energetic the city was; she had been swept up in the packed itineraries of each day, bustled from sight to sight along with her cousins and siblings. It took quite a few months of her living in New York, herself, to really begin to appreciate the wonder that the city was – exploring the city on her own, that is, and exploring with Benjamin Longbow.

Margie had joked, once, that she had only ever really seen New York through the lens of Ben’s camera, and in a way that was true; her whole introduction to the city (anything outside Manhattan, anyways) had been with Ben and his brownie, stomping up to Harlem and the Bronx to photograph the poor houses and deplorable conditions, taking the train to Brooklyn to photograph the factories and labor unions. Ben was a muckrake; he photographed people, to try to expose others to what the real world was like. It was easy for the rich and privileged to ignore the plight of the less fortunate when they were packed away in distant corners of the city; it was harder to do so when Ben’s images were splashed across their front pages.

Ben did not just photograph people, though they were his favorite subjects; he took photographs of the city he called home, and he showed Margie how to find beauty in what others might find ugly; there a bit of exposed brick contrasted with the cathedral in the background, here the light reflected the skyscrapers in the water just so. And, at some point, Ben started taking photos of Margie herself – photos in Central Park when the lighting was just right, photos in the Institute training room when her scowl made him laugh. And then he started holding her hand – at the talking movies they went to see in Warner Theater, while driving around Manhattan in his Ford Model A. And then, one day he kissed her in the bleachers at the Yankee game – and that night when he dropped her off at the Institute, and the next morning when he saw her at the Enclave meeting. Now, Margie saw Ben every day.

Margie had always thought love had to be shown in grand gestures; she thought her true love would heroically rescue her from Wales in the dead of the night, or shatter a love spell placed on her by a prince of hell, or bring her back from the dead. But love, she had learned, could also be shown in the small gestures; it was the way Ben made her feel beautiful with every photograph he took, the way he loved listening to her ramble about journalism and chasing silly leads around the city, the way he quietly listened each night while she told him things she had never shared with anyone before - and then the way he validated those feelings, holding her close to chase the nightmares away as she drifted off to sleep. He was Ben; seven months ago she had not even known he existed, but now she could not imagine her life without him.

Even one day apart was too long; Margie wished Ben were here, now, to give her strength as she at last caved to Edmund’s silent question.

“Okay, sit down,” Margie said, trying to set thoughts of Ben – and the dull ache in her heart from his absence – aside, gesturing for her brother to sit on the edge of the Brooklyn Bridge. Edmund did so, looking relieved that whatever it was she had to say was about to come out; Margie sighed and plopped down beside him, looking out at Manhattan across the Hudson.

In a way, this felt achingly familiar; her and Edmund used to run from the Institute in Southwark to Blackfriars Bridge, and perch on the railing while they gazed out over the Thames towards St. Paul’s Cathedral and East London.

But Brooklyn Bridge was so much bigger than Blackfriars, with more than a railing to perch on; the bridge had ledges on the walkway wide enough for multiple people to sit astride it, and Margie had space to fold her legs up under her skirt while she turned to face her brother. Manhattan, too, was so different from London; brand new skyscrapers pierced the clouds, rather than centuries-old cathedrals and banks and residences converted into businesses and pubs near the river.

But perhaps the biggest change had been in Edmund and Margie themselves; their travels had changed them both, and Margie realized, with a sharp ache, that they would never be able to go back to those kids they once were again. Everything would be different now; London might stay the same, but they both had grown and changed while they were away.

“What is it, Marge?” Edmund asked, his gaze concerned as he folded his legs beneath himself and turned to face her fully – turning his back on Manhattan and the view, focused entirely on her. “I know you said not to worry, but your message frightened me. Is everything alright?”

Margie shook her head. “I’ve been thinking a lot,” she said, gazing down at the river, “About my travel year, and the fact that I only have four months left. And about you and your decision, with regards to Athens. Edmund – I do not think I can go back to London. I want to stay here – I want to apply now to transfer to the New York Conclave, so that I do not have to go back to London for some time in between. But I feel so horribly guilty,” she whispered, feeling the hot press of tears behind her eyes, “about leaving everyone behind there. Mum and Dad are going to blame themselves, even though they shouldn’t, and all our siblings are going to be devastated. We were all supposed to stick together, remember?”

Edmund looked startled; he nodded distractedly, gently taking Margie’s hand.

“We can all stick together, even if we are not physically in the same place,” Edmund said, his tone reassuring, “But why can’t you come back to London, Margie? Did something happen, or-?”

Margie shook her head – then hesitated.

“Nothing that happened recently,” she said, and Edmund’s eyes darkened with understanding, “What happened in 1917. It has clung to me like a shadow, Edmund, for all my life. I can hardly bear to walk around that city, always scared of death raining down from above. But here – I do not know, I just feel safer. More secure. The memories of what happened feel so far away – perhaps you know what I mean.”

Edmund nodded, then sighed. Margie hid her anxiety and panic attacks from everyone – everyone except Edmund, that was, who had gone through hell with her. They had been so young at the time – only seven and six, respectively – and Margie still regretted what happened every single day. She knew nothing could have stopped it, but she mourned the childhood she could have had, regardless.

“I do know what you mean,” Edmund said, glancing out at the water, “I feel the same way about Athens. I think to myself: this city has been here since before Britain was ever civilized. It has survived countless wars and invasions and unforeseen circumstances, and yet it still stands tall. London – London is an old city, but an untested one. It was safe for so long because of its isolation – but flight is making the world smaller for mundanes, as portals make the world smaller for us. And with flight comes unknown risks – bombs, missiles, weapons we can not yet even dream of – and London nearly crumpled when faced with that risk. London could have fallen, I think, if America had remained uninvolved. Germany would have won the war, at any rate.”

Margie stayed silent; she had not thought about the Great War in such strategic terms, but her brother was a historian. He picked up these things, even when the events occurred during his lifetime.

“I think about that day constantly,” Edmund continued, and Margie pushed aside a twinge of guilt. “I think about you – why I pushed you behind me-”

“You could not have known,” Margie whispered, squeezing her brother’s hands. “You protected me. You probably saved my life. None of this is aimed towards you – it is nobody’s fault, what happened to us, except the German commanders who ordered those bombs be dropped. It is just- it is easier, to be away. And I don’t know how to go about committing to this decision, or telling Mum and Dad, or-”

“Have you talked to Elizabeth?” Edmund asked, and Margie felt another stab of guilt. “She’s your parabatai. Does she also want to stay in New York?”

Margie felt her blood rush to her cheeks, and she knew this was her opening to talk about the other thing she needed to tell Edmund – the three other things, really. Elizabeth is acting bizarre. I think I might be in love with Benjamin Longbow, and I cannot tell her. And I think I might have an odd power – and I definitely cannot tell her. 

“I have not,” Margie sighed, and gazed out once more at the water. “Elizabeth… well, she has been going through a difficult time, recently. Her and Owen are not speaking anymore, you know – they have not spoken since he went back to Berlin last year-”

“They haven’t?” Edmund interjected, sounding startled. “I realized they had grown distant, but I did not know they were no longer speaking.”

Margie shook her head, frowning out at the skyline. “No, they do not want Uncle James and Aunt Cordelia to know, so they have been keeping it under wraps. Even I do not entirely know what transpired between them, but Lizzie is hurt. I know it has to do with Lydia – she does not want them to get married.”

“What?” Edmund asked, looking startled. “Why?”

“She does not think they love each other,” Margie said, “But I can tell there is more that she is not telling me. I have not wanted to push her – I can sense that she is barely keeping it together, though she is trying to hide it. I think part of it, however, is that she’s scared of growing up. She does not want things to change, and that’s why I am scared to tell her about New York. I know she wants to go back to London, and she’s my parabatai; we have to stay together.”

Edmund sighed, looking lost for what to say. Margie knew he would not be able to help her much there; he did not have a parabatai, so he could not quite understand what she meant. Maybe she could talk to her mother, she thought, or Uncle Matthew – not Uncle James or Aunt Cordelia, though, as that would be dreadfully awkward.

“And there’s more,” Margie said, her voice sounding small to her own ears. She really did not want to say this to her big brother – he could be so overprotective, sometimes – but she knew she would regret not saying it while she had the chance. “There’s this boy here – Ben. I’ve told you about him a little bit; he’s the one I wrote that last column in the Idris Gazette with, about Downworlders being forced to rely on mundane social support services instead of accessing those through the Clave. Anyways, he and I, well-” Margie turned away, feeling blood rush to her cheeks. “He and I are sort of in a relationship. I- I love him, Edmund,” she continued, her heart beating wildly in her chest – she had never admitted it out loud before, but she knew it was true. “I love him, and I do not want to leave him. But it’s not just him; my dream has always been to be a journalist, and what better place could I do that from than here?”

Edmund let out a controlled breath, looking at Margie with a mixture of anxiety, love, and sadness – could he be sad that she was growing up, too? Everything seemed to be changing so quickly these days – Margie sometimes wished they were all children again, running around Regent’s Park with toy swords and chasing the ducks to scare Grandpa Will.

“I guessed as much, from your letters,” he said, squeezing her hand. “I do not want to pry or sound overprotective, but I hope he treats you right. Because if he doesn’t-”

“He does,” Margie quickly assured her brother, feeling herself blush once more. “I mean, courting here is so different than in England – there are no chaperones or balls or outings – but he has never once stepped outside the bounds of propriety, or done something I was uncomfortable with. He’s- he’s the best,” Margie continued, turning away with a laugh. Edmund looked faintly amused. “I want you to meet him. He will be at the party tonight – it’s at his sister’s fiance’s penthouse.” 

“Do I have permission to push him out the window? I understand penthouses are quite high up-”

“Edmund!”

“I’ll be nice,” Edmund grumbled, and Margie laughed again at his false expression of annoyance, “as long as he keeps his hillbilly hands off of my sister-”

“By the Angel,” Margie groaned, lying back on the bridge with a long-suffering sigh. “You’re entirely incorrigible.”

“What a way to express how much you have missed me,” Edmund laughed, lying down beside her. Margie glanced up at the beams of the Brooklyn Bridge crisscrossing over the sky above her, before turning to regard Edmund next to her.

“I have missed you,” Margie said, biting her lip, “So much has happened, since I have moved here. I think understand now why you are so torn about Athens – it is such a different experience and way of life, and it is hard to figure out what you truly want. But I know I want this, Edmund. I want this wild, energetic city, and I want to try – really, truly try – to pursue a career in journalism, even though I am a woman and a Shadowhunter and there are a million other reasons I shouldn’t. And I want Ben – I know that might sound childish, but I am so happy here with him. I want to see what happens – I do not want to cut off any chance of a future with him, just because I went back to London. And what would happen there? I would be a Shadowhunter and go on patrol with Lizzie, and hang out with the same people as always, and throw beans at Hazel every morning over breakfast, and get grounded by Dad every time I listen to Erich and do something that he considers ‘unsafe’ in the pursuit of the journalistic truth. I just feel like all the opportunities I have to change and grow are here, now.”

Edmund sighed, turning to regard her with one blue-green eye. “I do not disagree, but I also think it can be a fallacy to place so much of your mindset around growth and development in a certain geographic location. We are ever capable of change and becoming better versions of ourselves – of seeking out new friends and new opportunities – wherever we may live. London is a huge city – it feels tiny to us, because we have known it for so long, but it truly is one of the most dynamic metropolises in the world. In the same breath, I understand why you want to be in New York – it is exhilarating to be in a new culture, and I know you’ve always dreamed about reporting for the New York Times,” Edmund said, squeezing Margie’s hand. “I would just be honest with Elizabeth – and Mum and Dad. They all love you, Margie. They will want you to pursue what makes you happy.”

Margie blinked back tears, squeezing Edmund’s hand right back. She felt the mounting panic that had clung to her over the past week finally start to lessen; no matter where she went or what her future held, she knew she would always want her big brother by her side to help her when her anxiety got too overwhelming.

Margie wanted to leave it at that; she was feeling better, and her other worry was just a paranoia, really.

But Edmund knew her too well and was far too perceptive for his own good.

“Margie, what aren’t you telling me?” he asked, pulling her upright so they were sitting side-by-side. “I know there is something else bothering you.”

Margie sighed; she gazed out at Manhattan, the memories from her and Elizabeth’s patrol around Grand Central a few nights ago forcing their way to the forefront of her mind.

“Okay,” she sighed, turning back to Edmund, “But do not panic. On Monday, Elizabeth and I were on patrol. When we were inside Grand Central Terminal, I saw a ghost.”

“Is that unusual?” Edmund asked, his brows drawing together in confusion. “You’ve always been able to see ghosts.”

Margie sighed; it was true, all the Blackthorn girls could always see ghosts, just like their parents.

But then, so too could the Herondales.

“I could see him,” Margie murmured, glancing down at her lap, “But Lizzie could not.”

Edmund opened his mouth to reply, then bit his lip, considering. Margie could tell he was deep in thought, already trying to puzzle it out in his scholar’s mind.

“That does not make sense,” he said slowly, shaking his head. “Perhaps it was a weak spirit? They can be more difficult to see. Mum has always seen more ghosts than Uncle James, so perhaps you are just more… sensitive to the supernatural than Elizabeth.”

“Perhaps,” Margie conceded, turning out towards the water. “Or perhaps I’ve inherited something from Mum. This ghost – he was not a normal ghost, Edmund. He seemed so real. I thought he was a mundane at first – I bumped into him and apologized, and only realized moments later that I was wearing a glamour rune; a mundane would not have been able to see me. And then Elizabeth asked who I was talking to; to her, the terminal was empty.”

“Okay, that does not necessarily mean you have a power-”

“But to me, the terminal was full,” Margie whispered, trying to force back her startled tears – she could hardly remember the eerie feeling, realizing that the reality she saw was so entirely different from her parabatai’s, without wanting to cry. “It was full of all these – these passengers, I guess, like they were waiting for a train. All of them were staring at the Grand Central clock – it is this massive thing, really, hung right above the information booth – and standing completely still. Not blinking or breathing or anything. A dozen of them, at least, all businessmen in suits. They looked like the stockbrokers on Wall Street.”

“That is unsettling,” Edmund conceded, his eyes darkening with worry. “And Elizabeth saw nothing?”

“No, and it got worse,” Margie whispered, squeezing her eyes shut. “I loathe to keep anything from Elizabeth – even hiding all these feelings about not wanting to go back to London and my relationship with Ben have made me feel like the worst parabatai ever – but I also hid one more thing from her. I did not tell her that the ghosts talked to me.” 

“What did they say?” Edmund whispered; his voice was full of dread.

“They all turned to look at me as one,” Margie shuddered, trying to repress the mental image, “Some of them turned their heads around a full 180 degrees. It was so… unnatural, like they were machines or possessed beings rather than human, once. They said: ‘the tides are coming.’”

“’The tides are coming?’” Edmund quoted, looking dubious. “That’s quite generic. It sounds like a demon trying to frighten you – can demons influence ghosts?”

Margie shrugged. She had never heard of such a thing, but it could be possible.

“The clock started going haywire,” she said, “and the hands were spinning around and around and around. The hour hand got stuck on ten, and the minute hand started fluctuating between twenty and thirty. And the whole time, Elizabeth was just strolling around Grand Central Terminal, shining her witchlight and complaining about Owen and Lydia’s wedding. She could not see a thing.”

“How long did it last?” Edmund asked, and Margie shrugged.

“Maybe thirty seconds?” she hazarded. “Once the clock went back to normal – it was nearly 2:00 AM, at this point – all the ghosts turned back towards the clock and continued to stare at it. They did not move or speak again.”

“Why didn’t you tell Elizabeth?”

Margie hesitated. She thought about the swirl of complex feelings she felt each time she thought of her parabatai, the tangled web of love and companionship and oftentimes despair that defined their friendship from birth until now. Margie had never known a world without Elizabeth, and recently, Elizabeth felt further from her than ever, caught up in her own storm of grief and growing pains. Margie had watched Elizabeth and Owen grow apart and had seen their relationship crumble over something Margie hardly understood; if some horrible truth about her were revealed, would Elizabeth even still want Margie in her life?

“I’m just scared,” she admitted, “About all of it. I do not want Elizabeth to see me differently – if this is some sort of awful power I have inherited, or even just because I have a relationship with Ben now. She seems so afraid of change, and now everything is changing so quickly.”

“I know,” Edmund whispered, wrapping an arm around Margie’s shoulders. “Have you gone back to Grand Central since patrol?”

Margie nodded. “I went back the following day, with Ben. He can see ghosts too, but neither of us saw anything. They were all gone.”

Edmund sighed; he pressed a kiss to Margie’s hair, before hopping down to the walkway and offering her his hand.

“Well, I’m cold,” he said, and Margie rolled her eyes, “Let’s get to the Institute, and then we can go check it out again together. I know you wouldn’t imagine something that detailed, so-”

“That’s what everyone would say,” Margie whispered, accepting Edmund’s hand and leaping down beside him. “In London. Because of my vision.”

“Your vision is fine – it has been great for years,” Edmund protested, slinging his bag back over his shoulder. “Plus you heard them, too. That is extra compelling.”

“Maybe I am losing my mind,” Margie mumbled, which Edmund ignored.

“We’ll go to the Institute, and then we can check out Grand Central,” Edmund said, and Margie felt a familiar wave of comfort settle over her; her big brother was here, to fix everything and soothe her like he always did. “And then, I want to go to this party. I have a hillbilly cowboy to threaten.”

“TEDDY!” Margie cried, but she was smiling as, for the first time in several days, she started to laugh.