The thought of James opened up an ache in Matthew’s chest. He’d argued with James the night before: they never argued. “Magnus wouldn’t let anything happen to him,” Matthew said. “I’m sure he’ll be here any minute and can tell us all about last night.” He dropped his voice. “Journeying into the dream-realm and all that.”

“Well, I hope the pithos was helpful,” Christopher said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat. “I still can’t figure out why anyone would want an object that picks up runes and pops them onto someone else.”

“What are you talking about?” Matthew often felt he’d missed something when he was talking to Christopher about his experiments, but this was even more confusing than usual.

“Well,” said Christopher, “if you were a Shadowhunter, you could just draw your runes on yourself, and if you weren’t, you couldn’t have runes at all without becoming Forsaken—”

“Yes, yes, but what are you talking about?”

Christopher sighed. “Matthew, I know it was very late when you came to Grosvenor Square last night, but you must listen when I explain things. It’s not all boring trivia, you know.”

A faint spark of dread flared in Matthew’s stomach. “I didn’t come by the house last night.”

“You did, though,” Christopher insisted, blinking in puzzlement. “You told me that James needed the stele, so I gave it to you.”

A spike of ice pierced Matthew’s stomach. He recalled dropping Lucie off the night before and returning to his flat to spend the rest of the night drinking with Oscar by the fire. If he’d made a surprise visit to his father’s lab at some point in the small hours, he was sure he’d remember it.

“Christopher, I don’t know who you gave the stele to last night,” he said urgently, “but it wasn’t me.”

Christopher went pale. “I don’t understand. It was you, it looked just like you. If it wasn’t you … oh, God, who did I give the stele to? And to what purpose?”

Thomas struggled for breath. The weight of the Sword spread through his chest, and it was more than weight, it was pain—a dozen, a thousand small needles stabbing and dragging at his skin. Words spilled from his mouth, uncontrolled and unpremeditated: he understood now the way in which Maellartach made it impossible to hold back the truth. “No,” he gasped. “I did not kill Lilian Highsmith.”

Charlotte exhaled with relief. The Inquisitor muttered something in a furious tone; if Alastair made a sound, Thomas couldn’t hear it.

As though he were asking Thomas about his breakfast, Will said, “Did you murder Basil Pounceby? Or Filomena di Angelo? Or Elias Carstairs?”

Thomas was prepared for the pain this time. It came from resistance, he thought. From pressing back against the Sword’s urging. He let himself relax, let the words come without fighting them. “No. I am a warrior. But I am not a murderer.”

Will jerked his thumb in the direction of Alastair. “Have you seen that fellow murder any Shadowhunters? Alastair, I mean. He commit any murders to your knowledge? Amos Gladstone, maybe?”

“Excuse me,” said Alastair, looking horrified.

“No,” said Thomas. “I’ve never seen Alastair commit murder. And,” he added, somewhat to his own surprise, “I don’t think he would do such a thing.”

At this, the corner of Will’s mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. “Do you have any other secrets, Thomas Lightwood?”

The question caught him off guard. Thomas pushed back, swift and hard, before any of a number of secrets could come spilling out of his mouth—secrets about his friends, secrets about James’s heritage. Anything at all about Alastair.

“Will,” Charlotte scolded. “You have to ask about specific things! You can’t just fish about. Sorry, Thomas.”

“Question retracted,” Will said, and the dragging weight of the Sword lightened immediately. Will gave Thomas a hard look and, after a moment, said intently, “Is Gideon aware that he still owes me twenty pounds?”

“Yes,” said Thomas, without being able to stop himself, “but he is pretending not to remember.”

“I knew it!” cried Will. He turned to the Inquisitor with a triumphant look. “I believe we’re done here.”

“Done?” Bridgestock barked. “We’ve hardly even begun! These two must be properly questioned, William, you know that.”

“I have asked all the relevant questions, I think,” Will said.

“You have asked Alastair no questions at all!” Bridgestock shouted. “Either boy could know more. They might know why, for example, no one has been murdered since they’ve been locked up here. That alone is cause for suspicion.”

“Why would that be?” said Charlotte. “The murders aren’t happening every night, and it’s ridiculous to even think Alastair murdered Lilian. He came along after Thomas, there wasn’t a spot of blood on him, and he came to us—an actual murderer would have washed his hands of the whole business once we had the wrong suspect in custody.”

Bridgestock seemed to inflate like a toad. “The wrong suspect? I came across Thomas standing over Lilian, covered in blood—”

“In the wise words of someone or other,” said Will, lifting the Sword from Thomas’s grasp, “there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Maurice.”

“Shakespeare,” said Alastair. “That’s from Hamlet. Not the Maurice part, clearly, but the rest.”

Will looked surprised, then amused. He turned to Thomas. “Tom,” he said gently. “I know this has been rotten, but I was suspected of all sorts of shenanigans when I was your age. Once the word gets out about you being tried by the Sword, the Enclave will forget all about this. I promise.” He paused. “Now, I see no need for further use of the Sword—”

“It is not your decision!” the Inquisitor roared.

The Institute rocked beneath their feet. Thomas looked around in disbelief as candelabras crashed to the ground around them and chairs toppled over. A thin crack splintered the floor underfoot as Alastair started toward Thomas—then froze, seeming uncertain. Bridgestock was clinging to a pillar, eyes wide. Will had pulled Charlotte to him and was keeping her steady, his arm around her shoulder as he gazed around, brow furrowed.

The tremors ceased.

“What—?” Bridgestock gasped, but there was no one to hear him: the other Shadowhunters had exploded into motion and were racing out the door.

* * *

Anna strode a little more forcefully than was strictly necessary, making Ariadne struggle to keep up with her long-legged stride as they crossed over Waterloo Bridge. The tower of the Institute loomed high across the river, dark against the lightening sky.

She was halfway across the bridge before she realized she was alone. Turning, she saw Ariadne standing some yards back, her hands on her hips. Ariadne had very pretty hips, curving into a neat waist, and her legs—as Anna had cause to know—were well-shaped. She even had attractive feet, which she had currently planted on the pavement, unmoving.

“I cannot walk as fast as you do,” Ariadne said. “But I will not race to keep up. It is undignified. If you’d prefer to go alone, you merely need say so.”