You?

“That’s why Miss Highsmith said what she did,” said Thomas. “‘He was dead, dead in his prime. His wife, she wept and wept. I remember her tears.’ Rupert was married when he died. She meant Tatiana.”

“Tragedy begets tragedy,” said Tessa. “Rupert Blackthorn died, and his son died, and it drove Tatiana Blackthorn mad. She refused to allow her son the protection spells of a Shadowhunter, and so created a vessel that could be possessed. She is a tragic figure, but also dangerous.”

“Hopefully she is not a danger to the Sisters in the Adamant Citadel,” said Alastair smoothly. “The Inquisitor was quite merciful to send her there, and not to the Silent City. Hopefully that mercy will be rewarded.”

Martin Wentworth made a rude noise. “She doesn’t need mercy,” he said. “She needs interrogating. Do we really think she had no knowledge of this situation?”

The Inquisitor was spluttering silently. Mrs. Bridgestock, who had been standing quietly among the Pouncebys, said, “What about Grace? If this … murderous demon knows she exists—if it preyed on her brother—”

“Grace was born a Cartwright,” Ariadne said, startling everyone. “Her parents were devoted Shadowhunters. She would have had the protection spells, years before Tatiana even met her.”

The Inquisitor swept his cloak around himself. “I will leave tonight. I must go to the Adamant Citadel and request a formal audience with Tatiana Blackthorn. She will have to be brought out of the Citadel by the other Sisters, for no man can enter the place. But Wentworth is right—it is time to interrogate her.”

As if he had called an end to civility, a hubbub of voices erupted—questions and demands:

But which demon was it, possessing the boy? What if it returns?

Well, so what if it does? Without a body, it’s just a disembodied demon, isn’t it?

How’d it get the runes off the bodies? James, do you know?

What demon has the power to call up a Prince of Hell? How would they expect to control him?

Demons don’t think that far ahead—do they?

Will, who’d been sitting with his boots on a chair, kicked it over. It hit the ground with a crash that, to James’s surprise, brought an immediate silence.

“Enough,” Will said firmly. “As many of you know, the Consul is currently in the infirmary with her injured son. She has sent word, however, with Brother Zachariah.” He inclined his head to Jem. “She’s invested me with the power to open a formal inquiry into this matter, which I will be doing. Tomorrow. For now, everyone who is not injured or the family of someone injured, please return home. There is no indication of further danger, and a great deal of work must now be undertaken. The Clave in Idris must be notified, and repair work begun. For this is our Institute, and we will let no Prince of Hell turn it to ruins.”

There was a modest cheer. As Shadowhunters began to file out of the library, Will turned to look at James, and James could tell what he was thinking. First Belial, now Leviathan? Two Princes of Hell? It was too great a coincidence. James’s father was clever; too clever, perhaps. But he also knew how to wait and let the truth come to him. James had no doubts that it would.

“Well,” said Alastair, “that was a whacking great lot of rubbish James just spouted, wasn’t it?”

Cordelia almost smiled. She had been relieved beyond measure to see Alastair; she could not have borne the idea of anything happening to him. Not now. He was a mess, which must be vexing him dreadfully: his hair was tangled, his clothes torn and covered in stone dust. Sona would not be at all pleased when he returned home, but Cordelia thought he looked rather endearing, not so perfectly put together and stiff as she was used to.

Alastair had stayed by her side while James was talking, for which she was grateful. She had been feeling immensely peculiar. She was proud of James, holding his own against the entire Enclave, weaving a story that hung together while leaving out anything that would incriminate his friends—or her. She could not help admiring his boldness, yet at the same time she feared what came next. They were dancing at the edge of a cliff, she felt: they could not all manage this falsehood forever.

She had caught James looking at her oddly several times since the battle had ended, as if he wanted to do or say something, but was restraining himself. She couldn’t imagine what it was. She could see him now, deep in conversation with Jem, not looking toward her at all.

“Oun dorough nemigoft,” she said to Alastair, in Persian. She didn’t think anyone was listening to them—they had edged their way into a corner of the library, next to a shelf of books on numerical magic—but better to be careful. “It wasn’t lies. It just wasn’t the whole truth.”

Alastair’s dark eyes flashed with amusement. “Yes. I am familiar with how lying works, Layla.”

Cordelia’s stomach turned over. She wanted to say, Don’t call me Layla. It sounded too much like Lilith to her ears, and didn’t Lilith mean “night,” just as Layla did? “I can’t tell you all of it now,” she said. “But I can tell you one thing that is true. I was correct when I said I was not worthy of bearing Cortana.”

“Did you not kill the demon possessing Jesse Blackthorn?”

“I did,” Cordelia began. “But I am not—”

Alastair was shaking his head. “You must stop this,” he said. “You will make yourself unworthy by considering yourself unworthy. We become what we are afraid we will be, Layla.”

Cordelia sighed. “I will come back with you to Cornwall Gardens after this, before I return home,” she said. “It has been too long since I have seen Mâmân. And we can discuss—”

“Alastair,” Matthew said.

The Carstairs siblings turned in surprise; neither of them had heard anyone approach. The room was still full of Shadowhunters, streaming in and out of the library door, and the dull mutter of voices. Matthew must have come in with some of them; he stood looking at Alastair and Cordelia, his hands in his pockets.

His golden hair was mussed, as tangled as Alastair’s, and there was a great deal of blood on his clothes. Charles’s blood, Cordelia knew; it was still unnerving. “Matthew,” she said. “Is everything all right?”

He looked at her once—a peculiar, intense look—before turning back to Alastair. “Look here, Carstairs,” he said. “I can’t say I know what’s going on, or want to, but my brother is in the infirmary, and he’s been asking for you. I’d like you to go see him.”

Alastair frowned. “Charles and I,” he said, “are—no longer on good terms.”

“Stuff good terms,” said Matthew. “Alastair, Cordelia assures me that you have a heart. She says you’re different than you were at school. The boy I knew at school wouldn’t visit my brother, just to spite me. Don’t make your sister a liar; she’s a better person than you are, and if she believes in you, you should try to be someone she can believe in. I know I do.”

Alastair looked staggered—which, for Alastair, consisted of going very still, and blinking slowly for several seconds. “Fine,” he said at last. He ruffled Cordelia’s hair. “Ta didar-e badd,” he said, and walked away, without looking at Matthew again.