Gabriel turned away, swearing quietly under his breath. James knew what he was thinking. Sophie might be convinced of Thomas’s innocence, but not everyone would be.

“We need to see Thomas,” James said. “Before everyone else gets here. Especially the Inquisitor. Aunt Sophie,” he said, seeing the uncertain look on her face. “You know he’ll want to see us.”

Sophie nodded. “All right, but only you, Christopher, and Matthew. And be quick. I expect Charlotte will be arriving shortly with her entourage, and the Inquisitor won’t want to find anyone in the Sanctuary. The rest of you will have to wait here—”

“Well, I shan’t be doing any waiting,” Anna said, in a voice like ice crystals. “Were there any witnesses to what happened, Aunt Sophie? Lilian’s death, or why Thomas was there?”

Sophie shook her head. “He says he heard her screaming when he passed by, but she was already dying when he reached her. There were no witnesses.”

“That we know of,” Anna said. “I have my own ways of discovering information. Aunt Sophie, Father, I’d rather make my own inquiries than remain here and have to see Bridgestock’s face.” She glanced at Christopher. “And if he is rude to you, let me know. I will cut his sneering nose off.”

Anna turned without waiting for a reply and stalked out of the room. James could hear her boots clattering away down the hall. A moment later, Matthew and Christopher headed for the door; James paused to glance back at Lucie and Cordelia, who were watching them with grim expressions.

“Tell Tom we all know he’s innocent,” said Lucie.

“Yes,” Cordelia agreed. Her expression was fierce. James knew she couldn’t be pleased about being left behind in the library, but she gave him an encouraging nod nevertheless. “We’ll stand by him.”

“He knows,” James said.

He caught up with Christopher and Matthew in the corridor, and together they raced downstairs, hurrying through the sloping hallways of the Institute until they reached the recessed vestibule outside the Sanctuary. The passageway ended here in a high pair of doors made of blessed iron, studded here and there with adamas nails. The keyhole in the left-hand door was carved in the shape of an angel. The key itself was currently in the hand of a dark-haired girl in a green dress, standing beside the doors and scowling.

It was Eugenia, Thomas’s sister. “Took you lot long enough to get here,” she said.

“What are you doing down here, Genia?” Matthew asked. “Surely Bridgestock wouldn’t have asked you to guard the door.”

She snorted. “Hardly. I’m worried for Thomas. I’m here to keep other people out, not keep him in. The whole Enclave has been walking on eggshells since these murders began; it wouldn’t surprise me if an angry mob showed up with torches and pitchforks now that there’s a suspect.” Her eyes flashed. “Go on, tell me I’m being foolish.”

“On the contrary,” said James. “I’m glad you’re here. We all are.”

“Indeed,” said Christopher. “You’re very frightening, Eugenia. I still remember the time you tied me to a tree in Green Park.”

“To be fair, we were playing pirates, and I was eight,” said Eugenia, but she smiled a little. She held out the angel key to James. “Tell him we’ll get him out,” she said fiercely, and James nodded and unlocked the doors.

Inside, the large stone room was dim, lit only by the light of a row of burning candelabras. The windowless walls were hung with long tapestries, each featuring the intricately woven image of a Shadowhunter family crest. A mirror nearly the size of one wall made the room seem larger still. In the middle of the room was a massive stone fountain, dry of water, an angel rising from its center. Its eyes were closed, its blind face sorrowful.

The last time James had been in this room, it had been at the meeting where Cordelia had stood up to declare that he was innocent of burning down Blackthorn Manor—that she had spent the night with him and would vouch for his whereabouts. He still remembered the moment. He had been stunned, not so much by what she had said, but that she had said it at all: he had never imagined anyone making such a sacrifice for him before.

The traces of that meeting were still here, in the family crests on the tapestries, the black velvet chairs scattered about the room, the lectern still in one corner. On one of the chairs, by the dry fountain, sat Thomas. His clothes were creased and spotted with blood, his hands pulled behind the chair, his wrists tied. His eyes were closed, his head hanging.

Christopher gave an indignant gasp. “He’s already locked up. They didn’t need to tie him up as well—”

Thomas lifted his head, blinking. Exhaustion showed in his sunken eyes. “Kit?”

“We’re here,” Christopher said, racing across the room toward Thomas. James followed, joining Christopher in kneeling down before Thomas’s chair, while Matthew went behind, sliding a dagger from his belt. With one slash, the rope parted and Thomas pulled his arms free with a gasp of relief.

“Don’t be angry,” he said, looking at his friends. “I told them it was all right to tie me up. Bridgestock insisted, and I didn’t want my parents to have to keep defending me.”

“They shouldn’t have to defend you at all,” said James, catching at Thomas’s free hands. He could see the dark shadow of Thomas’s compass rose tattoo where it showed through the sleeve of his shirt. It was supposed to lead Thomas to love and safety, James thought bitterly; in this case, it had failed. “This is ridiculous—”

“Thomas,” said Christopher, with uncharacteristic firmness. “Tell us what happened.”

Thomas made a sort of dry gasping noise. His hands were ice-cold. “You’ll think I’m mad. Or a secret killer—”

“I should remind you,” said James, “that yesterday, I thought I was a secret killer, and you told me that was ludicrous. And now I’m telling you that you, out of all of us, are least likely to be a secret killer.”

“I, on the other hand, am the most likely to be a secret killer,” said Matthew, throwing himself into one of the chairs. “I wear peculiar clothes. I come and go as I please and do mysterious, illicit things in the night. None of the rest of you are like that at all. Well, Christopher might kill someone, but he wouldn’t mean to. It would be an accident resulting from an experiment gone horribly wrong.”

Thomas let out a shuddering breath. “I know,” he said, “with crystal clarity, that I did not harm Lilian Highsmith. But Bridgestock and his cronies are acting as though they believe I did—they believed it immediately. Nothing I said made any difference. And these are people I’ve known my whole life.”

James chafed Thomas’s hands between his, getting the blood flowing. “Tom, what did happen?”

“I—I was walking through Golden Square when I heard someone scream. I ran toward the sound and saw the body lying there, and I turned her over so I could see her face and … and it was Lilian, barely alive. There was no sign of the murderer. I tried …” Thomas put his hands over his face. “I tried to heal her but I couldn’t; she was too close to death. And then the next thing I knew, I heard shouting and then the Inquisitor and some others were standing over me. I was covered in Lilian’s blood by then …”