“Enough!” There were tears on Lucie’s face. “I will do it,” she said. It’s all right, she told herself. If I can speak to Filomena’s shade, perhaps she can tell me who murdered her. It will be worth it. “I will do it. I will make you forget.”

The ghost let out a long sigh—a sigh without breath; it sounded for all the world like wind through broken boughs. “Thank you.”

“But first,” she said, “tell me where Filomena is.”

They found their way to the library. The world was swaying around James like the rolling deck of a ship. He staggered over to a long table and braced his hands on it; he was dimly aware of Matthew beside him, of Cordelia’s soft voice as she spoke to Anna. He wanted to go over and put his head in Cordelia’s lap. He imagined her stroking his hair, and pushed the image away: he already owed her an apology for earlier that morning.

Memories of his dream were pouring into his mind like water through a smashed dam. London streets—light glinting off a blade. Red blood, red as roses. The recollection of a song, sung in delicate Italian, verses turned into screams.

And that hatred again. That hate he could not fathom or explain.

“Math,” he said, rigid with strain. “Tell—Anna. Explain to her.”

Voices swirled around James, Anna’s calm and measured, Matthew’s urgent. Thomas and Cordelia chiming in. I have to get hold of myself, James thought.

“Daisy,” he said. “Constantinople.”

“Oh God, he’s raving,” said Thomas dismally. “Perhaps we ought to get Aunt Charlotte—”

“He’s not,” said Cordelia. “He’s just having an awful time—Thomas, do move out of the way.” James felt her cool hand on his shoulder. Heard her soft voice as she bent toward him. “James, just listen for a moment. Focus on my voice. Can you do that?”

He nodded, grinding his teeth. The hatred was like knives in his skull. He could see hands scrabbling at cobblestones, feel a sick sort of pleasure that was the worst bit of all.

“Once Constantinople was called Basileousa, the Queen of Cities,” Cordelia said, in a voice so low he suspected only he could hear it. “The city had a golden gate, used only for the return of emperors. No one else could pass through it. Did you know the Byzantines created Greek fire? It could burn underwater. Mundane historians have lost the source of the fire, the method of its making, but some Shadowhunters believe it to have been heavenly fire itself. Imagine the light of angels, burning beneath the blue waters of the Stamboul port.…”