“Even if that’s true, you didn’t do it,” Cordelia said fiercely. “You’ve been here all night long, James. Lashed to the bed.”

“That’s true,” said Matthew. “Cordelia has been with you, she never left your side, and we’ve all been downstairs—well, except Thomas, he buggered off on patrol again, but the rest of us. No one came in or out the door.”

James untied the rope still trailing from his wrist. It fell away, revealing a circle of bloody skin. He flexed his hand and looked from Matthew to Cordelia. “And I tried to get the window open,” he mused. “But it was after my dream, not before. I don’t know—” He looked frustrated. “It’s like I can’t think,” he said. “Like there’s a fog in my brain. But if it isn’t me doing this—who is it?”

Before either Matthew or Cordelia could answer, a noise echoed from downstairs. Someone was pounding on the door. Cordelia was up in a flash, racing down the steps in her stockinged feet. She could hear movement from the drawing room, but she reached the door before anyone else, and threw it open.

On the threshold stood a figure in a parchment-colored cloak. Glancing behind him, Cordelia could see that his boots had left no traces on the snow that frosted their front walk; he seemed to carry quiet with him, a sense of hushed spaces and echoless shadows.

For a moment Cordelia was filled with a wild hope that Jem had come to see her. But this Silent Brother was more stooped, nor did he have thick, dark hair—or any hair at all. When he looked down at her, his sewed-shut eyes visible beneath the shadow of his hood, she recognized him. It was Brother Enoch.

Cordelia Herondale, he said, in his silent voice. I must speak with you on several matters. First, I bring you a message from Brother Zachariah.

Cordelia blinked in surprise. James had said there had been another death—but maybe that was not why Enoch was here, after all? His face was as expressionless as ever, though his voice in Cordelia’s mind was surprisingly kind. She had never quite thought of the other Silent Brothers, those who were not Jem, as being kind or unkind, any more than trees or fence posts were kind.

Perhaps she had been unfair. Finding her voice, she ushered Brother Enoch into the entryway, murmuring a welcome. She could hear the noises of the others inside the house, their voices raised in the drawing room. It was still quite early, and the sky outside had just begun to steady into blue.

She closed the door and turned to look at Enoch. He stood, seemingly waiting for her, marble-pale and silent, like a statue in an alcove.

“Thank you,” she said. “I am glad to hear from Je—from Brother Zachariah. Is he all right? Is he returning to London?”