Alastair had seemed unmoved. He hadn’t said a single word to Thomas since the door had closed and locked behind the Consul for the last time. He’d wandered over to one of the “beds” provided—a mattress with a pile of blankets and pillows, sat down with a book (Machiavelli’s The Prince, which he must have produced from a coat pocket—did he carry it around everywhere with him?), and stuck his nose in it. And there he still was, hours later, not even looking up when Thomas accidentally knocked over a candelabra while pacing the room.

Thomas eyed the “bed” Alastair wasn’t currently occupying, wishing he knew whether it was time to go to sleep yet. Although if their confinement were to continue, he supposed it didn’t matter; he and Alastair would become like stable cats, sleeping whenever they felt like it.

The notion of spending even another hour in this room made Thomas so despondent that he walked to the door and shook it, on the very remote chance that for some reason the lock and wards had failed.

Naturally, nothing happened. Alastair’s voice pierced the silence, nearly making Thomas jump. “A little menacing that the Sanctuary bolts shut from the outside, isn’t it? I never thought about it much before.”

Thomas turned around to look at him. Alastair had shrugged off his jacket, of course, and his shirt was rumpled.

“I, er, suppose one might have to keep an unexpectedly dangerous Downworlder out, or something,” Thomas said awkwardly.

“Maybe.” Alastair shrugged. “On the other hand, it does give the Institute a makeshift prison.”

Thomas wandered a little closer to Alastair, who was looking at his book again. It was unusual to see Alastair with a hair out of place—he was like Anna that way—but it was tousled now, and fell in soft, thick locks over his forehead. At least they looked soft; Thomas supposed he wasn’t sure. What he did know was that he liked Alastair’s hair much more now that he had dyed it back to its natural color.

Unfortunately, he reminded himself, he didn’t much like Alastair.

Despite what Alastair had done for him, just a few hours ago.

Which had been as impressive as it had been surprising.

“Why have you been following me around?” Thomas demanded.

Alastair’s breath seemed to hitch, though Thomas knew he might have been imagining it. “Someone had to,” he said, still staring at The Prince.

“What on earth does that mean?” Thomas said.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to, Lightwood,” said Alastair, with a flash of the old arrogance he’d had at school.

Thomas sat down with a thump on Alastair’s mattress. Alastair looked at him in surprise. “I do want the answer,” Thomas said. “And I will not get up until you tell it to me.”