“He might have something to fear from the Inquisitor,” said Alastair. “Bridgestock desperately wants it to be a Shadowhunter. He needs it to be, so he can have been right about the whole situation. If you let him run the interrogation—”

“I won’t,” Will said quietly.

The door of the Sanctuary pushed open a bit, and Matthew poked his head through. Thomas could see that behind him there was a press of people: he thought he saw Christopher, and Eugenia behind him, stretching for a glimpse through the doors. He wondered what time it was—morning, he thought, but beyond that it was anyone’s guess.

“Hullo, Thomas,” Matthew said with a smile, then looked over at Alastair and added in an icy voice, “Carstairs.”

“Fairchild,” said Alastair in an equally cold tone. Thomas thought perhaps Alastair was relieved to have some normalcy in this situation, even if it was just his and Matthew’s mutual contempt.

“Certainly not.” Inquisitor Bridgestock stalked into the Sanctuary, followed by Charlotte. It was a jolt to see Charlotte in her formal Consul robes. Beside her, Bridgestock was wrapped in the official black and gray of the Inquisitor—a long black cloak, figured with gray runes, a silver brooch at his chest, black boots with metal buckles. Thomas’s stomach swooped and fell; Bridgestock meant business. “Get out, Fairchild.”

Charlotte shot a glare at Bridgestock and turned to Matthew. “You’d better go, darling,” she said gently. “It’ll be all right. Charles Portaled back home this morning too, if you want to see him.”

“Not particularly,” said Matthew, and gave Thomas a mournful look as the Sanctuary door was shut between them. He mouthed something at Thomas that could have been encouragement, or could have been a recipe for lemon biscuits. Thomas had never learned lipreading.

Charlotte looked after her son for a moment before turning her attention to the matter at hand. “Thomas Lightwood,” she said. “Alastair Carstairs. This is to be a trial by the Mortal Sword. Do you understand what that entails?”

Thomas nodded. Alastair merely looked angry, which as Thomas would have guessed, earned them an explanation from the Inquisitor.

“The Mortal Sword is one of the gifts of Raziel,” he said pompously. “It compels any Shadowhunter holding it to tell the truth. It is our great weapon against corruption and evil in our own ranks. Thomas Lightwood, come forth and take the Sword.”

“I will bring it to him,” said Will, and now he didn’t sound jovial. His blue eyes were serious as he unsheathed the Sword from its scabbard and carried it to Thomas. “Lay your hands out palms up, my boy,” he said. “You will not be wielding the Sword. It will be testing you.”