“No,” said Thomas. “I’ve never seen Alastair commit murder. And,” he added, somewhat to his own surprise, “I don’t think he would do such a thing.”

At this, the corner of Will’s mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. “Do you have any other secrets, Thomas Lightwood?”

The question caught him off guard. Thomas pushed back, swift and hard, before any of a number of secrets could come spilling out of his mouth—secrets about his friends, secrets about James’s heritage. Anything at all about Alastair.

“Will,” Charlotte scolded. “You have to ask about specific things! You can’t just fish about. Sorry, Thomas.”

“Question retracted,” Will said, and the dragging weight of the Sword lightened immediately. Will gave Thomas a hard look and, after a moment, said intently, “Is Gideon aware that he still owes me twenty pounds?”

“Yes,” said Thomas, without being able to stop himself, “but he is pretending not to remember.”

“I knew it!” cried Will. He turned to the Inquisitor with a triumphant look. “I believe we’re done here.”

“Done?” Bridgestock barked. “We’ve hardly even begun! These two must be properly questioned, William, you know that.”

“I have asked all the relevant questions, I think,” Will said.

“You have asked Alastair no questions at all!” Bridgestock shouted. “Either boy could know more. They might know why, for example, no one has been murdered since they’ve been locked up here. That alone is cause for suspicion.”

“Why would that be?” said Charlotte. “The murders aren’t happening every night, and it’s ridiculous to even think Alastair murdered Lilian. He came along after Thomas, there wasn’t a spot of blood on him, and he came to us—an actual murderer would have washed his hands of the whole business once we had the wrong suspect in custody.”

Bridgestock seemed to inflate like a toad. “The wrong suspect? I came across Thomas standing over Lilian, covered in blood—”

“In the wise words of someone or other,” said Will, lifting the Sword from Thomas’s grasp, “there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Maurice.”

“Shakespeare,” said Alastair. “That’s from Hamlet. Not the Maurice part, clearly, but the rest.”

Will looked surprised, then amused. He turned to Thomas. “Tom,” he said gently. “I know this has been rotten, but I was suspected of all sorts of shenanigans when I was your age. Once the word gets out about you being tried by the Sword, the Enclave will forget all about this. I promise.” He paused. “Now, I see no need for further use of the Sword—”

“It is not your decision!” the Inquisitor roared.