The Sanctuary was lit with a few candles burning low, which gave off just enough light to keep Cordelia and Lucie from bumping into the walls. Even though Cordelia knew full well it was the same Institute it had been a few hours ago, the dim amber glow gave the place a somber feeling, and they went up the stairs in silence.

Although it was possible that Lucie’s silence was merely a sign of her suppressed excitement. When Cordelia had turned to her in Tyler’s Court and said, “I’ve had an idea, and I need your help,” she had fully expected Lucie to reject the entire plan. Instead Lucie had turned the color of a raspberry, clapped her hands, and said, “What a wonderfully terrible idea. I am entirely willing to help. And keep it secret. It is a secret, isn’t it?”

Cordelia had assured her it was, though it would not stay that way for long. She only hoped their observant friends would not note Lucie’s suspiciously bright eyes and ask questions. At least the dark would help with that.

Once upstairs, they heard a murmur of voices coming from the library and headed that way. Inside they found Alastair and Thomas and Anna and Ari, stained with paint, dusted in sawdust, and holding a picnic on the floor in the middle of the library. A coverlet from one of the spare bedrooms had been spread out in the space between two of the study tables; on the tables themselves were an assortment of tinned foods from the pantry: canned salmon and baked beans, tins of cherries and pears, even steamed Christmas pudding.

Anna looked up as they came in and beckoned them to join in. “It’s all cold food, I’m afraid,” she said. “We didn’t want to send up any smoke from a fire.”

Cordelia settled herself on the coverlet, and Alastair passed her an open tin of apricots. The sweet taste was a relief from the bitter air outside; as she ate, she couldn’t help but be reminded of another picnic, the one they’d held in Regent’s Park when she first came to London. She thought of the sunlight, the abundance of food—sandwiches and ginger beer and lemon tarts, but lemon tarts only made her think of Christopher, and remembering the picnic made her think of those who were gone. Barbara had been there, with Oliver Hayward. And Matthew and James and Christopher, of course, and they had all vanished along with the summer and the sunlight. She glanced over at Thomas. Who was he, without the company of the other Merry Thieves? She didn’t quite know, and she wondered if he did either.

She set down the empty apricot tin with a thump. James and Matthew, at least, were not gone beyond reach. They were still alive. And she would not let them be lost.

Lucie was poking at the tinned pudding with a fork. “Other than nailing boards to windows, what have you been up to while we’ve been gone?”

“Looking for magical exits from London,” Ari said. “Ones that Belial might have overlooked.”

“There are some old burial barrows, one over at Parliament Hill, that used to be Faerie gates,” Anna added. “And some very old wells mentioned in historical texts, that water faeries used to inhabit. Bagnigge Wells, Clerks’ Well—we’ll be spending tomorrow with our heads down wells, it looks like.”

“While Thomas and I will be trying to kill a Watcher,” said Alastair.

“Trying to determine how to kill a Watcher,” Thomas said. “Without the other ones noticing.”

“Or being killed by one yourself,” said Anna. “How was the Hell Ruelle?”

“Awful,” said Cordelia. “The Downworlders are a bit more active than the mundanes, but no less lost in a dreamworld. If you speak to them, they’ll look at you, but they don’t really know you and they don’t really hear you. It’s very unsettling.”

“So they’ll be no help,” said Thomas glumly.

“Belial did say they wouldn’t be,” said Lucie. “I suppose it’s now a matter of what Cordelia and I do next. Anna, what would be most helpful?”

“Well, we could always use help looking for a way out of London,” said Anna, leaning back on her hands. The gold braiding on her waistcoat gleamed, and even the smudge of dirt on her high cheekbone looked elegant.

“Alastair,” Cordelia said in a low voice, “could I talk to you in private?”

Alastair raised his eyebrows but stood up, brushing the crumbs off his trousers, and allowed himself to be led out of the library. It seemed almost silly to seek privacy in the vast emptiness of the Institute, but Cordelia led him to the drawing room anyway. She closed the door behind them and turned to him; he was watching her, his arms crossed over his chest, a frown darkening his expression. Without preamble, he said, “You want Cortana back.”

The Alastair of a year ago would not have known her well enough to guess that, Cordelia thought. It was a downside of their improved relationship that he did now. “How did you know?”

“The look in your eye,” Alastair said. “I know that look. You have a plan, and if I don’t miss my guess, it is both a very big plan and a very bad plan. So I assume it has something to do with Belial. And killing him. Which can only be accomplished with Cortana.”

“You don’t know that it’s a bad plan,” Cordelia protested.

“I know that we’re desperate,” Alastair said, in a quieter voice. “We’ve assigned ourselves these projects, and perhaps they’ll help—but I know that they may not accomplish anything. We may have stayed behind in London only to die here.”

“Alastair…”

“And I know that when it comes down to it, you and Cortana are our single best hope. It’s just…”

“What is it?” Cordelia said.

“If you plan to face Belial somehow, let me come with you,” he said, to Cordelia’s surprise. “I know Belial would be likely to step on me as though I were an ant. But I would stand with you, for as long as I am able.”

“Oh, Alastair,” Cordelia said softly. “I wish I could have you with me. But where I’m going, you cannot follow. Besides,” she added, seeing him start to scowl rebelliously, “I have no choice but to face this fight, this battle with Belial. You do. Think of Maman. Think of the little brother or sister we have not yet met. One of us must stay safe, for their sakes.”

“Neither of us will be safe, Cordelia. There is no safety in London now.”

“I know. But this is a Prince of Hell we are speaking of; the only thing that protects me from him at all is Cortana. It would be foolish and—and even selfish—for us both to face him at once.”

Alastair gazed at her for a long time. Finally, he nodded. “All right. Come with me.”

He led her back out into the hall; it wasn’t long before Cordelia realized where they were going. “The weapons room?” she demanded, as they approached its metal doors. “You hid a sword in a room full of weapons?”

Alastair smiled crookedly. “Have you never read Poe’s ‘The Purloined Letter’?” He pushed the doors open and led her inside. “Sometimes ‘in plain sight’ is the best place to hide something.”

At the far end of the room was a small wooden door, half-hidden behind a display of hand axes. Alastair rolled them aside and threw the door open, beckoning for Cordelia to follow him into a room that turned out to be the size of a large closet. Sagging shelves held battered weapons—a sword with a bent blade, a rusty iron mace, a pile of simple longbows with no strings. Across from the door was a workbench of some kind, with wrought-iron legs and a heavily pitted wooden surface. On it were a number of short wooden rods that she realized after a moment were axe handles, denuded of their blades.

“The repairs room,” he said. “This is where broken weapons go—bows that need restringing, blades that need sharpening. It was Thomas’s idea,” he added, with a slight flush, and knelt down to look under the workbench. “He pointed out that this is the most heavily warded area of the Institute, and hardly anyone ever comes in here. They wouldn’t notice—” He grunted. “Give me a hand with this, will you?”

He was reaching for a large oilskin cloth that had been wrapped around a bundle and tucked under the workbench. She grabbed one end of it and he the other, and with some difficulty they dragged it out. Alastair folded back the oilcloth, revealing a pile of swords in scabbards, most of their blades wrapped in cheap, protective leather pouches. Their hilts rattled as Alastair fanned them out, and a dark gold gleam shone from the oilcloth.

Cortana.

There it was, as beautiful and golden as ever, sheathed within the exquisite scabbard that had been a wedding gift from her father. The intricate pattern of leaves and runes carved into its hilt seemed to glow. Cordelia yearned to reach out and snatch it up, but she turned to Alastair instead.

“Thank you,” she said, her throat tight. “When I asked you to look after it for me—I knew how much I was asking. But there was no one else I trusted. That Cortana trusted. I knew you’d keep it safe.”

Alastair, still kneeling, regarded her with thoughtful dark eyes. “You know,” he said, “when Cortana chose you as its bearer instead of me, everyone thought I was upset because I had wanted to be the one. The bearer. But—it wasn’t that. It was never that.” He rose to his feet, laying Cortana atop the workbench. “When you first picked up the sword… I realized, in that instant, that being its wielder would mean you were always the one in danger. You would be the one to take the bigger risks, to fight the harder fights. And I would be the one who would watch you, again and again, walk into danger. And I hated that thought.”

“Alastair…”

He held up his hand. “I should have told you that. A long time ago.” His voice carried the weight of a thousand emotions: resignation, loss, anger—and hope. “I know I cannot fight beside you, Layla. I only make one request. Be careful with your life. Not only for your own sake, but for mine.”

Eventually he’d given up and circled the courtyard a few more times, searching for anything that might be a means of attack or escape. He found neither.

He had discovered, to his surprise, that while his seraph blades and other weapons had been taken away before he’d woken up in Edom, he still had his pistol on him, stuck through his belt. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to fire in this dimension, which was no doubt why Belial had let him keep it.

Eventually, he’d used the barrel of the gun to try digging into the ground beneath the walls, but the soil crumbled into powder to fill in any hole he started.

He’d returned to the stone bowl to drink more water and found that at some point a second bowl had appeared, this one full of hard green apples and stale rolls of bread. James wondered if the apples were meant to be an ironic nod to Lilith, or whether Belial was simply thinking about how to feed James and Matthew without giving them anything they’d actually enjoy eating.

He brought an apple over to Matthew, who was sitting up, having unbuttoned his coat and thrown it off. He was flushed, his hair and collar wet with sweat. When James handed him the apple, he took it with a hand that shook violently.

“Maybe you should drink a little more,” James suggested. “The remainder in the flask, at least.”

“No,” Matthew said shortly. He looked up at the burning orange sky. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“I doubt that,” James said mildly.

“That there was little point in my following you here when I can barely stand up,” said Matthew. “It isn’t as if I can fight to defend you.”

James sat down beside him. “It’s Belial we’re up against, Math. There isn’t a single one of us who could stand against him, no matter how sick or well we were.”

“No one,” said Matthew, “except Cordelia.”

James glanced down at his hands. They were filthy from digging in the dirt, two of his nails bloody. “Do you think they’re still there? In London? Or have they gone to Idris?”

Matthew was looking at the sky again. “Our friends? They’d never take Belial’s offer. They’ll find some way to stay in London, whatever happens.”

“I agree,” said James. “Although I wish—”

Matthew held up a hand, interrupting James. He narrowed his eyes. “James. Look up.”

James looked. A few flying things had passed overhead while he was searching for an exit, too big and misshapen to be birds. It looked as if another was passing, much bigger and closer than the ones he’d seen before. As he watched, he realized with surprise that it was coming closer. And then it was definitely descending toward them.

It was an enormous creature, with feathered black wings, a long insectile body, and a triangular face like an axe-head, with oblong, marble-white eyes and a gaping circle of teeth.

Riding on the bird-demon’s back, on a tooled gold saddle, was Belial.

He had abandoned his usual trousers and jacket: he wore instead a silk doublet and a long cloak of white samite, like the angel he had been once. It flapped in the hot wind as the bird-demon alighted on the rocky ground of the courtyard, sending up a small tornado of dust.

James felt Matthew shift beside him, and saw that he had slipped the flask from his pocket. He tipped it back, swallowing hard, staring at Belial as he sprang down from his bizarre-looking mount.

When Matthew replaced the flask into his jacket, his hand no longer shook. He took a deep breath and rose to his feet; James stood up quickly beside him, realizing that this was what Matthew had been saving the last mouthful of Christopher’s mixture for: so that when Belial came, they could face him together, on their feet.

Belial walked toward them, a gold riding whip in hand, an amused look on his face. “Aren’t you two adorable,” he said. “Your parabatai wouldn’t leave your side, James. Such a very holy bond, isn’t it, that love that passes all understanding. The very expression of God’s love.” He grinned. “Only God touches nothing here. This place lies beyond His sight, His touch. Your runes do not work here; adamas is dull in this world. Can your bond survive in such a place?” He slapped his palm with his riding whip. “Pity we’ll never know. You won’t be here long enough.”

“What a shame,” said James. “I was finding it all so pleasant here. Food, water, sunshine…”

Belial smiled. “Well, I did want you to be comfortable. It would be awfully inconvenient for me if you died of starvation or thirst while I was taking care of London. So fragile, these human bodies of yours.”

“And yet you want one,” said Matthew. “Isn’t that strange?”

Belial looked at him thoughtfully. “You would never understand,” he said. “Your world, and all its blessings, are forbidden to me, unless I inhabit a human body.”

“I’ve seen what your presence does to human bodies,” said Matthew tightly.

“Oh, indeed,” said Belial. “Which is why my grandson is necessary to me.” He turned to James. “James, I am going to offer you a deal. You should take it, because the offers will only get worse from here, and you have absolutely no leverage to negotiate.” When James didn’t respond, only folded his arms in reply, Belial went on. “It’s the simplest thing in the world. Beside you is your parabatai. The other half of your soul, who has followed you here out of loyalty, in faith that you would keep him safe.”

He’s manipulating you,James told himself, but still. He wanted to grind his teeth.

“He isn’t well,” Belial went on mercilessly. “Look at him; he can barely stand. He is sick, in body and soul.”

Unexpectedly, Belial’s bird-demon, which had been poking at the ground with its sharply angled head, spoke up in a voice like gravel rolling through a cast-iron pipe: “It’s true. Your bloke there looks like he just fell from a great height.”

Belial rolled his eyes. “Do shut up, Stymphalia. I’ll do the talking. You’re not here because you’re the brains of the operation.”

“?’Course not,” said Stymphalia. “It’s my bloody great wings, innit?” It flapped them proudly.

“The bird-demon sounds like a Londoner,” Matthew observed.

“Spent some time in London,” acknowledged the bird-demon. “Back in the day. Ate a few Romans. Delicious, they were.”

“Yes, yes,” said Belial. “Everyone loves London. Tea, crumpets, Buckingham Palace. If we may return to the matter at hand, James—agree to be possessed by me, and I will send him back to your people unharmed.” He pointed at Matthew.

“No,” Matthew said. “I didn’t come here to abandon James to his fate. I came to save him from it.”

“Good for you,” said Belial, sounding bored. “James, you must know this is the best thing for everyone. I don’t want to have to resort to violence.”

“Of course you do,” James said. “You love resorting to violence.”

“That seems true,” said Matthew.

“I only agreed to come,” put in Stymphalia, “because I thought there might be violence.”

“The birdie and the drunk are right,” Belial allowed. “But let me point out—if you refuse, I lose nothing but a bit of time. If you accept, this is all over and both of you survive and go back to your world.”

“I don’t survive,” James said. “I let you take over my body, my consciousness. In every meaningful way, I’d be dead. And while I don’t care about my life, I care very much about what you’d do if you could freely roam Earth in my body.”

“Then you must choose, I suppose,” said Belial. “Your life, your parabatai’s life—or the world.”

“The world,” said Matthew, and James nodded in agreement.

“We are Nephilim,” he said. “Something you would not understand. Every day we risk ourselves in service of the lives of others; it is our duty to choose the world.”

“Duty,” said Belial dismissively. “I think you will find little satisfaction in duty when the screams of your parabatai are echoing in your ears.” He shrugged. “I’ve much to do in London to ready it, so I will give you one more day. I imagine you’ll see sense by then. If that one”—he looked at Matthew—“even survives the night, which I doubt.” He turned, dismissing them both. “All right, you worthless bird, we’re leaving.”

“Not just a bird. I have a life of the mind too, you know,” Stymphalia grumbled as Belial climbed back into the saddle. Sand rose in a dark cloud as Stymphalia’s wings beat the air. A moment later Belial and his demon rose into the red-orange sky. Both Matthew and James watched in silence as they flew past the towers of the dark Gard, rapidly vanishing into the distance.

“If it happens,” James said. “If Belial possesses me—”

“He won’t,” Matthew interrupted. His eyes were enormous in his thin face. “Jamie, it can’t—”

“Just listen,” James whispered. “If it happens, if he possesses me, and snuffs out my will, and my ability to think or speak—then, Matthew, you must be my voice.”

Lucie, in the middle of buttoning her gear jacket, glanced up to see Jessamine perched on top of her wardrobe, looking half-transparent as usual. She also looked worried, her usual insouciant manner muted. She didn’t seem to be asking Lucie where she was going just for the sake of bothering her. There was real worry in her voice.

“Just on a short trip,” Lucie said. “I won’t be gone long.”

She looked over at the small rucksack on her bed, which she’d packed with just what she’d thought was necessary. A warm compact blanket, her stele, bandages, a few flasks of water, and a packet of ship’s biscuit. (Will Herondale was convinced that ship’s biscuit was the greatest contribution the mundanes had made to the art of survival, and he always kept plenty of it in the Institute stores; for once it seemed they might actually make use of it.)

“I ought to stop you, you know,” Jessamine said. “I’m supposed to protect the Institute. It’s my job.” Her eyes were wide and fearful. “But it’s so dark in here now, and I know it’s the same outside. There are things walking in London that make even the dead afraid.”

“I know,” Lucie said. Jessamine was the same age as her parents, and yet death had trapped her in a sort of permanent youth; for the first time, Lucie felt almost older—protective, even—of the first ghost she’d ever known. “I’m going to do what I can to help. To help London.”

Jessamine’s pale hair drifted around her as she inclined her head. “If you must command the dead, I give you my permission.”

Lucie blinked in surprise, but Jessamine had already disappeared. Still, Lucie thought. A good sign, considering her plans for the evening.

Shouldering her rucksack, Lucie checked over her gear—gloves, boots, weapons belt—and headed down the hall. It was eerily dark, the only light coming from the dim tapers placed at intervals along the corridor.

She had meant to slip the note under Jesse’s door and leave, but in her imagination, the door had been closed. Instead it was propped slightly open. What if Jesse was awake? she thought. Could she justify simply leaving without a word?

She pushed the door open; his room was even darker than the corridor, lit only by a single candle. He was asleep on his narrow bed, the same bed where they’d kissed, what felt like decades ago.

Even now, he slept entirely without moving, turned slightly on his side, his dark hair surrounding his pale face like a reverse halo. In the past, she had watched him as he lay in his coffin and thought he looked as if he was asleep. She wondered now, as she drifted closer to the bed, how she could have been so mistaken: his body had been there, but his soul had not. Now it was, and even asleep he seemed both terribly alive and terribly fragile, the way all mortal creatures were fragile.

She felt a fierce protectiveness flood through her. I’m not just doing this for James, or Matthew, she thought, much as I love them. I’m doing this for you, too.

She slipped the note under his pillow, then bent to kiss his forehead lightly. He stirred but didn’t wake, even when she left the room.

She might normally have thrown open a window, despite the cold, just to get fresh air, but there was nothing fresh about the air outside. It was heavy and oppressive and tasted bitter as soot.

When they had first arrived at the Institute, she had felt lost. Surely it would be presumptuous to assume she and Anna would stay in the same room, and yet at the same time, it felt strange to imagine sleeping so apart from Anna. She was used to waking up in the morning to the sounds of Anna making tea or teaching Winston rude words. Used to finding embroidered waistcoats, frock coats, and velvet trousers thrown over every piece of furniture. Used to the faint perfumy fragrance of burning cheroots. A place without those things would not feel like home.

They had ended up, by accident or design, in rooms connected by an adjoining door. Ari had wondered in these last few dark days if Anna would make use of the door to come to her for comfort after Christopher’s death, but the door had remained firmly locked, and Ari lacked the nerve to break in on Anna’s grief.

Ari had not known Christopher well, but she mourned, of course, not just for him but for Anna. In her darkest moments she worried that even if they made it through their current situation, Anna would still never be the same again. Could she recover her laughter, her mischief, her rebellious joy, after her brother had died while she held him?

Ari had never known anyone to grieve so silently. She had not seen Anna shed a tear. She’d always thought Anna resembled a beautiful statue, with her fine features and balanced grace, but now it was as if Anna had truly turned to stone. She wasn’t completely immobilized—she had thrown herself into the plan to stay in London and defeat Belial as much as anyone. She and Ari had spent long hours together, not just boarding up the Institute but looking through old books in the library, too, searching for ways out of London that Belial might have overlooked. But any attempts Ari had made to deepen the conversation, or bring up Christopher or even family, were gently but firmly rebuffed.

Ari closed her eyes and tried counting. She got nearly to forty before she heard an odd, unfamiliar creaking noise. The door between her room and Anna’s was slowly cracking open.

The room was dark. A little light came through from Anna’s side of the door, where a candle was burning; still, Ari could see Anna mostly as a silhouette, but it hardly mattered. She would recognize her anywhere, in any light.

“Anna,” she whispered, sitting up, but Anna only put a finger to her lips and climbed onto the bed. She wore a silk dressing gown; it was too big for her and slid down her slender shoulders. On her knees, she reached for Ari, her lean fingers cupping Ari’s face in her hands, then ducked her head to meet Ari’s lips with her own.

Ari had not realized how starved for Anna’s touch she had been. She gathered fistfuls of the silk dressing gown in her hands, pulling Anna closer, realizing she wore nothing under it. Her hands found the hard silk of Anna’s skin, stroking her back as they kissed harder.

Ari reached for the lamp on her nightstand, but Anna caught her wrist. “No,” she whispered. “No lights.”

Surprised, Ari drew her hand back. She stroked Anna’s short curls as Anna kissed her throat, but a sense of unease had begun to creep in, threading through the haze of her desire. There was something harsh about the way Anna was kissing her, something desperate. “Darling,” she murmured, reaching to stroke Anna’s cheek.

It was damp. Anna was crying.

Ari bolted upright. She scrabbled for the witchlight under her pillow and lit it, casting them both into a whitish glow; Anna, one hand holding her dressing gown closed, was sitting back on her heels. She looked at Ari defiantly, with red-rimmed eyes.

“Anna,” Ari breathed. “Oh, my poor darling…”

Anna’s eyes darkened. “I suppose you think I am weak.”

“No,”Ari said vehemently. “Anna, you are the strongest person I know.”

“I told myself not to come to you,” Anna said bitterly. “You should not have to share the burden of my grief. It is mine to carry.”

“It is ours,” said Ari. “No one is strong and unyielding all the time, and none of us should be. We all have to let down our guard sometime. We are made up of different parts, sad and happy, strong and weak, solitary and in need of others. And there is nothing shameful about that.”

Anna took Ari’s hand and looked down at it, as if she were marveling at its construction. “If we are all made up of different parts, then I am quite the chessboard.”

Ari turned Anna’s hand over in hers, then laid it over her heart. “Never a chessboard,” she said. “Nothing so plain. You are a brightly colored pachisi board. You’re a backgammon set with triangles of inlaid mother-of-pearl and pieces of gold and silver. You are the queen of hearts.”

“And you,” Anna said softly, “are the lamp that gives light, without which the game cannot be played.”

Ari felt tears burn behind her eyes, but for the first time in days, they were not unhappy tears. She held her arms out, and Anna lay down beside her, curling into her, her head on Ari’s shoulder, her breathing soft as velvet against Ari’s hair.