“There is a longer story to Fade’s betrayal, one you might not know,” Jia said. “In 1812 he fell in love with a Shadowhunter girl, Annabel Blackthorn. Her family deplored the idea of her marrying a warlock. In the end, she was murdered—by other Nephilim. Malcolm was told she had become an Iron Sister.”

“Why didn’t they kill him, too?” called someone from the crowd.

“He was a powerful warlock. A valuable asset,” said Jia. “In the end it was decided to leave him alone. But when he discovered what had actually happened to Annabel, he lost his mind. This past century he has spent seeking revenge against Shadowhunters.”

“My lady.” It was Zara, upright and very prim; she’d just come in through the Hall doors and was standing in the aisle. “You tell us this story as if you mean for us to have sympathy for the girl and the warlock. But Malcolm Fade was a monster. A murderer. Some girl’s infatuation with him doesn’t excuse what he did.”

“I find,” said Jia, “that there is a difference between an excuse and an explanation.”

“Then why are we being treated to this explanation? The warlock is dead. I hope this is not some attempt to wring reparations out of the Council. No one associated with that monster deserves any recompense for his death.”

Jia’s look was like the edge of a blade. “I understand that you’ve been very active in Council affairs lately, Zara,” she said. “That does not mean you can interrupt the Consul. Go and sit down.”

After a moment, Zara sat, looking angry. Aline pumped her fist. “Go, Mom,” she whispered.

However, someone else had risen up to take Zara’s place. Her father. “Consul,” he said. “We’re not ignorant; we were told this meeting would involve significant testimony by a witness that would impact the Clave. Isn’t it about time you brought that witness out? If indeed, they exist?”

“Oh, she exists,” Jia said. “It is Annabel. Annabel Blackthorn.”

Now the murmur that went through the room sounded like the crash of a wave. A moment later Robert Lightwood appeared, wearing a grim expression. Behind him came two guards, and between them walked Annabel.

Annabel seemed quite small as she came up on the dais beside the Inquisitor. The Black Volume was hanging from a strap over her back, which made her look even younger, like a girl on her way to school.

A hiss went through the room. Undead, Emma heard, and Unclean. Annabel shrank back against Robert.

“This is an outrage,” sputtered Zara’s father. “Did we not all suffer enough from the corrosive filth of the Endarkened? Must you bring this thing in front of us?”

Julian sprang to his feet. “The Endarkened were not undead,” he said, turning to face the Hall. “They were Turned by the Infernal Cup. Annabel is exactly who she was in life. She was tortured by Malcolm, kept in a half-alive state for years. She wants to help us.”

“Julian Blackthorn,” sneered Dearborn. “My daughter told me about you—your uncle was mad, your whole family’s mad, only a madman would find this a good idea—”

“Do not,” said Annabel, and her voice rang out clear and strong, “speak that way to him. He is my blood kin.”

“Blackthorns,” said Dearborn. “Seems they’re all mad, dead, or both!”

If he’d expected a laugh, he didn’t get one. The room was silent.

“Sit,” the Consul said to Dearborn coldly. “It appears your family has an issue with the way Nephilim are meant to comport themselves. Interrupt me again and you’ll be thrown out of the Hall.”

Dearborn sat, but his eyes gleamed with rage. He wasn’t the only one. Emma scanned the room quickly and saw clusters of hateful glares directed at the dais. She choked back her nerves; Julian had pushed his way into the aisle and was standing facing the front of the room. “Annabel,” he said, his voice low and encouraging. “Tell them about the King.”

“The Unseelie King,” Annabel said softly. “The Lord of Shadows. He was in league with Malcolm. It is important you all know this, because even now, he plans the destruction of all Shadowhunters.”

“But the Fair Folk are weak!” A man in an embroidered gandora was on his feet, dark eyes sparking with concern. Cristina murmured into Emma’s ear that he was the head of the Marrakech Institute. “Years of the Cold Peace have weakened them. The King cannot hope to stand against us.”

“Not in a clash of equal armies, no,” Annabel said in her small voice. “But the King has harnessed the power of the Black Volume, and he has learned how to destroy the power of the Nephilim. How to cancel out runes, seraph blades, and witchlight. You would be fighting his forces with no more power than mundanes—”

“This absolutely cannot be true!” It was a thin, dark-haired man Emma remembered from the long-ago discussion of the Cold Peace. Lazlo Balogh, head of the Budapest Institute. “She is lying.”

“She has no reason to lie!” Diana was on her feet now too, her shoulders set back in a fighting stance. “Lazlo, of all the people—”

“Miss Wrayburn.” The Hungarian man’s expression hardened. “I think we all know you should recuse yourself from the discussion.”

Diana froze.

“You fraternize with faeries,” he went on, smacking his lips as he spoke. “You’ve been observed.”

“Oh, by the Angel, Lazlo,” said the Consul. “Diana has nothing to do with this other than having the bad fortune to disagree with you!”

“Lazlo’s right,” said Horace Dearborn. “The Blackthorns are faerie sympathizers, betrayers of the Law—”

“But we’re not liars,” said Julian. His voice was steel edged in ice.

Dearborn took the bait. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Your daughter didn’t kill Malcolm Fade,” said Julian. “Annabel did.”

Zara popped to her feet like a puppet jerked upward on strings. “That’s a lie!” she shrieked.

“It is not a lie,” said Annabel. “Malcolm raised me from the dead. He used the blood of Arthur Blackthorn to do it. And for that, and for his torture and abandonment of me, I killed him.”

Now the room exploded. Shouts echoed off the walls. Samantha and Dane Larkspear were on their feet, shaking their fists. Horace Dearborn was roaring that Annabel was a liar, that all Blackthorns were.

“Enough!” shouted Jia. “Silence!”

“La Spada Mortale.” A small olive-skinned woman rose from a place near the back. She wore a plain dress, but her thick necklace sparkled with jewels. Her hair was a deep gray, worn nearly to her hips, and her voice carried enough authority to cut through the noise in the room.

“What did you say, Chiara?” Jia demanded. Emma knew her name—Chiara Malatesta, head of the Rome Institute in Italy.

“The Mortal Sword,” said Chiara. “If there is a question of whether this person—if that’s what she can be called—is telling the truth, ply her with Maellartach. Then we can dispense with pointless arguments about whether she’s lying.”

“No.” Annabel’s eyes darted around the room in a panic. “Not the Sword—”