The leather armchair she was sitting in was well-worn about the arms and was still cold, even though she'd been sitting for a while. She suspected it belonged to neither Robert Lightwood nor his wife, Maryse; it didn't seem their style to be sitting in the library like this, next to the fire, perhaps reading a book from one of the library's many shelves. No, this domestic sedentariness was all Hodge Starkweather, the Lightwoods' virtual prisoner. And he'd been secretly allied to Valentine all this time. Did the Lightwoods really expect her to believe that they weren't tainted by association? That their adoptive son hadn't been actively in league with his father all this time?

The air in the room was cool, almost sepulchral: the hearth was a grey pile of ash; the only light squeezed through the narrow windows and the skylight above.

She heard the sound of approaching footsteps. A soft, delicate gait. She'd left the door ajar deliberately; now she heard a slight squeak as someone accepted its invitation.

She rose swiftly from the leather armchair, and turned. It was the boy. She smiled a practised smile that half-pitied him and half-relished the flaying he'd unknowingly submitted to.

So this was Jace Lightwood, who was truly Jonathan Morgenstern. Sprung from Valentine's loins.

He looked absolutely nothing like him. She had not expected this. In fact, she was distantly astounded: she'd built a kind of splattered picture of him together in her head before arriving, a miniature, skinnier, coarser copy of that revolting man. Valentine was nothing if not a tyrant and it was impossible to imagine his genes not wreaking the same total supremacy over his offspring. She cast about for a memory of Jocelyn, his wife, this boy's mother—but no, he did not resemble that small, slender, flame-haired woman, either.

It unsettled, and fiercely displeased Imogen Herondale to proven wrong, or taken by surprise. Her voice was hard when she stated, "You are the boy?"

He visibly bristled at that. 'Boy' it was, then.

In truth, he was not a 'boy'. There was nothing about him that suggested innocence or inexperience. He already exuded that sense of tension and restlessness that all Nephilim saw mirrored in one another, hewn from the daily brutalities of battle. He made her think of a hot-house flower, forced headlong from childhood to adulthood; no cushioning in between. If she had not known that he was born to Valentine about a year before her own unborn grandchild had died, she would never have guessed his actual age, which he wore in a frustratingly imprecise way. He could have been fifteen, sixteen; he could have been tilting into his twenties.

The second thing to notice was that, beneath his dishevelment, he was alarmingly beautiful. The kind of enrapturing beauty that immediately arrested you, whether you were willing or not. In the exalted, near celestial lines of his face, it was as if Raziel himself had bent down at the moment of his birth and thrown a fine golden dust over him that had settled in his hair, his skin, his eyes. How ironic. Or fitting. Lucifer, the morning star after which the Morgensterns had named themselves, had been the brightest, most beautiful angel in heaven.

She rested her eyes on his wonderfully blond head of wavy hair, golden as a rusted coin, for a moment too long. He certainly didn't physically slot in well with his black-haired adoptive siblings. Something sharp pricked inside her memory, and gouged out a moment of the past: her Stephen, when he was young, throwing his head back over a chair, grinning at his father.

At that moment, Maryse Lightwood entered the room. She said, "Yes, Inquisitor. This is Jonathan Morgenstern." The joint head of the New York Institute looked nearly dressed for bed in her slippers and somewhat less than appropriate black silk gown that reminded her unpleasantly of a negligee. Was this how the woman normally greeted Clave officials?

Jonathan was staring at Maryse with an expression of shock. Imogen went towards him, and his head snapped back to her. She held out her hand and put her fingers underneath his chin, entangling his gaze forcibly with hers. He looked down at her uninvited touch with repugnance. She had a strange urge to lean forwards and scrutinise his face and pick him apart. Surely, there had to be something in his face that belied his parentage? Tip of his nose, or shape of the ear? "Look at me, boy." No…There truly was nothing at all. Nonetheless, there was something about the fine nuances of his features that made her feel bemused. Uneasy. It all translated into hostility. "You will call me Inquisitor. You will not call me anything else. Do you understand?"

Finally, he spoke around her clamped fingers on his jaw. "My name is Jace. Not boy. Jace Wayland."

"You have no right to the name of Wayland," she reprimanded. "You are Jonathan Morgenstern. To claim the name of Wayland makes you a liar. Just like your father."

Jonathan's gaze, at her reply, had lapsed away into cold disinterestedness; now he looked back at her said glibly, "Actually, I prefer to think that I'm liar in a way that is uniquely my own,"

"I see." She said, her tone unsurprised. Apparently Valentine had been shoved entirely into his personality, rather than his looks. "You are intolerant of authority, just as your father was. Like the angel whose name you both bear." She gripped his chin harder, punctuating her words by sinking her fingernails deeper into his skin. His eyes tightened, but he didn't protest. "Lucifer was rewarded for his rebellion when God cast him into the pits of hell. If you defy my authority, I can promise that you will envy him his fate."

She released Jace and stepped back. A thick string of crimson blood travelled slowly down his throat. His hands were fisted and shaking. Oh. He has a temper. Good. That'll make this quicker.

"Imogen—" Maryse began, and then corrected herself, "Inquisitor Herondale. He's agreed to a trial by the Sword. You can find out whether he's telling the truth."

"About his father? Yes. I know I can." She turned to Maryse and considered her. How dare she defend the boy? "You know, Maryse, the Clave is not pleased with you. You and Robert are the gardians of the Institute. You're just lucky your record over the years has been relatively clean. Few demonic disturbances until recently, and everything's been quiet these last few days. No reports, not even from Idris, so the Clave is feeling lenient. We have sometimes wondered if you'd actually rescinded your allegiance to Valentine. As it is, he set a trap for you and you fell right into it. One might think you'd know better."

Jonathan launched in, "There was no trap. My father knew the Lightwoods would raise me if they thought I was Michael Wayland's son. That's all."

She stared at him, outraged. Oh, he has them right under his thumb, she thought. Just like his father ensnared my son. "Do you know about the cuckoo bird, Jonathan Morgenstern?"

"The what?"

"The cuckoo bird. You see, cuckoo's are parasites. They lay their eggs in other birds' nests. When the egg hatches, the baby cuckoo pushes the other baby birds out of the nest. The poor parent birds work themselves to death trying to find enough food to feed the enormous cuckoo child who has murdered their babies and taken their place."

"Enormous?" Jonathan quirked an eyebrow.

"Did you just call me fat?"

She suppressed a sigh. "It was analogy."

"I am not fat."

"And I," Maryse announced, "Don't want your pity, Imogen. I refuse to believe the Clave will punish either myself or my husband for choosing to bring up the son of a dead friend." She tilted her chin up at her, reassured by this fact. "It isn't as if we didn't tell them what we're doing."

Jonathan joined in. "And I've never harmed any of the Lightwoods in any way. I've worked hard, and trained hard – say whatever you want about my father, but he made a Shadowhunter out of me. I've earned my place here."

Imogen had to concede that he had a point; she could not accuse the Lightwoods of rearing a less than an exemplary Shadowhunter. Even in Idris, she'd heard about him. From Robert, even from others. He was already renowned: the prodigy of the New York Insititute. He'll be a thing to behold when he is grown. But then, Valentine had been an excellent Shadowhunter. It appeared to her that some excellent Shadowhunters had an unfortunate proclivity for self-destruction. And treachery. She recalled her son's words, I'll never see you again. Suddenly enraged, she thought, How can he stand there and—"Don't defend your father to me. I knew him. He was—is—the vilest of men."

His tone was smothered in disdain as he said, "Vile? Who says 'vile' What does that even mean?" She did not for one second believe that he did not know what it meant.

"You are arrogant. As well as intolerant. Did your father teach you to behave this way?"

"Not to him," He quipped.

"Then you're aping him." She decided, looking him up and down. "Valentine was one of the most arrogant ad disrespectful men I've ever met. I suppose he brought you up to be just like him."

"Yes," Jonathan replied, his tone mocking and indulgent. "I was trained to be an evil mastermind from a young age. Pulling the wings off flies, poisoning the earth's water supply – I was covering that stuff in Kindergarten. I guess we're all just lucky my father faked his own death before he got to the raping and pillaging part of education, or no one would be safe."

Maryse made a pained groan. "Jace—"

"And just like your father," Imogen declared, "you can't keep your temper." You have failed my test, Jonathan Morgenstern. "The Lightwoods have coddled you and let your worst qualities run rampant. You may look like an angel, Jonathan Morgenstern, but I know exactly what you are."

"He's just a boy," Maryse said. Jonathan's eyes darted to her, but she didn't dare look back. Imogen wondered why.

She informed her, "Valentine was just a boy once." You were all barely fresh from adolescence when you involved yourselves in the Circle.

She turned to Jonathan. "Now before we do any digging around in that blond head of yours to find out the truth, I suggest you cool your temper. And I know just where you can do that best."

Jonathan looked deeply unimpressed. "Are you sending me to my room?"

Imogen smiled, pleased to correct him. "I'm sending you to the prisons of the Silent City. After a night there I suspect you'll be a great deal more cooperative."

Maryse burst out, "Imogen—you can't!"

"I certainly can." She turned her gaze back to Jonathan.

"Do you have anything to say to me, Jonathan?" He stood there, silent, aghast, and yes, she thought, afraid. "Very wise, Jonathan. I see you're already learning the best lesson the Silent City has to teach you. How to keep your mouth shut."