“Or maybe my mom had something to do with it!” Keefe finished for her, turning away and tearing his hands through his hair. “Come on, Foster. You don’t think my mom could make it look like an accident? It wouldn’t be hard. One quick mental shove with telekinesis or a blast of wind from a Guster and…”

Sophie squeezed her eyes tight, trying to block the fresh round of nightmare images.

“Accidents happen all the time in the Forbidden Cities,” she insisted. “Humans rely on tons of super-dangerous things, and they just kind of go through life assuming nothing bad will happen to them—until it does.”

“It’s true,” Fitz agreed. “I was stunned by that the first few times I visited. I couldn’t believe they weren’t all in a constant state of panic.”

Keefe sighed. “So you guys really think it’s a coincidence that the same human guy who got a letter from my mom—a letter she had me illegally bring to the Forbidden Cities and then went to pretty drastic lengths to erase all my memories of—just happened to die that same year? I bet you anything, if I had a way of knowing exactly what day my mom gave me that letter, we’d see that this ‘accident’ happened right around the same time.”

Sophie sighed. “Okay, but why would your mom kill him and his daughter? Fintan made it sound like she was trying to recruit the guy—er, Mr. Wright,” she corrected, realizing she should probably start using his name and trying to be a little more respectful of the dead.

“And Fintan also said the recruiting didn’t work out,” Keefe noted. “And the guy—Mr. Wright—would’ve known stuff about what my mom was planning, so she would’ve had to get rid of him to protect her secrets. And the daughter either got in the way, or my mom figured it was just easier to take out the whole family. Who knows?”

“But why risk her sanity on two murders when she could have had their minds wiped instead?” Sophie countered. “We already know she basically had a Washer on standby.”

“Yeah, but—”

“If I might intercede,” Mr. Forkle said, before Keefe could make his next argument. “I figured this is how the conversation would go, once I gave you that obituary. And it’s the kind of debate that never actually leads anywhere because there is far too much speculation and far too little fact. It’s also exactly the kind of all-consuming distraction that none of us needs when there are so many urgent matters that require our attention. So with that in mind, I did a bit of research before I came here, to see if I could fill in some of the unknowns and ease some of the worries.”

“I thought you said you came here immediately,” Fitz reminded him.

“I did come here immediately from Watchward Heath,” Mr. Forkle insisted, “but I also completed some research before I left. And you should be thankful that I did—and even more thankful that I’m willing to share what I discovered, because I don’t have to. This was never part of our arrangement. And my instincts are even cautioning me against sharing, claiming that none of you are ready for this sort of revelation. So I need your word that you’ll stay calm and rational and avoid any reckless behavior, no matter how shocked and appalled you are.”

“Shocked and appalled?” Ro repeated, making her way over to Keefe’s side. “Wow, way to hype it, Forkle.”

“I need everyone to be properly prepared,” Mr. Forkle explained. “And that includes you bodyguards. You should be ready to prevent your charges from making hasty decisions.”

“We always are,” Sandor assured him.

“Just tell us!” Keefe demanded.

Mr. Forkle shook his head. “Not without your word—and you have to mean it. I need to know that level heads will prevail.”

“Level heads,” Keefe muttered under his breath. “Fine. Whatever.”

“There is no ‘whatever,’ ” Mr. Forkle informed him. “And there’s no way around this. I’ll say no more unless I have your word.”

Keefe rolled his eyes. “Fine. You have my word. Ugh, it’s not like this is the first time I’ve found out creepy news about Mommy Dearest.”

“It isn’t,” Mr. Forkle agreed. “And that’s why I need to hear you specifically say that you won’t be reckless.”

For a second, Sophie wondered if Keefe was going to tackle Mr. Forkle.

But he must’ve realized Mr. Forkle was serious because he gritted his teeth and said, “Fine—I won’t be reckless.”

Sophie and Fitz offered the same oath with a whole lot less venom—but that didn’t stop Sandor and Grizel from moving to their sides. Sandor even hooked an arm around Sophie’s shoulder to prevent her from leaping or teleporting without him.

“Very well, then,” Mr. Forkle said, looking more wary than satisfied. “I suppose you’re sufficiently prepared.”

He turned to pace, and with each plodding step Sophie could almost feel Keefe’s patience evaporating.

But somehow Keefe kept his jaw locked and waited.

And waited a little longer.

Until Mr. Forkle finally said, “I knew you were going to fear that your mother—or any member of the Neverseen—was involved in these deaths. So I had Mr. Dizznee set up a very specific set of search criteria for the archive. We checked all the footage from the week before the accident as well as the footage from the week after the accident, searching for black-cloaked figures as well as Fintan’s, Brant’s, Gethen’s, Lady Gisela’s, and Alvar’s faces.”

Fitz sucked in a very sharp breath at the last name. “Did my brother—”

“No,” Mr. Forkle promised. “Though I suppose it’s possible he used his ability as a Vanisher to hide from my cameras. But I have no record of him being in London during that time period.”

“What about me?” Keefe asked. “Did you check to see if I was there?”

“I did,” Mr. Forkle admitted, taking several agonizingly slow steps before he added, “and I found no trace of you in any of the footage.”

Keefe blew out a huge breath, bending over and resting his hands on his knees.

But his relief only lasted a second before he demanded, “So who was there? Obviously you found someone.”

“I did.” Mr. Forkle glanced at the sky, and Sophie wondered if this was one of those moments where he was wishing he had his brother there to help him figure out the right decision.

But it was just him.

And he reached into his cape and withdrew a rolled piece of paper.

Keefe held out his hand expectantly, but Mr. Forkle gave the paper to Sophie, and she angled herself away from Keefe as she smoothed out the page.

“I feel that panic, Foster,” Keefe told her as she studied the image that Mr. Forkle had given her.

A still from a video camera—a little too dark in certain places and too bright in others.

But there was no mistaking the fact that she was staring at Big Ben—London’s most notable landmark.

And standing in front of it—in a black cloak with the hood flipped back, like the wind had just knocked it out of place—was Lady Gisela.

Keefe’s mother.