For his part, Thomas had visited this very museum and had assembled a number of, he thought, insightful observations about a number of pieces. He shared a few of these with Alastair, tentatively. He waited for Alastair to scoff, but Alastair just acknowledged Thomas’s comments with a nod. Thomas had no reason to like Alastair, had in fact every reason to dislike Alastair, but in these small moments standing next to one another in the presence of a beautiful object, he was glad Alastair was there, and Alastair’s acknowledgment of him, however small, made him feel better than he had since he’d arrived in Paris.

Maybe he had changed, Thomas thought. Maybe everyone grew up sooner or later. Maybe he had not even been that bad in the first place.

He thought back to his time at the Academy and decided that, no, Alastair had definitely been terrible in the first place. But he seemed calmer now, more thoughtful.

After they left the museum, Thomas and Alastair went for a walk along the Seine. Alastair wanted to know all about Madrid, and Thomas was even able to rise some stories from Alastair about his time in Damascus, and Morocco, and Paris itself. Having grown up in Idris and London, Thomas felt that Alastair must be very worldly. And yet he wondered if so much relocation would make a person lonely.

The Eiffel Tower rose in front of them, and Alastair gestured at it. “Have you been up there yet?”

“I have,” Thomas answered. “The view is stunning.”

“What do you think of the view from here?” Alastair asked.

Thomas had the distinct feeling that a trap was being laid for him, but he wasn’t sure why, or how to avoid stepping into it. “I think it’s a fascinating structure,” he said. “There’s nothing like it.”

Alastair gave a mirthless chuckle. “Indeed there isn’t. In fact, many Parisians are horrified by it. They find it ugly, hideous even, and they call it ‘Eiffel’s folly.’ ”

Thomas looked up at the tower again. The sun was sinking, burnishing the metal with an orange-pink glow. For a moment it put him in mind of the soaring adamas towers that protected the Shadowhunter capital of Alicante, the way they caught the light of the setting sun and held it a little longer than one expected. “It isn’t ugly,” he said. “It’s just unusual.”

Alastair looked satisfied. “Quite right. Gustave Eiffel is a genius, and I feel certain he shall one day be appreciated. Sometimes you have to stand back and let people do what they are good at, even if it seems like madness at the time.”