She loved the way her name sounded on his tongue. She loved every detail of him: the blue eyes that sparkled like the sea of the Côte d’Azur. The white-blond hair that glowed like the golden rotunda of the Palais Garnier. The curve of his neck, the tautness of his muscles, the smooth lines of his body like something carved by Rodin, a model of human perfection. Somehow he’d gotten even more handsome since she saw him last.

He’d also gotten married.

She tried not to think about that.

“Can we pick up the pace?” Robert Lightwood grumbled. “The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can get back to civilization. And air-conditioning.”

Robert was something else she tried not to think about. His grouchy presence made it substantially more difficult to pretend she and Stephen were taking a romantic stroll through the moonlight.

“The faster we go, the more you’ll sweat,” Stephen pointed out. “And trust me, no one wants that.” Paris in August was approximately ten degrees hotter than Hell. Even after dark, the air felt like a blanket soaked in hot soup. For the sake of discretion, they’d traded their Shadowhunter gear for mundane fashion, choosing long sleeves to cover up their runes. The white T-shirt Céline had selected for Stephen was already soaked through. This was not exactly unfortunate.

Robert just grunted. He was different than Céline remembered him from the Academy. Back then, he’d been a little stiff and curt, but never deliberately cruel. Now, though, there was something in his eyes she didn’t like. Something icy. It reminded her too much of her father.

According to Stephen, Robert had had some kind of falling-out with his parabatai and was understandably cranky. It’s just Robert being Robert, Stephen had said. Great fighter but a bit of a drama queen. Nothing to worry about.

Céline always worried.

They trudged up the final hill of Rue Mouffetard. By day, this was one of Paris’s most bustling market streets, bursting with fresh produce, colorful scarves, falafel vendors and gelato stands, and obnoxious tourists. At night, its storefronts were shuttered and silent. Paris was a market town, but all of its markets went to sleep after dark—all except one.

Céline hurried them around a corner, down another narrow, winding road. “We’re almost there.” She tried to keep the anticipation out of her voice. Robert and Stephen had made it very clear that the Circle did not approve of Shadow Markets. Downworlders mingling with mundanes, illicit goods changing hands, secrets swapped and sold? According to Valentine, this was all the unseemly consequence of the laxness and corruption of the Clave. When the Circle took power, Stephen had assured her eagerly, the Shadow Markets would be shut down for good.