I understand that the Shadowhunters have given your family every reason not to trust us, but—

“Don’t take it personally. I don’t trust anyone,” she said. “It’s how I’ve managed to stay alive.”

She was stubborn and rude, and Brother Zachariah couldn’t help but like her.

“I mean, if I was going to trust someone, it wouldn’t be a cult of violent fundamentalists who get a kick out of executing their own … but like I said, I don’t trust anyone.”

Except Jack Crow.

“That’s not his name anymore.”

Whatever name he chooses, he will always be a Herondale.

She laughed, and when she did, her face took on a strangely familiar cast. Familiar in the way that Jack Crow’s had never been. “You don’t know nearly as much as you think you do, Shadowhunter.”

Brother Zachariah reached into his robe and pulled out the heron necklace he’d bought from the Shadow Market. The necklace, he remembered, that Crow had sold without his wife’s permission or knowledge. As a man might do if it were not truly his to sell. The pendant glittered in the dawn light. Zachariah marked her surprise and offered the chain.

She opened her palm and allowed him to place the pendant gently in her possession. Something deep in her seemed to settle as her hand wrapped around the heron charm—as if she had lost some essential piece of her soul, and now it was returned to her.

“A pigeon?” She raised her eyebrows.

A heron. Perhaps you recognize it?

“Why would I?”

Because I purchased it from your husband.

Her lips were pressed together in a thin, tight line. Her hand had formed a fist around the chain. It was clear the child at the booth had spoken the truth: she didn’t know the pendant had been for sale.

“Then why give it to me?”

She could pretend a lack of interest, but Zachariah wondered what she would say if he asked for it back. He suspected he would have a fight on his hands.

Because I have a feeling it belongs to you—and to your family.

She stiffened, and Brother Zachariah marked the minute twitch of her hand, as if instinctively reaching for a weapon. She had sharp instincts, but also self-control—and arrogance, grace, and loyalty, and the capacity for great love, and a laugh that could light up the sky.

He had come to Paris looking for the lost Herondale.

And he had found her.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You are the Herondale. Not your husband. You. The lost heir to a noble line of warriors.

“I’m nobody,” she snapped. “Nobody of interest to you, at least.”

I could reach into your mind and confirm the truth.

She flinched. Zachariah didn’t have to read her mind to understand her panic, or her welling self-doubt as she scrambled to figure out how he had seen through the ruse.

But I would not trespass on your secrets. I want only to help you.