Over the years, as he’d gained more control, Brother Zachariah had learned how to isolate himself from the voices of his Brothers when need be. It was a strange thing, the Brotherhood. Most assumed it was a lonely, solitary life—and it was, indeed, solitary. But he was never truly alone. The Brotherhood was always there, on the edge of his awareness, watching, waiting. Brother Zachariah needed only extend a hand, and the Brotherhood would reclaim him.

Soon, he promised them. But not yet. I have more business here.

He was more Silent Brother than not. But he was still less Silent Brother than the others. It was a strange, liminal space, one that allowed him a modicum of privacy—and a desire for it that his Brothers had long since abandoned. Zachariah shut himself off from them for the moment. He felt a deep regret over his failure here, but it was good, it was human, to feel regret, and he wanted to savor it, all on his own.

Or maybe not all on his own.

There was, in fact, one more piece of business before he could return to the Silent City. He needed to explain himself to the one person who cared as much about the Herondales as he did.

He needed Tessa.

Céline didn’t go to Valentine’s apartment intending to break in. That would have been madness. And anyway, after a night and day of blindly wandering the city, she was too sleep deprived to form clear intentions of anything. She simply followed a whim. She wanted the certainty that settled over her in Valentine’s presence, the power he had to make her believe. Not just in him but in herself.

After her strange encounter on the bridge, she’d considered going back to the flat in the Marais. She knew Stephen and Robert should be apprised of the unexpected demon activity, the possibility of a rogue Shadowhunter causing trouble and spreading suspicion about the Circle.

She couldn’t face them. Let them worry about what had become of her. Or not worry. She no longer cared.

At least, she was trying very hard not to care.

She’d spent the day in the Louvre, haunting galleries that none of the tourists cared to see, old Etruscan masks and Mesopotamian coins. She’d spent hours there when she was younger, blending in with the hordes of schoolchildren. It was easy, when you were a child, to go unseen.

The challenge, Céline understood now, was to be seen—and once seen, to endure judgment.

She couldn’t stop thinking about the couple on the bridge, the way they’d gazed at each other. The way they’d touched each other, with so much care and so much need. Nor could she stop thinking about the woman’s warning about Valentine. Céline was certain she could trust Valentine with her life.

But if she’d been so wrong about Stephen, how could she know for sure she was right about anything?