Valentine was staying in opulent quarters in the sixth arrondissement, down the street from a famous chocolatier and a mercerie where the custom hats cost more than most people spent on rent. She knocked loudly. When no one answered, it was easy enough to pick the lock.

I am breaking into Valentine Morgenstern’s apartment, she thought, bewildered by herself. It didn’t seem quite real.

The apartment was elegant, almost regal, walls draped with gold fleurs-de-lis, furniture covered with velvet. Plush rugs dotted the gleaming hardwood floors. Heavy golden curtains dimmed the light. The room’s only anachronism was a large glass case in the center, inside of which lay Dominique du Froid, bound, beaten, and unconscious.

Before she could decide what to do, there was the sound of a key rattling in the lock. The doorknob turned. Without thinking, Céline dove behind the thick curtains. She held herself very, very still.

From her hiding spot, she couldn’t see Valentine pacing back and forth across the living room. But she could hear everything she needed to.

“Wake up,” he snapped.

There was a pause, a rustling, and then a woman’s yelp of pain.

“Halphas demons?” he said, sounding halfway between amused and enraged. “Really?”

“You told me to make it look real,” Dominique whined.

“Yes, I told you to make it look real—not endanger them.”

“You also told me you’d pay, but here I am, in some kind of cage. With an empty wallet. And a couple unseemly lumps on my head.”

Valentine sighed heavily, as if this were all an irritating imposition on his time. “You told them exactly what we agreed upon, yes? And signed the confession?”

“Isn’t that what the little brats told you when they dumped me here? So how about you pay me for my services, and we can forget this ever happened.”

“Gladly.”

There was a strange sound, one that Céline couldn’t place. Then a smell, one that she could: burnt flesh.

Valentine cleared his throat. “You can come out now, Céline.”

She froze. Didn’t so much catch her breath as lose the ability to breathe.

“Not very good at subterfuge lately, are we? Come on now, show yourself.” He clapped his hands together sharply, as if summoning a pet. “No more games.”

Céline stepped out from behind the curtains, feeling like a fool.

“You knew I was here? The whole time?”

“You would be surprised what all I know, Céline.” Valentine smiled coldly. As always, he was dressed in all black, which made his white-blond hair seem to glow with pale fire. Céline supposed that by objective standards, Valentine was just as handsome as Stephen, but it was impossible to think of him that way. He was handsome the way a statue was handsome: perfectly sculpted, unyielding as stone. Sometimes at the Academy, Céline would watch him with Jocelyn, wondering at the way a single touch from her could melt his ice. Once Céline had come upon them in an embrace and had watched from the shadows as they lost themselves in each other. When they broke from the kiss, Valentine had raised a hand to Jocelyn’s cheek in an impossibly tender touch, and his expression, as he gazed at his first and only love, was almost human.