Jules and Lisette Montclaire stood silently, heads bowed, as Robert Lightwood and Stephen Herondale testified to their crimes.

Their daughter, Céline Montclaire, was not called on to speak. She had, of course, not been present for the warlock’s revelation of her parents’ crimes.

The scene played out as if Valentine had scripted it himself, and like everyone else present, Céline did exactly as Valentine intended: nothing.

Inside, she was at war with herself. Furious at Valentine for making her complicit in her parents’ destruction; furious with herself for sitting silently as their fates were sealed; more furious at her own instinct for mercy. After all, her parents had never shown any to her. Her parents had done their best to teach her that mercy was weakness, and cruelty was strength. So she steeled herself to be strong. Told herself this wasn’t personal; this was about protecting the Circle. If Valentine believed this was the righteous way forward, then this was the only way forward.

She watched her parents quaver with fear under the steely eye of the Inquisitor, and she remembered the two of them backing away from her, ignoring her cries, closing her into darkness—and she said nothing. She sat very still, head lowered, and endured. They had taught her that, too.

The Shadowhunters of France all knew Céline, or thought they did: that sweet and obedient daughter of the Provençal countryside. They knew how devoted she was to her parents. Such a dutiful daughter. She would, of course, inherit their estate.

Céline bore the weight of the stares with dignity. She did not acknowledge the pitying looks. She kept her eyes on the floor when the judgment was issued and so did not see the horror on her parents’ faces. She did not watch them placed in the custody of the Silent Brothers, to be transported to the Silent City. She did not expect them to survive long enough to face the Mortal Sword.

She did not speak to Robert or Stephen, and let them believe this was because they had just consigned her parents to death.

Valentine caught up with Céline just outside the church. He offered her a Nutella crepe. “From the stand across from Les Deux Magots,” he said. “Your favorite, right?”

She shrugged but took what he had to offer. The first bite—warm chocolate hazelnut, sweet pastry—was as perfect as ever and made her feel like a child again.

Sometimes it was difficult to believe she had ever been young.

“You could have told me,” she said.

“And ruin the surprise?”

“Those are my parents.”

“Indeed.”

“And you’ve killed them.”

“They’re still alive, last I checked,” Valentine said. “They could probably stay that way, with a word from you. But I didn’t hear it.”

“You took a pretty big risk, not telling me the whole story. Expecting me to let you … to let them go.”

“Did I?” he said. “Or did I simply know you well enough to know exactly what you would choose? To know I was doing you a favor.”