“That’s why I wanted you in the Circle. Robert, Stephen, the others? They’re still just boys. Children playing at adult games. They haven’t yet been tested—they will be, but not yet. You and I, though? We’re special. We haven’t been children for a long time.”

No one had ever called her strong. No one had called her special.

“Things are accelerating,” Valentine said. “I need to know who’s with me and who’s not. So you can see why I told you the truth about this”—he gestured to the singed heap of warlock clothes—“situation.”

“It’s a test,” she guessed. “A loyalty test.”

“It’s an opportunity,” he corrected her. “To invite you into my confidence, and reward you for yours. My proposal: you stay silent about what you’ve learned here and allow events to proceed as I intend, and I will deliver you Stephen Herondale on a silver platter.”

“What? I—I don’t—I—”

“I told you, Céline. I know things. I know you. And I can give you what you want, if you really want it.”

Be careful what you wish for, she thought again. But oh, she wished for Stephen. Even knowing what he thought of her, even with his mocking laughter ringing in her ears, even believing what Valentine said, that she was strong and Stephen was weak, even knowing what she knew to be true, that Stephen did not love her and never would, she wished for him. Always and forever.

“Or you can leave this apartment, run to the Clave, tell them whatever story you like. Save these two ‘innocent’ Shadowhunters—and lose the only family who’s ever truly cared about you,” Valentine said. “The choice is yours.”

Tessa Gray breathed in the city that had once, briefly but indelibly, been her home. How many nights had she stood on this same bridge, gazing at the hulking shadow of Notre Dame, the rippling waters of the Seine, the proud scaffolding of the Eiffel Tower—all of it, Paris’s heartbreaking beauty, blurred by her ceaseless tears. How many nights had she searched the river for her ageless reflection, imagining the seconds, days, years, centuries she might live, and every one of them in a world without Will.

No, not imagining.

Because it had been unimaginable.

Unimaginable, but here she was, more than fifty years later, still living. Still without him. Heart forever broken yet still beating, still strong.

Still capable of love.

She’d fled to Paris after he died, stayed until she was strong enough to face her future, and hadn’t been back since. On the face of things, the city hadn’t changed. But then, on the face of things, neither had she. You couldn’t trust the face of things to show you their truth. You didn’t have to be a shape-shifter to know that.