by Kester Grant
“They held me and my sister for fifteen days—fifteen days of relentless beatings. They forced me to tell lies at my mother’s trial, to accuse her of unspeakable acts.”
The queen sits straight and still, her eyes glittering dangerously.
“If our uncle had not invaded, they would have killed every last noble in the land. Every man, every woman, and every child.”
He is shaking, and the queen reaches out and grabs his wrist. I see her knuckles clench white.
“These are the gallant little mice of which this story speaks,” he continues. “Willing to torture children, to murder women. These are the helpless heroes of such stories. No matter how you pity them, no matter how you may think they suffer, you cannot lower yourself to their level, because they will always hate you for who you are.
“Instead, you must rule them, control them. You must do as we have always done, as we will continue to do. You must do whatever is necessary to protect the ones you love.” His voice breaks a little at that, and he turns away as if he cannot bear to look at his son anymore.
“If these are the stories they are telling in the streets, then things are as we have long suspected,” the queen says, looking at the dauphin, her voice as sweet as treacle. “If you think your crown, your blood, or your name will protect you, then you are mistaken, my son. We must show them the same mercy that they are prepared to show us.”
She turns abruptly to us. Ettie is practically cowering behind me.
“Don’t be afraid, child. We’ve enjoyed your most illuminating tale.” She gives us a far-too-wide smile. “In fact, we are so grateful for the entertainment that we would like to extend our offer of hospitality. We’re having a ball tomorrow evening, and we would be enchanted if you would both stay to enjoy the festivities.”
Ettie looks delighted by the idea and comes out from behind me to smile shyly at the queen.
But I know better. The queen is clearly dangerous. We should leave the palace immediately. Once I’ve found the grain stores we can slip away.
The queen glances at her husband, who is struggling to redo the buttons of his shirt. His belly hangs out, soft and sad, and he looks entirely forlorn. “Come, my dear,” she says. She rises and takes him by his elbow, leading him out of the room.
With a swishing of silk on waxed wood floors, she’s gone.
“I’ll accompany you to your chamber,” the dauphin says, rising. The doors open for him and he ushers us out.
“Oh, Nina, a ball! Can you think of anything more exciting?” Ettie claps her hands together in delight as we meander down the endless corridors. She turns and sees the look on my face and hesitates. “We can stay for the ball, can’t we?”
“You have very little choice,” says the dauphin.
I frown.
“It is time for us to leave here, Ettie,” I say firmly.
The dauphin pauses. “It’s better not to cross Mother,” he says. “After all, she is your queen, and her command is law over you.”
“What did you say?” I ask in a dangerous voice.
“Well, you’re her subjects, so technically you belong to her, and to my father.”
“I belong to no one,” I say sharply as Ettie grabs my arm.
The prince frowns. “That’s just not true. I am the dauphin of France. One day, I’ll be king, and everything and everyone will belong to me. You’ll belong to me. I can have you arrested if I choose. I can have you executed if I want. I—”
I slap him hard. The sound rings through the corridor like a shot.
“Nina!” Ettie scolds.
The servants gasp and start to come toward us, but the dauphin waves them away.
He stares at me, clutching his cheek in amazement. “You struck me.”
“I’ll do worse if you ever again presume to tell us we belong to you. We are the Wretched. We belong to no one but our Fathers. You and your kind may rule over most things in this land, but you do not rule over us.”
The prince touches his jaw, emotions warring on his face: anger, incredulity, and something else. He straightens his jacket and runs a hand through his hair.
I turn my back on him and keep marching toward our room.
He rushes to keep up with us.
“Forgive me,” he says in an uncertain voice.
I’m unimpressed. Ettie, ever kindhearted, is immediately taken in. She goes to him, arms outstretched.
“See, Nina? He’s sorry.” She strokes his arm soothingly. “We’ll stay with you until the ball. We promised your mother we would.”
The prince perks up, a smile wreathing his face.
I give a snort. “I’m not here to attend balls,” I say.
He looks from me to Ettie and fidgets with the sleeve of his coat. “You told me that there is famine,” he says. “If you stay here in the palace, even after the ball, you will never be hungry again. We have plenty of food.” His voice is so piteously earnest.
I cross my arms skeptically. “And what of the people outside the palace? What of the Wretched? Should I live here in this gilded cage, stuffing myself with cakes, while they hunger and die? A pile of the stalest scraps from your table would keep them from starvation. Your smallest store of grain would save hundreds of them.”
“I didn’t know,” the prince says quietly.
“You are the dauphin of France. One day, you’ll be king, and everything and everyone will belong to you.” I repeat his words back to him. “Will you still eat cake then, when your people are starving?”
The prince stands there awkwardly, silent. He has never known hunger, has never wanted for anything. I can’t make him understand.
Somehow, we’ve made it to our chamber door.
“Time to go to bed,” I say coldly.
Ettie gives the prince’s arm a sympathetic squeeze and comes to join me.
The prince seems pensive; he barely meets our eyes as he inclines his head to us. “I bid you good night, then, mesdemoiselles.” He swallows nervously. “A-and I’m sorry for having offended you.”
“You are forgiven,” Ettie says kindly. “And Nina is sorry for having struck you.”
“I am not,” I mutter darkly as Ettie shoos me into the room.
* * *
Ettie climbs into the bed after the maids have come to help us out of our gowns.
She looks at me thoughtfully.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I—”
“I think he likes you,” she says.
“What?”
“The prince. I think he likes you.”
“Ettie, you think everyone likes me,” I say shortly.
“It’s true. Montparnasse also likes you.”
That takes me aback. I stare at her for a whole minute before I find my voice and choke out, “Don’t be silly! Why would either one of them like me?”
“Because you’re brave and clever.” She grins. “And because you slapped him.”
“I would never slap the Master of Knives,” I say.
Ettie collapses into giggles at the thought.
“Montparnasse is only being good to us because of Lady Corday. She wanted Orso to get out of prison. And anyway, boys don’t like girls because they’re brave, Ettie.”
“Oh?”
“They like them because they’re pretty.”
“Well, I’m pretty, and Montparnasse definitely doesn’t like me.” She stretches out her legs and wiggles her toes, frowning. “When you were healing, I asked him to teach me how to fight so that I could protect you if Thénardier ever came for you again. He struck me in face and told me it was my fault, that I had to learn to block properly.”
“That’s probably Montparnasse’s way of declaring true love.”
And we laugh, the two of us under the covers, until our sides and our jaws hurt. Then we
lie there in the darkness, side by side, until her voice comes again, quietly.
“Sometimes I close my eyes and think I should just let the Tiger take me. If he kills me, at least this will all be over, and you’ll be safe.” She’s shaking, trying to be brave.
“It wouldn’t be over.” My voice comes out uneven, broken. “If you give yourself up to the Tiger, he won’t kill you.”
“But you said—”
“I lied. The Tiger doesn’t kill people. He—he breaks them.” The moonlight reflects off Ettie’s eyes as she looks at me. “But they don’t die. He destroys everything that’s good,” I say, taking a deep breath. “I know because he took my sister Azelma.”
“You have a sister? Can you rescue her? You’re the Black Cat. You can get in anywhere. You freed the Dead Lord from the Châtelet!”
Ettie’s unshakable faith in my abilities should warm my heart, but she’s wrong.
“I tried,” I say, fighting back tears. “But she wouldn’t come. He fed her the poppy, and now she’s a slave to him. Even if I could get her out, she’d fight to get back to it, to him. That’s what the poppy does. She doesn’t remember who she is anymore. She doesn’t remember me.”
I can’t go on. I can’t bear to put the evil into words.
I pull my dagger from under my pillow and open my hand. I put the blade to my palm and run it across in one swift movement. Droplets of blood bead across the line I’ve made.
“I won’t let him do that to you.” I hold out my hand to Ettie. “I swear it.”
Ettie takes the dagger and, wincing, draws the blade across her skin. She wrinkles her nose in pain as I put my bleeding palm to hers and we clasp warm, wet fingers, our blood mingling.
“You are my sister now.”
“You are my sister now,” she whispers.
And I try not to think about Azelma. She was my sister too, once.
We let go and Ettie wipes the dagger blade on her satin pillowcase and hands it back to me. I shake my head.
“Keep it. Montparnasse gave me a new one.”
Her eyes light up and she hugs the dagger close to her. Then she throws me a look of pure mischief. “I told you he likes you.”
We laugh, talk, and sleep very little. Ettie forces me to tell her more stories.
I tell her the tale of how I stole the giant sapphire necklace that now hangs about Tomasis’s neck from the prince. I tell her the stories and rumors about Orso and Corday. I tell her about the Merveilles of the Miracle Court—the Fisherman, le Maire, the Gentleman, the most audacious criminals France has ever seen. I talk until the sun comes up and my voice is hoarse, till Ettie’s eyes are bleary and exhausted. Then, holding my hand, she gives in and lets sleep take her.
I should go explore the palace and find what I need, but Ettie’s fingers are curled around mine and I can’t bear to leave her. For once we are not in imminent danger, we’re not starving or hurt; for once we lay together laughing at foolish things. This is how it was with Azelma. To think I’d forgotten what it is not to be afraid.
I lie awake listening to her breathing.
Could Ettie be safe here in the palace? Could she be happy? Surely the Tiger wouldn’t dare take her if she were under the protection of the king and queen of France.
But I cannot feel easy with the idea of leaving Ettie with the royals, not after the story she told and the predatory look in the queen’s eyes. And I cannot leave the palace without ensuring Ettie’s safety from all the Guilds—I must find that grain. But even if such a vast quantity of grain can be taken, will it be enough to stop the Tiger?
She has become a symbol he must destroy. Nothing will stop him….He will have his vengeance or lose the power he holds over us.
What can I, one small Cat, do against a Lord of the Miracle Court with a Guild of henchmen to defend him? Can I ever keep Ettie safe?
We’re awakened by a maid carrying steaming mugs of melted chocolate and cream. I make the maid take a sip first, watch her swallow it, and then insist she stay for a few minutes. When she doesn’t pass out or die, I let her go.
Ettie gleefully swallows her chocolate. I sip mine carefully. It’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. The smell reminds me of the prince’s lips, and I feel a pang of guilt mixed with resentment. It’s late. We must have slept the whole day.
Ettie looks better. Her face is brighter, and the shadows are gone from beneath her eyes. She hops excitedly off the bed and reminds me that there’s a soirée tonight.
I purse my lips. I don’t have time for soirées; I haven’t yet been able to slip away to search for the grain stores. And it’s dangerous for us to stay on in the palace any longer. I have to act tonight.
There are two dresses laid out on a chaise longue. A silvery blue crêpe de chine for Ettie, a salmon gauze for me. The maids bustle in and strip us of our clothes, slip on skirt hoops, and tighten corsets with unnecessary vigor. Then our hair is done and we’re adorned with finery. Ettie is given a necklace with a locket, I’m given a bracelet of gold and rubies, and we each get an ornate fan. We slide jeweled slippers over our silk stockings and make faces at one another as we’re ushered out.
* * *
The ball is a snarling chaos of gold, crystal, and glass. The candlelight from a hundred chandeliers shimmers and bounces off mirrored walls. The air is thick, heaving with the heat of so many bodies made bold by drink, voices merging into a blur of shrieks and cries. Their faces are terrible painted masks of white, their lips blood-red with rouge, and they’re unable to hide the fever that burns within them: a strange, violent madness laced up with linen stays and clothed in velvet and silk.
“This is horrible,” Ettie says finally.
But for me it’s a good chaos, the kind that will let me slip away to explore the palace.
“I don’t much enjoy balls,” the prince admits, appearing at our side and ruining all my plans. “But now that you’re here, it will be much better,” he adds, evidently cheered at the thought.
The prince points out several persons of interest, which bores me to tears, until I spot the flash of bright blue, brass, and red. The inspector is stationed at one corner of the room, looking grim. I spot three other Sûreté officers standing conspicuously in various alcoves.
“We could dance,” the prince suggests, eyeing me hopefully.
There’s loud music coming from one end of the ballroom. It fights against the nobles’ shrill voices.
Ettie laughs. “We don’t know how to dance,” she says, watching the couples gliding around the floor in perfect time. “Not like that.”
“No one taught you to dance?” The prince looks at me.
I lift my chin defiantly. Gentleman George hasn’t yet taught me all the courtly dances.
“I had other things to learn, Your Worshipfulness,” I answer.
He smiles and bows. “Mademoiselle,” he says to me sotto voce. “Will you give me the honor of this waltz?”
I frown. “She just told you we don’t know how.”
He reaches out his hand. “Then let me teach you.”
I could refuse him; I’ll embarrass myself if I accept. What do I know but the wild hyène dances of the Miracle Court?
Ettie nudges me from behind, trying to get me to accept. She likes the prince. She likes that the prince likes me.
I sigh and take his hand. His face lights up, and I feel a small thrill. He’s standing there like an idiot, not letting go, not leading me anywhere.
“Aren’t we going to dance?”
“Yes,” he answers, clutching my fingers like they’re jewels. “But first I must celebrate this hard-won victory.”
The dauphin stops a servant. “Champagne,” he tells us as the servant passes us each a glass of sparkling pink liquid.
I look at the glass, admiring the tiny bubbles in it. As I lift it
to my lips, my ears suddenly prick up, making out a whistle so low it’s nigh impossible to hear through the din. The hair on the back of my neck rises as I identify it; it’s a rare call, one I was taught but have never heard used: the call of the Assassins Guild.
My eyes widen, and I see a dark face watching me from the other side of the hall.
Montparnasse.
I almost drop my glass, snatching my hand from the prince’s. He protests, but I ignore him. My eyes sweep the room.
A servant moving through the crowd catches my eye; he’s dressed as a waiter, but the points of his collar are starched exceedingly sharp and high. It is Col-Blanche, Master of the House of Poisons.
Two Assassins, here in the palace?
I swing around again. Scores of Assassins are here, carrying trays of champagne.
“Drink nothing!” I hiss urgently.
Ettie and the prince look at me.
“Stay with her,” I order the prince. “Don’t leave her alone for a second, and don’t eat or drink a thing, either of you!”
My stomach is tying itself in knots as I make my way through the crowd toward Montparnasse, their raucous laughter ringing in my ears like the bells of Saint-Sulpice, like some terrible nightmare I can’t escape.
When I get to where he was standing, no one is there. I poke my head through a frosted-glass door to the balcony and he grabs me, dragging me out into the night, crushing me against him with a finger to my lips, just as two Sûreté officers step into the exact spot I where was standing. The door is only open a crack, but we can hear their low conversation behind us.
“…deserve a demotion for your behavior yesterday, Inspector Javert.”
“Forgive me,” the inspector murmurs.
“You can’t lose your head each time you think you see Valjean.”
“I don’t think I saw him—he was there.” Through the crack in the door I can just see her turn her head slightly toward the man beside her. “In all the years I’ve worked for you, when have I ever been mistaken?” Her tone is reproachful. “Valjean is the key to the whole criminal underworld.”