The Court of Miracles

by Kester Grant

  I’ve heard them planning this for two years. I’ve listened to the recital of every tactic and strategy. I have even provided them with guns. And yet I have the strangest feeling as I watch them, as if they are actors at the rue des Meurtres, far away from me on a stage. Like boys playing games. They’re all so cheerful and excited, but I care very little for their politics. I care more about the coins they exchange for guns, bullets, and information. I care about the promises they’ve made to help me when their fighting is done.

  I steal Grantaire’s chair. He places a steaming cup of strong coffee in front of me, winks, and, pushing me aside, sits on the chair beside me.

  St. Juste frowns at us. They’re so dissimilar. St. Juste the fervent nationalist and Grantaire the romantic drunk. There was a time when St. Juste seemed to despair of his friend, but when Grantaire and Feuilly turned out to be right about the poison in the water, a newfound respect was born. Now Grantaire is allowed to keep drinking and listening to gossip, and St. Juste refrains from anything but the occasional blistering scolding.

  St. Juste is saying something, but I hardly hear him. Instead, I enjoy the first sip of my steaming hot coffee and read expressions of simultaneous excitement and fear on the boys’ faces as they listen to their leader. I think of the many nights I’ve sat here with them, the only girl allowed in their midst. It’s hard not to become fond of these boys with their irreverence, mischief, and honorable intensity.

  “Does everybody know what they’re doing?” St. Juste asks.

  Grantaire says no. Everyone laughs.

  Through the sound of the boys’ laughter comes a squeak: the sound of a rodent. The boys don’t hear it, but their ears haven’t been trained from childhood to know the calls of the Wretched.

  I slip into the kitchen, grab a pain au chocolat that I hid earlier, and steal out the door into the night, where a pale gray boy waits, watching for me with earnest dark eyes.

  “Bonne chasse, Gavroche.”

  He’s not tall enough for his age. The great famine that almost took him has long since passed, but there still hasn’t been enough food to go around, and so Gavroche remains small, a shadow of a boy. At least he survived.

  During the famine, thousands of the city’s inhabitants, mostly its old and its weak, were laid out on the streets for Death the Endless to take. He also took the firstborn of many of the great houses, thanks to retaliation of the Assassins Guild. I watched the coffins of the nobility traverse the city as they were borne to their resting place, and on those days, there was no sorrow to be found in my heart.

  Gavroche inclines his head respectfully at my greeting, but his eyes are fixed on the pain au chocolat in my hand. I give it to him. He takes it and sniffs before glancing up at me slyly.

  “No poison here, little Ghost.”

  He considers me for a minute and then takes a small bite.

  As I watch him eat, I think of all things I must do to set my plans in motion.

  I see the map on St. Juste’s desk. I picture all the pieces in their place, like dominoes ready to fall. There is still one piece I need to make sure is ready for the game to begin.

  “Do you know where the inspector is? The policewoman with the red hair?” I ask Gavroche. There is a Ghost on every street corner of the city; they know where everyone is.

  “Not at the gendarmerie tonight,” he replies in his singsong whisper of a voice.

  I furrow my brow. “Where is she?”

  “At the Tuileries,” Gavroche replies as if it’s obvious.

  “The palace?” I say.

  “There is a ball tomorrow night,” he says, as if somehow I should have known that.

  She is probably there as security.

  “Father says to tell the Black Cat of the Thieves Guild that the Ghosts will not be attending the uprising,” he says, between mouthfuls of pastry. “He says she would do best to do the same.”

  My blood runs cold. “What does Orso mean?” I ask with a trembling voice.

  “Father has heard that there is a traitor among the sons of rebellion.” He takes another little bite, making the pastry last as long as it can. “They march to their doom.” He looks at me with his serious eyes. “He bids you tell them on his behalf.”

  With the pastry finished and the message delivered, he bows formally to me.

  “Bonne chasse,” he whispers, and fades into the night.

  I let him go, my mind a whirl, and steal back into the house, where I walk squarely into St. Juste.

  St. Juste looks over my shoulder out the door, but Gavroche has disappeared.

  “What were you doing outside?” he asks.

  I know I should give him Orso’s message, but I hesitate. “Taking the air,” I say.

  He frowns. He knows I’ve never “taken the air” in my life.

  “You were with someone. Who was it?” he demands.

  “My secret paramour,” I say, waggling my eyebrows suggestively.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” St. Juste brushes the idea of a romantic assignation aside.

  “Why is it ridiculous for me to have a secret paramour?”

  “We have an agreement,” he reminds me.

  St. Juste has promised to help me in my quest as long as I ensure that the Miracle Court will aid him in his takeover of the city. It is meant to unfold in the course of a single night: arm the students, blow up a few gendarmeries, set the Hyènes to attack any police, while the Ghosts watch and relay where the enemy is. With our combined efforts the city should be ripe for the taking. Yet if I give him Orso’s message about a traitor among his ranks, he may call off the rebellion. And if he does, will he still be ready to aid me?

  “Have I in any way not delivered?” I retort, offended. “I’ve brought you everything you asked. I’ve carried your messages, bought you guns and knives, whatever you required.”

  “And we’re very grateful. But we’re so close now, we need every one of us to be focused on the task at hand.”

  “You think I lack focus?” I ask darkly.

  “We realize that you have, er, other priorities. You’re a Thief.” He stumbles over the word awkwardly. “And we turn a blind eye to what you have to do to survive in this cruel city.”

  “How generous of you.” Sarcasm drips off my every word.

  “But should you get caught, or arrested, you could be thrown into the Châtelet right when we need you the most.”

  “You do remember that time I broke Orso out of the Châtelet?”

  His face clouds as he also remembers that I had him arrested as a distraction. Then he smiles calculatingly and closes the distance between us. I ignore my racing pulse.

  “You’re the most daring girl I’ve ever met.”

  “You don’t meet a lot of girls, St. Juste,” I point out.

  His cheeks go red. “We are not playing games here, Nina,” he says angrily. “You must take things seriously.”

  “Why must I?”

  “Because this is all for you!” His voice rises. “It’s for you and your brethren, all the downtrodden of Paris, that we seek change.”

  I feign a yawn. I’ve heard St. Juste’s speeches a hundred times.

  He’s used to being listened to adoringly by his friends, so my lack of reverence infuriates him. He takes my wrists in a painful grip.

  “St. Juste.” Grantaire, coming out of the salon, frowns, seeing us in the doorway. He’s worried St. Juste is being too rough with me. He has no idea the things people have done to me.

  “Do you remember how the nobles poisoned the wells?” St. Juste looks manically into my eyes. “Do you remember the bodies?”

  “I remember.” Many of the Wretched perished of hunger and sickness. Ghosts, Thieves, Bats alike.

  “We fight so that such unforgivable evil will never occur again.” St. Juste’s voice is
low now, a caress.

  His chiseled face is inches from my own. I think if he put his mind to it, he’d be rather good at seduction.

  “And we need you. We need your razor-sharp brain, your skills, your undivided concentration.” He sighs then, a hand worrying the end of his cravat as he draws back from me. “Your drive and bravery are unparalleled, Nina. I’m just concerned that you waste all your energy on trying to find that girl.”

  My stomach drops. I told St. Juste about Ettie only once, and it was in confidence.

  “You need to accept that it has been too long. In all probability she is dead.” His voice is lower now, gentler. He’s trying to choose his words. Something he rarely does. “I think you care about a ghost. And it will destroy you.”

  I turn my back on him and head for the stairs, refusing to listen. I cannot give him Orso’s message now, not when it’s clear he thinks my quest is a folly while his will be our salvation.

  “You’re surrounded by the living here,” St. Juste calls after me. “You’re useful to us, Nina.”

  I march into my room, slamming the door as if it could block out his words.

  I’d cry, but there’s a tall, angular shadow in the corner. It’s cloaked in almost-black and playing with a ruby-inlaid dagger.

  My heart gives a strange lurch.

  Montparnasse.

  The stairs creak: someone is coming. There’s a knock at my door, and I shoot Montparnasse a look as I open it a crack.

  St. Juste is outside, wearing an expression of concern. Grantaire glares at him from behind.

  “I’m sorry.” St. Juste shifts from foot to foot awkwardly. “That I implied that looking for your friend is a waste of time.”

  “You don’t need to apologize,” I say coolly. “You pay me, so you’ll still get your guns.”

  St. Juste looks slightly ashamed.

  “Our agreement stands. I help your revolution, and when it’s over, you help me destroy a monster,” I say a little more gently. Because right now I need these young men as much as they need me.

  “You have my word on that,” St. Juste says.

  “And you have mine that I’ll be present and available and focused when Lamarque falls.”

  Montparnasse glances at me. I’ve known him long enough that I can read his almost-nonexistent expressions. He wants to talk to St. Juste.

  I open the door all the way, and St. Juste and Grantaire step gingerly into the room. Being polite gentlemen, they’ve never been in my room. Their eyes travel shyly from the old mattress on the floor to the armoire in the corner.

  Montparnasse, in typical Assassin fashion, is so still that the other two don’t even know he’s there. He coughs and Grantaire jumps out of his skin. St. Juste stiffens. He has no idea who Montparnasse is, but the Master of Knives gives off an air that would chill the soul of the purest innocent. The boys give a slight bow of their heads to Montparnasse as I make the introductions; I’ve taught them well.

  It’s strange to see St. Juste and Montparnasse in the same room. St. Juste is made entirely of fire and justice, where Montparnasse is darkness and secrecy. From dagger to cheekbone, he’s all sharp angles, with cold, expressionless eyes. The past, the Wretched, the Guilds are wrapped in Montparnasse’s inky black cloak, while St. Juste…he shines like a beacon. A promise of all that the future could be.

  Being a man of few words, Montparnasse gets straight to the point. “Madame Corday sends her regrets. We won’t be attending your…uprising.”

  Rennart’s balls. I had hoped to get a chance to talk to Orso myself, to see if I could change his mind before I broke the news to St. Juste.

  St. Juste goes white as a sheet. The disappointment rolls off him in waves. “Why?”

  “The payment is not high enough for such a suicide mission.”

  St. Juste stares at him blankly. “But we’re fighting for you too—for all of you. Don’t your people want things to change? Don’t they want their lives to be better?” he asks.

  Montparnasse regards him as if he’s slightly mad. We’ve never needed a bunch of well-meaning students to fight for us. The Wretched grow up with a dagger in one hand, trying to fend off Death the Endless with the other.

  But the look on St. Juste’s face tugs at my heart. He’s confused and hurt. He truly believes things can change, which is why he dedicates every waking moment to the cause. It is his dream, his obsession. And he is willing to pay any price for it. He would march to the gates of hell itself if it was asked of him. It’s one of the things that I find most admirable—and terrifying—about him.

  Montparnasse gives a little shrug. “There has been some question of…security.”

  “What do you mean?” St. Juste demands.

  “The Ghosts whisper that there’s a spy in your club.”

  “We’re a société, not a club!”

  Montparnasse nods seriously. “Nonetheless, neither the Dead Lord nor Lady Corday can lend their support to a cause they’re unsure of.”

  St. Juste falls silent, gazing questioningly at me, and I swallow my guilt over the message Gavroche brought, a message I chose not to pass along because it might mean losing St. Juste’s support in my own war. But now Montparnasse has suggested there’s a traitor in their organization, and Orso, a man who has spoken on freedom and rebellion, has said he is pulling out. The sense of betrayal St. Juste must feel is unimaginable.

  St. Juste lifts his chin. “I’ll contact the Société. If there is a spy, then they’ll advise us how to proceed.”

  “The courier comes tomorrow,” Grantaire adds with a hand on St. Juste’s shoulder to comfort him, or possibly to make sure he doesn’t fall over. “We can get instructions then.”

  “Right.” St. Juste runs his hands through his hair and looks distracted.

  They’re standing still, St. Juste because he’s thinking about his plans, and Montparnasse, I suspect, because he won’t leave St. Juste and Grantaire alone in my bedroom.

  I clear my throat. “I need to change now.”

  St. Juste looks at me and seems suddenly to remember I’m female, something I’m not sure he remembers all that often. He nods and leaves, dragging Grantaire out with him.

  I turn to Montparnasse. Our paths have diverged greatly in the last two years. I hardly ever see him, save for a glance across the Miracle Court, or a shadow in the night that makes me wonder if he’s lurking somewhere in the darkness, watching.

  “Do you think I’m wasting my time?” I ask him. “Do you, too, think she’s dead?”

  I need to know how well I have done. How much even he believes.

  Montparnasse watches me for a while. He doesn’t speak.

  “I think you care too much,” he finally says. “You always have.”

  He’s at the window.

  “But you’ll never stop looking. You don’t know how.”

  He gives a small bow and is gone without a sound.

  The boys’ voices float up through the floorboards. They’ll talk late into the night, weighing the risks of carrying out their plans without the support of the Guilds. I feel a strange pang, because the events of the next few days will likely bring an end to the life I’ve come to know with them. Their tall tales and teasing, the talks about sacrifice and the greater good, the discussions of the failed revolution. St. Juste often gets a gleam in his eye during those talks as if he would have liked to live and die in those days when the streets of Paris were bathed in blood, when dreamers like him were fed to Madame Guillotine. They have heated debates about how it ended, how it could have been different, how it will be different. They argue, drink, and laugh.

  Sometimes Grantaire notices me in my corner and coaxes me into telling a story. Even St. Juste listens then. I never betray the secrets of the Court, but I can keep them mesmerized for hours recounting the tales of my people. They hang on
every word like thirsty men; I can keep them entertained until the sun rises. On those nights, I’ve gone to bed drunk on the feeling that I’ve been seen for the very first time.

  I’ve been their little sister for two years now, and I’m fond of them. I like the way Grantaire drinks too much, mostly to annoy St. Juste. I like teasing St. Juste and watching his face go red and his eyes become like flint. I like the way Feuilly is always reading, even in the middle of the most avid debate. He’s lent me entire libraries of books in the last year, after being shocked when he learned that I could read. I think it pleases him to see me clutch one of his old tomes and carry it around the house like a well-read alley cat.

  I’m their gunrunner, their messenger, their go-between, bringing news and information from the Guilds for a shiny gold coin. But they’re not mercenaries, not merchants, not crooks like the Wretched. They don’t know how to keep me at a distance. They don’t know how to treat me differently, so they treat me like I’m one of them. And for the first time in my life, I began to feel like maybe I could belong to a world that’s not the Miracle Court, to a family that’s not the Thieves Guild.

  I shake my head at these foolish thoughts and begin to peel off my clothes: dress, chemise, skirt hoop, and corset land in a heap on the floor. I wipe my face clean with water from a jug and an old cloth, undo my hair, and braid it, tying the plaits up in a crown that will more easily fit under my cap. I take out my Cat clothes: dark trousers, boots, and a shirt.

  I hide all proof of my womanhood under ill-fitting clothes. First I wind bandages around my soft shape. I erase and rewrite myself with a new face and form. The feel of the linen as it slides over the scars on my back reminds me who I am and what my purpose is. I’m no woman, no girl. I’ve no blood father or home; I’ve none of the cards this life dealt me at birth. I chose who I am. I’m the Black Cat. A daughter of this city. A child of Tomasis, Lord of the Thieves Guild. No one can take anything from me because the Tiger has already taken it all.