The Court of Miracles

by Kester Grant

  Javert gives a start and stares hard at me.

  “I thought the inspector would want to know,” I finish innocently.

  “Why didn’t you come to me for help when this first happened?” the dauphin asks, a slightly hurt note returning to his voice.

  “What could you have done? You’re no good at finding criminals, and you wouldn’t know the first thing about disappeared paupers.”

  I’ve responded too quickly, and he blinks at me, wounded.

  “I could have been a friend.”

  I roll my eyes. “I don’t need friends. I need someone who knows how to deal with Valjean. I need her.” I point at the inspector.

  The prince sighs and rubs a hand across his forehead.

  “In two days I’ll send soldiers to rescue Ettie from this Val—” he begins.

  “No!” I interrupt him. “You don’t understand. Ettie isn’t safe. We must act now.”

  “Tell me the address and I’ll have guards stationed there to ensure she remains safe.”

  “If Valjean thinks he’s been discovered, he’ll disappear.” I turn in frustration to Javert. “Tell him!”

  Javert eyes me coldly. She has no idea who I am or if she can trust me, but from her reaction to le Maire on the Pont Neuf and the conversations I’ve overheard among the officers at the Sûreté, she does know Valjean.

  “This girl is correct,” she says now. “Valjean is an expert at evading capture. It’s best to leave him be until the moment we plan to arrest him.”

  “Well, then you’ll lead a division of the army to arrest him as soon as we’ve squashed the rebels.”

  I can’t let them proceed with their plans. They will wipe out all of the revolutionaries. St. Juste, Grantaire, and all the boys will be gone—and with them, all my plans.

  “But Ettie’s in danger now!” I say with real desperation.

  “So is France!” the prince barks back at me. “If this city falls to revolutionaries, the whole country falls, and every ruling house in the land will be put to the guillotine. So you’ll forgive me if I place the fate of France and the stability of our people before the safety of one girl.”

  “One friend,” I say quietly.

  “What?”

  “You said we were your only friends.”

  The prince looks furious.

  “Everything is weighing on my shoulders,” he growls. “Father is abroad with Général Bonaparte, and he’s trusted me with keeping the peace in his absence.”

  “Peace?” I march over to the table and wave a hand over the soldiers and streets, using precious seconds to familiarize myself with each position so I can report back to St. Juste. “Since when is this peace?”

  “Since a hundred noble children died of poisoning in one month.”

  When the children of the nobility fell, their numbers were so great that mass funerals were organized. I watched the processions from the rooftops, hidden in the shadows. I saw the prince seated beside his mother and father. And my heart, which had been sick with fear that somehow he, too, would have been poisoned, felt a pang of relief. All around him the nobles wailed and wept. And when he raised his head and turned, I could see the sharp shine of tears in his eyes. Their grief was his; he was one of them, after all. But had he wept when starvation and poison sent a quarter of the city’s poor to their graves? There had been no funeral processions then.

  After the funerals came the news that doctors had found poison in the stomachs of the dead children. The nobility did not understand how it had been done. But the servants knew; they had seen their masters bid their children to drink from crystal bottles. And so the whispers grew and spread, and although the nobles had no memory of the deed, they somehow came to realize that they had done this unforgivable thing, that they had killed their own children.

  The prince’s voice is like stone. “Since countless of my peers and family have been struck with the terrible impulse to plunge their hands into fire.” His eyes are glittering with rage. His voice breaks. “Since we found ourselves under attack. And no one could say how it came to be. So it was decided that we should root out our enemies by creating the Société.”

  My blood runs cold. “What did you say?”

  “I said we created the Société, a false group aimed at overthrowing the crown, and waited to see who would bite. Who would reveal themselves to be traitors, enemies of the throne.” He spreads his arms wide. “The membership has grown into the thousands. And all the while we have been waiting and watching, prepared to wipe them out in one fell swoop.”

  He falls silent. I make my face into a mask, refusing to betray any emotion.

  “You don’t remember, do you?” I ask.

  He frowns at me in response.

  “You don’t remember what they did, the ones who are cursed to set their hands on fire.”

  I look at the prince, at his darkly glittering eyes, at his jaw set in determination. He is one of them, I remind myself.

  He studies my face and sees it impassive. “I don’t believe in curses.”

  “There was not enough bread, and the poor began to starve,” I say. “Out of fear that hunger would lead to a violent uprising, the nobles put poison in the city wells so that all who drank from them would die.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he tries to protest, but I ignore him.

  “It was in revenge for these acts that the poison was given to the best-loved child of every noble house; it was almost given to you.”

  The prince blanches. The mesmerist may have hidden the memory of all else from him, but he remembers Ettie and me begging him not to drink from his mother’s hand. He looks uncertain.

  “You’re a liar.”

  “And you’re a fool.”

  The prince turns to Javert and in a decisive tone says, “She knows too much. Keep her locked up until it’s all over. Then you’ve got permission to take as many men as you need to apprehend this Valjean.”

  Javert grabs me by the arm more roughly than necessary and starts to haul me out of the room.

  “Wait!” The prince hesitates, suddenly awkward, his face flushed. “And—bring her back when it’s done.”

  My eyes flash.

  “Ask your mother if what I say is true,” I call back over my shoulder. A terrible thought crosses my mind, and I add, “Ask her if she’s ever thought of doing it again.”

  I know Javert’s habits from months of watching her through the gendarmerie windows. I know that she is methodical with her schedules and paperwork, patronizing to the officers, and ruthless with the criminals who come before her. She doesn’t say a word as she leads me away, clamping me so closely to her side that it might look to passersby as though we’re friends going for a brisk stroll. She marches me down the back stairs and avoids the heavily crowded areas. As we cross a back courtyard of the Tuileries into the breaking dawn and head to where the carriages are waiting, I catch a glimpse of scarlet and gold: St. Juste is tailing us at a distance.

  A sudden clamor of bells pierces the dim morning. And yet it’s not their hour to ring. I recognize the tongues of Notre-Dame singing a lament. Someone important has died. Another set of bells starts from the north side of the city. And then another from the east, singing the mourning song.

  Javert merely paused at the sound of the first bell. The buzzing noise of the crowd has drawn to a silence.

  A voice booms across the grounds. “We ask for one minute of silence in honor of the passing of General Jean Maximilien Lamarque.”

  I remember seeing the general on the Pont Neuf, shouting at his troops not to open fire on the crowd. He was ever a man of the people. The Death Dealers have done their work well. The general’s death is the signal the students—and I—have been waiting for: the start of their new revolution, the start of my hunting.

  A long silence is obser
ved. The cold air nips at my cheeks.

  “The funeral of General Lamarque will be held this morning.”

  The announcement rings in my ears, and I look around wildly for St. Juste. I need to tell him what I learned in the Salon de la Reine. If the funeral is today and I can’t warn them, they’ll go marching into a trap.

  At a grubby carriage guarded by two gendarmes, Javert finally addresses me.

  “Are you sure it’s him?” She is trying to be businesslike, but I can hear the hope in her voice.

  “He has a number tattooed onto his right arm: two-four-six-oh-one,” I say, recalling it from the posters.

  She bows her head as if the news is too much for her.

  She is desperate to find Valjean—le Maire—who has escaped her custody twice. The obsession burns inside her. Perhaps I can use this to get her to postpone their plans, giving me time to warn St. Juste and the others.

  Her eyes snap to mine, and I see cold calculation there.

  “Who are you?” she asks.

  “Just a girl who lost a friend to that criminal Valjean,” I say with a sniff. “I swore I would get her back. I made an oath.”

  Javert frowns. “And what is she like, your friend?”

  “She is an innocent—naïve, trusting, and more beautiful than the dawn,” I say.

  I see it then, a flash of naked pain crossing Javert’s face. And jealousy…She is jealous of Ettie? But Ettie is just a girl.

  The inspector quickly adjusts her expression and eyes me head to toe. “And how are you acquainted with the prince?”

  I can feel the judgment in her blue eyes as she takes in the color of my skin.

  “We visited the palace, Ettie and I, as children,” I say, for the Gentleman taught me that the best lies are the ones nearest the truth.

  “I will give you a word of caution, then: no matter what he says, you cannot trust a man like the dauphin. Men easily charm with promises, but when the time comes to choose, they always choose their duty.”

  I taste her words, knowing deep in my bones that she is speaking about Valjean—le Maire. She has to be.

  I look at her with my blankest expression.

  “You think it strange that I say this when the dauphin clearly seems to care,” she continues.

  I think the dauphin is an emotional, lonely boy who would care for a hat if it showed him the least bit of attention, but I’m not about to tell her that.

  “But men of his kind do not care for girls like you. You must push him away, protect yourself, or he will take everything from you and leave you with nothing.”

  Her mouth is a trembling line; her hands are closed into fists, her eyes drowning in pain.

  Le Maire broke her heart. And so she hunts him.

  “Did someone hurt you?” I ask, my voice gentle and curious.

  Her eyes grow flat and cold at my question and she pulls on her gloves. “If they had, then they would come to regret it.” She gives me a mirthless smile. “For unlike other women, once ruined, I am not the sort to fade away. I will pursue my enemy to the very ends of the earth.”

  She pauses, and I decide that her obsession with Valjean is going to serve me well; it is the worm with which I will bait the hook.

  “Take her,” she orders the gendarmes, who each grab me by an arm and pin me tight.

  She orders them to throw me in a cell.

  “And keep a watch on her.” She eyes me askance. “I shall be most displeased if she escapes.”

  * * *

  We’ve barely left the palace gates and my head is spinning.

  I look out the carriage window and try to recognize the street we’re on. But to my horror, all I see is row upon row of soldiers standing at attention in perfect formation. Waiting.

  I must warn St. Juste and the boys. Orso will surely not come to the students’ aid, and now that I’ve seen the prince’s plans, I know they’ll be marching to certain death. The thought twists itself inside me like a knife.

  I must get to them. I must.

  Tears spring to my eyes as we roll past the soldiers and into the city proper. I feel as if it is all slipping out of my control. All my plans. All my friends.

  If they’re all dead, they can’t help me take down the Tiger.

  The gendarmes are eyeing me. One is leering at my chest. Another is watching me warily, probably wondering what exactly I’ve done.

  I make eye contact with the one who’s leering and flutter my eyelashes.

  “You couldn’t open the window the smallest bit, kind sir?” I ask in my most sugary voice.

  He grins at me revoltingly, and leaning over, he opens the window to the carriage.

  I take only a second to purse my lips and give a short, sharp whistle, followed by a low one.

  The gendarme nearest me backhands me across the face. “None of that!” he says, snarling.

  The blow is mild, but I taste blood in my mouth. I think he’s split my lip. He glowers at me, authority and dominance pouring off him.

  “You’ll regret that,” I tell him.

  They slam the window shut.

  He raises his hand to strike me again just as the leering gendarme pokes him in the side.

  “What’s that?”

  “What?” his companion asks, but then he notices it.

  I sit there, my mouth closed, in perfect silence. And yet it’s the strangest thing: my whistle hangs in the air. It sounds again and again, like an echo. First in faint, short snatches, then growing in volume until there is a chorus ahead of us, behind us. The horses shy, the carriage rocks, I hear the driver curse. And the whistles spin webs around us, drawing near. The horses neigh and shriek, and still the whistles grow louder, wilder.

  Then they stop. And the silence they leave is more terrifying than anything else.

  One gendarme hits the roof of the carriage with the butt of his gun.

  There’s a voice—the driver, I assume—cursing. A sound like something heavy being dragged off the roof. Then the frightened tones of a man begging for his life. Praying that God will forgive him.

  The gendarmes are staring at each other, pale as death. They cock their pistols.

  “We’re armed!” they shout at the carriage door.

  The door flies opens and they both fire at it, completely unaware that the other door is opening silently under the thunder of their shots. The rush of cold air behind them makes them turn a second too late, and the leering gendarme is ripped out of the carriage backward. His colleague grabs me and puts his gun to my cheek. I can almost taste the metal pressing into my face.

  “I’ll kill her! I’ll shoot her head clean off!” he yells.

  I laugh under his hold. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  There’s no response from outside. Only a dead silence. The gendarme, unnerved, forces me to my feet and, keeping the gun firmly planted at my cheek, pushes me out of the carriage.

  A hundred Ghosts encircle us in a silent vigil. There’s no sign of the driver or of the gendarme’s colleague.

  At the head of the Ghosts is Gavroche. He takes in the gun pressed to my cheek before his eyes travel to the gendarme’s face. He shakes his head in mild warning.

  The gendarme blinks suddenly, and I see the whites of his eyes as the tip of a knife is pressed into the back of his neck.

  Montparnasse is hanging over the roof of the carriage.

  The gendarme drops his gun and raises his hands. One of the Ghosts collects the gun, and it disappears into a gray cloak. They’ll sell it to the Smugglers Guild for a week’s worth of food for the pot. I grin widely.

  Montparnasse slides down from the roof, landing on his feet more gracefully than any Cat, and comes to stand in front of the gendarme. He glances at my face, his eyes resting for the merest second on my split lip before they travel
back to the man before him. The gendarme pales.

  I told him he’d regret it.

  * * *

  “I found Ettie,” I tell Montparnasse. He looks at me. If he suspects it was I who hid her in the first place, I can’t tell.

  There’s a clattering of hooves on cold stone, and like a flustered knight arriving too late to rescue me, St. Juste swoops in on horseback.

  “Nina!”

  “St. Juste!” I cry, rushing to him. “The army—”

  “I know,” he says shortly. “I rode through a regiment of them.”

  He takes in the scene: me, the Ghosts, Montparnasse, and the empty carriage. “You’re all right? I was worried,” he says as he dismounts.

  It is deeply unlike St. Juste to worry. He will brood obsessively, but not worry.

  Gavroche reaches for the horse’s bridle, and St. Juste lets him take it. Foolish. That horse will feed the Ghosts’ pot for a month.

  “I need to tell you—”

  St. Juste takes in my split lip. “You’re hurt.”

  I push him away, embarrassed—and conscious of Montparnasse’s gaze.

  St. Juste looks around, frowning in confusion. “Weren’t there gendarmes?”

  I try to look as blank as I can. St. Juste’s gaze wanders back to me and then settles on Montparnasse.

  “You didn’t kill them, did you?”

  I don’t have time for this. “St. Juste, I saw the army’s plans at the palace,” I say in a rush. “You must warn the others. You must call off the protests.”

  His eyes snap to mine.

  “It is as Orso warned,” I continue. “The revolution is compromised. The nobility know where you’ll be, and the army will be waiting to meet you.”

  “Are you certain?” St. Juste asks, all his concern for me evaporated.

  “I saw it in the palace. There’s a map of the city, just like yours, with marks for the positions of every cell of the Société.”

  St. Juste knots his fingers and thinks. “Will you come with me? To explain it all to the others?”