by Kester Grant
He raises a hand to one of them, begging for help.
And I know with sickening clarity what’s about to happen.
“Ettie, let’s go.”
She won’t move, hypnotized by the spectacle.
“Ettie, please.”
Azelma considers the Tiger’s hand, and then she drops to one knee in front of him and gently puts a finger into the wound in his cheek.
He starts to scream.
“Ettie!” I call, but she won’t leave; she won’t move.
I turn my head away. I don’t want to see or hear this.
As long as I live I’ll never forget his screams. I wish I could cut off my ears to hide from the sound of them. But I stay for Ettie. Ettie, who stands trembling with eyes wide open. Beautiful Ettie, who was always afraid.
She’s not afraid anymore.
Somewhere in the distance, the City whispers. She wraps her clawed fingers around the man who was a monster, and she takes him. It was a good story, a sad one: the boy beneath the lash. But our Mother, the City, demanded a sacrifice, and he was the darkest one I could give to her.
Ettie helps me go slowly to the stairs; we take them one at a time. She has tied my scarf around my leg to stop the bleeding. Its faded flowers are dark with my blood.
The sight of what awaits us would be humorous if it weren’t so serious.
The Guild is overflowing with people, and it’s a cacophony of raised voices and pointed challenges. Everyone here is waving a gun at someone.
As we stumble down the stairs, we are greeted by a dozen guns trained on our heads. I raise my good hand and Ettie calls out, “We’re unarmed!”
In the center of the room, the women from the basement are huddled together. Making a circle around them are the revolutionaries and le Maire. St. Juste’s face is bleeding; Grantaire has a black eye; Feuilly has lost his glasses. They look furious and are aiming their weapons at the Fleshers, who form yet another ring around them. The brawny Fleshers look murderous and confused at the same time, and I quickly see why: at every window, and spilling in from every door, are soldiers, their muskets trained on everybody they see. I spot Javert among them, her red hair shining like a beacon.
There’s a commotion at the door, and the soldiers part to allow a dark-haired man through. He scans the room, clearly shocked at the scene. As he sees Ettie and me on the stairs, he blinks.
“Nina!”
“Votre Altesse,” I say to the dauphin, and my slight bow almost topples Ettie.
The prince comes to us and takes in the extent of my injuries.
“You’re hurt! Who did this to you?”
“A dead man,” I answer, trying to shake off the tiredness that threatens to engulf me. This night is not over yet.
I managed to get the soldiers and Inspector Javert here, so it’s time they played their part.
“Altesse, you’ve ridden across the city and slain every revolutionary cell in your path, have you not?”
The prince’s face grows grim, and he gives the slightest of nods.
“There remains only one, and here they are. I believe your mother the queen commanded that any survivors be arrested. Take them. They’re outnumbered and won’t fight you.”
St. Juste’s face is completely and utterly furious. “Nina?”
I ignore him.
The prince’s soldiers surround St. Juste, who’s glaring at me with rage at my betrayal. For a moment I fear that he’s going to fight, so fierce is the look on his face. But he hands over his pistol, and his friends follow suit.
And now, dance to the tune that I will whistle.
I gesture to the women. “These women were stolen from the streets of this city and, against every law of this country, were to be traded into prostitution.” I point to the Fleshers. “These are the men that have done this.”
The prince is horrified, and in a voice of barely contained fury says to his soldiers, “Arrest them all!”
I lean toward him conspiratorially. “I wouldn’t arrest that one, however.” I point into the shadows where Montparnasse is lurking. “Unless you want a lot of dead soldiers on your hands.”
The prince looks around. “Arrest all the others,” he says.
The soldiers move forward, and the Fleshers, seeing themselves grossly outnumbered, drop their weapons. The soldiers round everyone up, making them raise their hands above their heads.
“Anything else?” the prince inquires of me with only the slightest edge of sarcasm.
“There are more women upstairs.” My voice hitches when I want it to be strong. “All of these women have been prisoners of the Tiger for too long. They need medical attention.”
“Take the women to l’Hôpital de la Pitié. Be gentle!” he shouts, his voice like thunder. “They’ve no need of more pain. And cover them. Are they to be walked half naked through the streets?”
The prince snaps an order at his men to get them moving. They drag everyone outside. The students go first; St. Juste goes quietly. He doesn’t even look up at me, doesn’t realize that his arrest has saved his life. The army has intervened in time to stop any bloodshed. The Fleshers have not been able to murder the students, and the presence of the rest of us stopped the army from massacring the students in the streets.
“Go with St. Juste,” I whisper to Ettie.
She looks at me, confused.
“Trust me.”
She lets go of me and steps away.
“If they’re going to be arrested, then I’m going with them,” she announces loudly to the world, as if she and I have quarreled.
I wobble, unable to stand properly without her holding on to me. I want to cry out for her to stay, to wait. But everything will be much easier if she’s with them.
She marches out the door with the prisoners. I hold the banister and inch myself forward, wincing in pain. Montparnasse watches from a distance. He doesn’t come to help me. As long as I’m able, he’ll let me walk for myself. I lift my chin and meet his eyes. And I could swear, for the first time in his life, he smiles.
The dauphin, however, is by my side in an instant. He stands there in his only slightly dusty uniform while I’m covered with dirt and blood, painfully aware that I reek.
“You need a surgeon for that leg. Here, let me help you.”
I shake my head and swat him away. I don’t have time; there is much still to do. He follows me out the door, trying to bully me into coming to the palace to recover. He prattles on about providing me with the best doctors. I wonder how it’s possible for any one person to be so handsome and so annoying at the same time.
The Fleshers have been rounded up and loaded onto a prison cart. The revolutionaries, St. Juste, Grantaire, le Maire, and Ettie are being piled into another. Javert is making sure they’re all together. Ettie watches me from between the bars, exactly where I need her to be. To the right, the Sisters are being loaded onto wagons that will take them to the hospital. I catch a glimpse of Azelma, her worn gown stained with the Tiger’s blood. Her eyes are dull and confused; she is skin and bone. My heart contracts. I want to go to her. I want to put my arms around her and take her away. But I know she’s safer where she is for now.
She is safe.
She is finally safe.
Content that le Maire is locked in the carriage, Javert climbs up next to the driver and snappily orders him to head for the Châtelet. The driver cracks his whip, and the cart starts to rumble away.
I give a whistle, short and sharp. Ettie turns and looks at me, and I put one hand to the neck of my shirt. She frowns, then lifts her fingers to the blood-soaked collar of her dress, where they close over the two brass hair clips I pinned there earlier. She laughs. It’s a glorious sound.
* * *
The soldiers are mounting their horses and heading away. A wave of dizziness comes over
me. The prince takes advantage of my weakness to seize my arm and steer me to his carriage.
A moment later I’m lying in his arms and we’re moving.
“You’ll be seen by my own physician,” the prince says, gently stroking my hair. “You’ll be fine.”
His voice is shaking, and I look up at him. He’s dusty and dirtier than I thought, and his eyes are red and swollen.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
He shakes his head and holds on to me, a hand wound around my arm.
“I—” He breaks off and looks away from me. “I asked Mother about the wells,” he says in an oddly detached voice. “She told me it was true. They put poison in the water. She said it was necessary, a merciful thing, or else the poor would grow too numerous and we would not be safe. She said they had risen before and they would rise again if we didn’t keep careful control of their numbers.”
Ysengrim take them. They are monsters, one and all.
“I asked her if she ever thought of doing it again,” he continues mournfully, “and she got up, walked to the fire, and put her hand in the flame.” He pauses, horrified at his own admission. “I didn’t even stop her.” He stares at the empty seat before him like a man haunted. “She wouldn’t stop screaming.”
He wrings his hands as if they were covered in blood.
“When I told her that I wouldn’t lead the attack, she said I had no choice. That if we allowed the rebels to unite, they would march on the palace and turn us over to the guillotine, as they tried to years ago. Every single one of us.”
He’s right. That’s what the six little mice attempted to do in the last revolution.
“How could I let that happen? She said if I didn’t go, she would send another captain and charge him with executing every civilian he saw.”
He’s shaking.
“And so you went,” I say quietly.
“The queen said an example must be made. I had to ride at their head and let the soldiers do their job.” He shudders. “They ambushed and crushed every cell. They took no prisoners, Nina. None. And when they were done, they lined up the bodies side by side to make it easier for the cart to take them away.”
He closes his eyes and I see a tear run down his face.
“We had to cross their names off a list.” He swallows. “The plan was thought up by advisors. Father and Mother sanctioned it, but I gave the order. I did it, Nina. I killed all those people, as sure as if I were the man firing the gun, the hand wielding the sword.”
His eyes are bright with horror. I take his shaking hand in my own and lift my gaze to his.
It is strange, the urge I have to comfort him, when he is telling me of all the people that have died at his hand.
“It’s finished,” I say gently. Because there is nothing else to say.
He looks at me like a crazed man, like a drowning man. And his lips come down on mine, hard. He kisses me with such force I can barely breathe.
To think, after all these years, he still tastes of chocolate.
When he finally comes up for air and looks down at me, his eyes starry and dazed, I give him a sad smile.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
He frowns, confused. In a flash I reach up around his head and tie my bloody scarf across his mouth.
His eyes bulge and he tries to struggle, but I tied his hands with a strip of cloth when he was telling me his story.
His expression is raw hurt, longing, and loneliness. The beautiful friendless prince.
I open the carriage door; the street is a blur whirling past us outside.
I wink at him and leap out into the night.
* * *
In the early dawn, I stop and pull from inside my coat the Fisherman’s last gift: the tongue of Mor the Peacock. I drive one of my lock-picks into it and push it into the ground; then I light the fuse. It shoots into the air with a scream that will be seen and heard across the city. Men and women stop and raise their heads and it screeches across the sky, exploding into fireworks of light and color, a tiger roaring across the heavens.
Now, at this signal, the Wretched all over the city will descend upon the Tiger’s remaining strongholds. They will attack each one, killing or driving off the Fleshers and freeing the Sisters.
I manage to limp unsteadily down a dark alley, where I see a prison cart. A little boy materializes out of the darkness and stands before it. The horses stop and refuse to go any farther. Javert rises, shouting at the boy to get out of the way. But the boy advances. Other Ghosts appear behind him, emerging from the fog, forming a wall, blocking the street at both ends, a noseless young man at their head. Javert tries to grab her pistol, but the cart driver pulls out a gun of his own and holds it to her head.
Ettie has the lock open in seconds with the hair clips I gave her, and she quickly tumbles out of the cart. The other prisoners follow her, while Javert roars and rails. Orso takes Ettie into his arms and hugs her fiercely. She buries her face in his cloak and throws her arms around him. Gavroche is there at her skirts, and when Orso releases her, she greets Loup with a kiss on the cheek and takes Gavroche’s hand.
Le Maire, meanwhile, goes to address Javert. I can’t make out his words, but his manner is apologetic. She screams at him, shouting that he won’t escape her, swearing to find him no matter where he goes. Tears are pouring down her face, and le Maire is looking decidedly odd as he turns and leaves her.
I watch from the shadows.
St. Juste is talking in low tones with Orso.
“How many fell?” St. Juste asks.
“All,” Orso says. “You are the only ones left.”
St. Juste shakes his head, tears brimming in his eyes. “I was ready to die tonight. I should have been with them. Was I wrong? Did I betray them?”
“No,” Orso says. “Death the Endless comes for us all. When your time comes, we’ll make it count.”
Grantaire is asking where they are going.
“We must cross the sewers to get to the catacombs,” Loup responds.
Ettie appears at my side, clutching at my sleeve. I know I look bad, because her face is a picture of concern.
“We’re alive,” I say, sounding chirpier than I feel.
She takes my hand, and the gesture is a powerful declaration of sorrow, of forgiveness, of love, threads of silver and gold wrapping around us: the orphan and the thief. Ettie’s arms are around me; her forehead rests against my shoulder. A thousand memories race through my mind as I lean my head against hers.
My sister.
“Go on,” I murmur, my voice faint. “We’re not out of this yet.”
She kisses me. Her lips burn against my cold cheek.
The Ghosts hurry the students down through a grate in the street. Gavroche leads the way, dancing like an excited djinn before them.
Then Orso is before me. “Well, little Cat. What now?” he says.
“Javert won’t rest till she finds le Maire,” I say. “The boys will be wanted criminals, and St. Juste won’t give up fighting.”
“No, but he might be better equipped next time.” Orso gives me one of his terrifying smiles. “You killed a monster and saved a great many lives. Not bad for a night’s work.” He frowns at me. “Try not to bleed to death.”
I’m so cold and so faint.
I feel the street beneath my feet. Through the soles of my shoes, the echo of a song trembles through me. The City sings me a lullaby. She has drunk enough blood tonight. It’s time to sleep.
A wave of exhaustion hits me, and as my good knee buckles, Montparnasse melts out of the shadows, catching me at the waist, and I fall into him.
He holds me up in his thin arms. I feel the beating of his heart as I lay my head against his chest.
Orso’s words swirl around my head.
“Let us go,” says Montparn
asse. “The Dead are calling.”
I smile into the rough linen of Montparnasse’s cloak, and then the darkness swallows us.
To my Father, who gave me whatever talent I may possess.
To Mum and Babuji, who gave me words, language, stories, and all the classics.
To Gow, who used to get me to do her history homework, thereby sparking a lifelong passion for tales of French kings and violent revolutions.
To Victor Hugo, who created such spectacularly haunting characters as Valjean, Javert, Éponine, Gavroche, Enjolras…threw them into the most tragic of stories…and then added Marius Pontmercy, just to drive me crazy. I like to think of this book as vengeance for years of wanting to strangle Marius (how can anyone be so useless?)—and because ÉPONINE DESERVED SO MUCH MORE!
To Messrs. Boublil and Schönberg, for reinforcing my Les Mis obsession with their spectacular musical.
To my Husband, who is my rock, without whom nothing could ever get done.
To Jess. I wrote this as if I were telling it to you at bedtime.
To my Mao, my first reader, who is the very best of friends and greatest of cheerleaders.
To my Sister, who remains convinced that she is the subconscious inspiration for this book.
To Brendra Drake, who tirelessly created Pitch Wars, which is how I got my agent!
To Rosalyn Eves and Erin Summerill, my mentors therein, for giving Nina and her gang of miscreants the opportunity to invade the world.
To Josh, my agent, who is the very best, for believing in my stories, and all the Adams Lit family for their support.
To those who made me laugh instead of cry along the way. The E.a.F. crew, Rebecca and Tomi.
To Amie Kaufman, for taking the time to share no-nonsense advice and saving me from many anxieties.
To my editors—Melanie, at Knopf, for all her hard work, investment, and wise direction, and Natasha, at Harper, for her passion, as well as all the many dedicated members of the Guild of Letters who serve under them. In ink is truth.
Nous sommes d’un sang.