“Everything.” He pushed past me. “You get on with your prison break, street princess. Don’t worry your head about me.”

He was out of sight before I could answer, past the Victorian entrance hall and into the crowd. My spine tingled. I didn’t need a rogue red-jacket around, especially not someone as cryptic as David. He might claim to hate the Rephaim, but he didn’t seem to like me, either. He could tell Nashira about the wine. She’d smell a rat at once. Lots and lots of rats.

Thousands of candles had been lit inside the Guildhall. As soon as I crossed the threshold, Michael and a white-jacket hurried me up a flight of stairs, leaving David to seek out the other bone-grubbers. Michael’s assignment from the Rephs was to make sure nobody looked bruised or scruffy—a perfect pretext for one last gathering. When we reached the gallery, I turned to face them.

“Ready?”

“And waiting,” the white-jacket said. Charles, a cryomancer owned by Terebell. He nodded down at the hall, where the Rephaim mingled with the emissaries. “The bone-grubbers are starting to bite the dust. The Rephs won’t notice until it’s too late.”

“Good.” I took a deep, steadying breath. “Well done, Michael.”

Michael wore a simple gray suit. He smiled.

“You got my bag?”

He pointed. My backpack, packed with medicine, sat under the gallery benches. I couldn’t take it now, but the harlies knew it was here if they needed it. It was one of many stashes of supplies.

“Paige,” Charles said, “what time will the flare go up?”

“I’m still waiting to hear. I’ll set one off as soon as we find a path.”

Charles nodded. I looked down at the hall again.

So many people were about to risk their lives. Liss, who’d been so afraid. Julian, who’d done so much to help me. The harlies. The white-jackets.

And Warden. I understood now what it meant for him to trust me. If I betrayed him, like the last human, he wouldn’t just be scarred—he’d be slaughtered. This was his last chance.

But we had to act now, while there was still a flicker of compassion among the Rephaim. If the scarred ones perished, that hope would be lost.

The door to the gallery crashed open. Suhail loomed in the doorway. He grabbed Charles by the tunic and hauled him back to the stairs. “The blood-sovereign does not like to be kept waiting, runt,” he said to me. “You are forbidden from the gallery. Get downstairs.”

As quickly as he’d come, he left. Michael glanced at the door. “It’s time,” I said. I squeezed his hand. “Good luck. Remember, keep low and look for the flare.”

Michael nodded.

“Live,” was all he said.

I kept my head down as I crossed the ground floor of the Guildhall. Nobody noticed me come in.