I round the corner near Thénardier’s inn in time to see a large man climb into a carriage.

I call out, but he’s closed the door; the wind swallows my words. And then the carriage is moving away.

There’s a flash at the window: golden curls and large eyes.

A voice that cannot be my own screams her name.

A small hand presses against the glass. She sees me.

I run behind the carriage, slipping in the snow, my voice tearing at my throat as I call for her, over and over, even as the horses drag her farther away. My limbs are like lead, stiff and slow, but still I run. I run even when the carriage has gone so far I can no longer see it. I run as if I believe I can still catch it. I run as if to stop would be to give up on her. I run until all that is before me is covered in white. My knees buckle and I fall, my hands trembling as they hit the icy ground.

My voice is spent. The cold seeps into my skin and settles in my bones.

Someone is breathing, heavy racked breaths, but it can’t be me. There’s the pounding of a heartbeat in my ears, but it can’t be mine.

Montparnasse finds me waiting for the snow to drown me. He takes off his cloak and wraps it around me.

“No.” I fight him feebly. He’s stronger than I am. He drags me to my feet and half carries me, my frozen limbs refusing to hold me up.

We stumble for what seems like hours through the snow. Everything is a blur: faces, darkness. The taste of blood on my lips. At first I don’t know where he’s taking me, but then I realize he’s heading away from the city, toward the Halls of the Dead. Where I can be surrounded and protected.

I stop. “I’m going back there.”

“No.”

I turn on him, my fists pounding, legs kicking, fingernails clawing at the edges of his cloak. He’s the Master of the Assassins Guild, but he lets me attack him, his head bowed.

“I’m going back. You don’t have to come with me.”

He just looks at me.

The bells of Notre-Dame are ringing, the heavy peals vibrating through me.

It’s time.

I hear the voice of the city around me: a beast, half mad with pain, clawing at my ears, demanding that I listen. Its pulse beats through the cobblestones, anchoring my steps as I climb up unscalable slippery walls that fall away beneath my fingers. But I’m the Black Cat of the Thieves Guild, and this is my hunting ground.

The bells ring out as I go. I hear the song they sing. The sky above me rolls and thunders. The buildings churn and shake. Around me, a screaming wind is roaring in my ears. Beneath me the streets cry out; above me the rooftops seem to shriek and wail. They say only one thing, but they say it over and over, like a soldier beating a drum.