“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.

28

Master of Knives

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.