“You have my word on that,” St. Juste says.

“And you have mine that I’ll be present and available and focused when Lamarque falls.”

Montparnasse glances at me. I’ve known him long enough that I can read his almost-nonexistent expressions. He wants to talk to St. Juste.

I open the door all the way, and St. Juste and Grantaire step gingerly into the room. Being polite gentlemen, they’ve never been in my room. Their eyes travel shyly from the old mattress on the floor to the armoire in the corner.

Montparnasse, in typical Assassin fashion, is so still that the other two don’t even know he’s there. He coughs and Grantaire jumps out of his skin. St. Juste stiffens. He has no idea who Montparnasse is, but the Master of Knives gives off an air that would chill the soul of the purest innocent. The boys give a slight bow of their heads to Montparnasse as I make the introductions; I’ve taught them well.

It’s strange to see St. Juste and Montparnasse in the same room. St. Juste is made entirely of fire and justice, where Montparnasse is darkness and secrecy. From dagger to cheekbone, he’s all sharp angles, with cold, expressionless eyes. The past, the Wretched, the Guilds are wrapped in Montparnasse’s inky black cloak, while St. Juste … he shines like a beacon. A promise of all that the future could be.

Being a man of few words, Montparnasse gets straight to the point. “Madame Corday sends her regrets. We won’t be attending your … uprising.”

Rennart’s balls. I had hoped to get a chance to talk to Orso myself, to see if I could change his mind before I broke the news to St. Juste.

St. Juste goes white as a sheet. The disappointment rolls off him in waves. “Why?”

“The payment is not high enough for such a suicide mission.”

St. Juste stares at him blankly. “But we’re fighting for you too—for all of you. Don’t your people want things to change? Don’t they want their lives to be better?” he asks.

Montparnasse regards him as if he’s slightly mad. We’ve never needed a bunch of well-meaning students to fight for us. The Wretched grow up with a dagger in one hand, trying to fend off Death the Endless with the other.

But the look on St. Juste’s face tugs at my heart. He’s confused and hurt. He truly believes things can change, which is why he dedicates every waking moment to the cause. It is his dream, his obsession. And he is willing to pay any price for it. He would march to the gates of hell itself if it was asked of him. It’s one of the things that I find most admirable—and terrifying—about him.

Montparnasse gives a little shrug. “There has been some question of … security.”

“What do you mean?” St. Juste demands.

“The Ghosts whisper that there’s a spy in your club.”

“We’re a société, not a club!”

Montparnasse nods seriously. “Nonetheless, neither the Dead Lord nor Lady Corday can lend their support to a cause they’re unsure of.”