St. Juste falls silent, gazing questioningly at me, and I swallow my guilt over the message Gavroche brought, a message I chose not to pass along because it might mean losing St. Juste’s support in my own war. But now Montparnasse has suggested there’s a traitor in their organization, and Orso, a man who has spoken on freedom and rebellion, has said he is pulling out. The sense of betrayal St. Juste must feel is unimaginable.

St. Juste lifts his chin. “I’ll contact the Société. If there is a spy, then they’ll advise us how to proceed.”

“The courier comes tomorrow,” Grantaire adds with a hand on St. Juste’s shoulder to comfort him, or possibly to make sure he doesn’t fall over. “We can get instructions then.”

“Right.” St. Juste runs his hands through his hair and looks distracted.

They’re standing still, St. Juste because he’s thinking about his plans, and Montparnasse, I suspect, because he won’t leave St. Juste and Grantaire alone in my bedroom.

I clear my throat. “I need to change now.”

St. Juste looks at me and seems suddenly to remember I’m female, something I’m not sure he remembers all that often. He nods and leaves, dragging Grantaire out with him.

I turn to Montparnasse. Our paths have diverged greatly in the last two years. I hardly ever see him, save for a glance across the Miracle Court, or a shadow in the night that makes me wonder if he’s lurking somewhere in the darkness, watching.

“Do you think I’m wasting my time?” I ask him. “Do you, too, think she’s dead?”

I need to know how well I have done. How much even he believes.

Montparnasse watches me for a while. He doesn’t speak.

“I think you care too much,” he finally says. “You always have.”

He’s at the window.

“But you’ll never stop looking. You don’t know how.”

He gives a small bow and is gone without a sound.

The boys’ voices float up through the floorboards. They’ll talk late into the night, weighing the risks of carrying out their plans without the support of the Guilds. I feel a strange pang, because the events of the next few days will likely bring an end to the life I’ve come to know with them. Their tall tales and teasing, the talks about sacrifice and the greater good, the discussions of the failed revolution. St. Juste often gets a gleam in his eye during those talks as if he would have liked to live and die in those days when the streets of Paris were bathed in blood, when dreamers like him were fed to Madame Guillotine. They have heated debates about how it ended, how it could have been different, how it will be different. They argue, drink, and laugh.

Sometimes Grantaire notices me in my corner and coaxes me into telling a story. Even St. Juste listens then. I never betray the secrets of the Court, but I can keep them mesmerized for hours recounting the tales of my people. They hang on every word like thirsty men; I can keep them entertained until the sun rises. On those nights, I’ve gone to bed drunk on the feeling that I’ve been seen for the very first time.