St. Juste hates balls, and rich people, and fun, so his being here is deeply out of character and practically shouts that he’s up to something. But he’s also standing here in a velvet coat looking devastatingly handsome.

St. Juste lowers his lips to my ear in a manner that might seem seductive to anyone around us. “We are planning an act of treason against every person in this room, so I thought, what better opportunity to survey the palace than the occasion of a ball? Why are you here?”

“I’m a Thief, St. Juste. Breaking into places where rich people get drunk and leave their jewelry lying around is what I do,” I say quickly.

There’s a distracted look on his face, and a muscle twitches in his cheek.

“How did you even get in?” I ask him.

“My grandfather on my mother’s side was a tutor to several of the dukes. He’s often invited to these sorts of soirées and was only too delighted to let me come in his place. He thinks I’m growing disillusioned with my heretical beliefs.”

I lead St. Juste by the arm through the ballroom and toward a magnificent staircase teeming with people going up to the second floor. He clings to me in a way that I tell myself is because of the heaving crowds around us.

“Why did you ask that Sûreté officer where the inspector is?” he murmurs in my ear, his voice as low and intimate as a lover’s whisper.

“There is something here that I need to obtain,” I say vaguely, giving him a mischievous smile. I don’t think St. Juste will like my plans for Inspector Javert.

“Oh? And what might that be?”

I rap him with my fan. “Do you tell me all your secrets, St. Juste?” I ask teasingly.

“Yes,” he answers with brutal honesty.

“Well, then you’re a fool,” I say, leaning into him as if we’re two young lovers flirting with impossible desire. Which obviously isn’t the case. Because no matter what everyone says, I’m definitely not the slightest bit attracted to St. Juste. Or so I constantly remind myself.

I wait for a chance and drag us both down a corridor in the shadows. I know the layout of this palace intimately, thanks to my previous visit. The northern wing is barely used, so we take the long way around, down deserted corridors and past empty rooms. In the darkness, St. Juste holds my hand, more to keep from bumping into things than out of romantic inclination, but the feeling of his fingers wrapped around mine as I pull him along leaves me slightly breathless.

We go through the servants’ stairwell to the corridor of the Salon de la Reine. There are two liveried guards stationed at the door beside a giant clock wrought of ivory and gold. It’s a good thing that before I snuck into the ballroom, I set up a few loud traps timed to—

A crash rings out. The guards hurry toward the noise. I dash past them and stop before a tall door outlined in gilt.