I tell St. Juste to stand guard in the shadows behind the clock while I slip through a door onto an open balcony. The fireplace in the room below stands cold and empty, but the room itself is ablaze with other lights, making it hard for me to hide. I slowly lower myself into a corner and take in the room. In the center is a large table with a gigantic map of the city spread out on it that would drive St. Juste wild with envy. There are objects set on the map in perfect rows. My heart pounds as I recognize what they are.

Toy soldiers.

There are four people in the room. Inspector Javert is one of them, recognizable by the long red hair tied into a tight tail at her neck and her uniform of bright blue. Good. I’ll just wait for her meeting to be finished; then I’ll slip down and waylay her with information that I know will bring her to the right place at the right time …

There’s also a dark-haired noble turned away from me. And a woman in a shimmering dress of silver. I catch my breath. Son Altesse Royale la Reine.

The queen peels off one of her long gloves, and I frown: there’s something strange about her hand. The flesh is a mess of shining skin blotched with angry red stains. It no longer looks like a hand.

From this day forth, whoever even thinks of putting death in the waters of this city will cast their own hand into the flames until it is ruined.

I shiver, remembering the words of Corday’s curse.

Ysengrim take you.

Oblivious to my silent curses, the queen picks up a toy soldier from the map.

I look again at the map and recognize twenty red marks at strategic locations. And around each mark is a ring of perfectly arranged soldiers.

“Are you sure you’re ready?” the queen asks the darkhaired nobleman.

“Do I not look ready?” he answers smoothly. “We know the exact location of each splinter cell. We outman them ten to one. We’ll wipe them from the city’s memory.”

My heart surges—they’re talking about St. Juste and the Société!

“Any survivors will be arrested,” the queen adds. “They will be publicly tried, and will be found guilty. They, their families, their friends, and anyone who even recognizes their names will be fed to Madame Guillotine.”

“You have their names?” asks the nobleman.

The queen smiles and is about to answer, when, on the balcony beside me, the door opens and St. Juste tumbles in, mouthing “Guards.”

I lunge desperately for the door he releases behind him, but I’m too late—the weight of it swings shut with a noticeable click.

Every head in the room turns toward us.

“Who’s there?” Javert demands.

In a rustle of heavy silk and satin, the queen is at the door of her Salon, commanding her guards to drag us down.

Every lesson Gentleman George taught me whirls through my head as I calculate our options.