My blood runs cold. “What did you say?”

“I said we created the Société, a false group aimed at overthrowing the crown, and waited to see who would bite. Who would reveal themselves to be traitors, enemies of the throne.” He spreads his arms wide. “The membership has grown into the thousands. And all the while we have been waiting and watching, prepared to wipe them out in one fell swoop.”

He falls silent. I make my face into a mask, refusing to betray any emotion.

“You don’t remember, do you?” I ask.

He frowns at me in response.

“You don’t remember what they did, the ones who are cursed to set their hands on fire.”

I look at the prince, at his darkly glittering eyes, at his jaw set in determination. He is one of them, I remind myself.

He studies my face and sees it impassive. “I don’t believe in curses.”

“There was not enough bread, and the poor began to starve,” I say. “Out of fear that hunger would lead to a violent uprising, the nobles put poison in the city wells so that all who drank from them would die.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he tries to protest, but I ignore him.

“It was in revenge for these acts that the poison was given to the best-loved child of every noble house; it was almost given to you.”

The prince blanches. The mesmerist may have hidden the memory of all else from him, but he remembers Ettie and me begging him not to drink from his mother’s hand. He looks uncertain.

“You’re a liar.”

“And you’re a fool.”

The prince turns to Javert and in a decisive tone says, “She knows too much. Keep her locked up until it’s all over. Then you’ve got permission to take as many men as you need to apprehend this Valjean.”

Javert grabs me by the arm more roughly than necessary and starts to haul me out of the room.

“Wait!” The prince hesitates, suddenly awkward, his face flushed. “And—bring her back when it’s done.”

My eyes flash.

“Ask your mother if what I say is true,” I call back over my shoulder. A terrible thought crosses my mind, and I add, “Ask her if she’s ever thought of doing it again.”

35

Inspector Javert

I know Javert’s habits from months of watching her through the gendarmerie windows. I know that she is methodical with her schedules and paperwork, patronizing to the officers, and ruthless with the criminals who come before her. She doesn’t say a word as she leads me away, clamping me so closely to her side that it might look to passersby as though we’re friends going for a brisk stroll. She marches me down the back stairs and avoids the heavily crowded areas. As we cross a back courtyard of the Tuileries into the breaking dawn and head to where the carriages are waiting, I catch a glimpse of scarlet and gold: St. Juste is tailing us at a distance.