St. Juste’s gaze sweeps the dead, the barricade that rises behind them.

“We must recover the flag,” he says, an edge of certainty creeping back into his voice.

Gavroche perks up beside me.

“What?” It’s such a ridiculously St. Juste thing to want to do. “We don’t have time! We must warn the others.”

“The flag is the symbol of what these men and women died for,” he says, his voice rising in anger, anguish pouring out of him.

“St. Juste, please,” I say desperately, fear welling in me, tears in my eyes. “It’s a piece of cloth! I’ll steal you a hundred flags!”

I don’t understand why I’m shaking, or so angry, or so afraid. He is one of Those Who Walk by Day, and a means to an end … Surely it shouldn’t matter to me if he wants to pluck flags from barricades and march off to his death.

But I can’t turn away from his face, so earnest, even with a long smear of dirt across it and rage burning in his eyes.

Time seems to slow. I see St. Juste’s eyes widen in horror. For there, behind us, is Gavroche, high on barricade, reaching for the flag. He’s almost got it, just a bit farther to go, but that distance is enough to expose him to any soldiers who have been ordered to remain behind …

I scream for Gavroche and leap at the barrier, but St. Juste is closer. He hurls himself upward. Gavroche has the flag wrapped in his hands now, and he turns and smiles triumphantly at us.

Gunshot pierces the air as St. Juste collides with him, and time speeds up again as they fall and I fall. There is the sharp shock of ground, the rattling of bones, a promise of future pain. And a heap next to me—a small gray boy and a young man in a coat of scarlet.

I wrench myself up and drag myself toward them. Gavroche is facedown, tucked into St. Juste’s arms. My heart thuds in my ears; the air is thick with the smell of saltpeter, gunpowder, dust, and sweat. I turn him over. There is blood everywhere.

Gavroche blinks at me. He’s still holding on to the damned flag. I grab him, checking him for a wound … checking him for any sort of injury. I feel a terrible relief flooding over me. He is not hurt; they must have missed! But where did all this blood come from? Then I notice that Gavroche is looking at St. Juste, his large eyes full of fear.

St. Juste is marble white, the elegantly carved angles of his face in stark relief against the brightness of his blazing eyes.

He has a hole in his side, small and black, and the dark blood blooms around it. I can barely hear my voice shouting at him as I tear a length of his shirt and press it to the wound. I scream at Gavroche to get help. I manage to bind the cloth tight, pulling it all the way around him, and tears start to blur my vision.