He thinks that I lost her; they all think so. I’ve played my part so well that nobody believes anything other than what I have shown them.

I snap. With one swipe I pull out the pistol I stole from St. Juste and point it straight at his heart.

“There is no time for these histrionics,” I say sharply.

He takes a second to realize what I’ve done. They all freeze, and I look at them grimly.

“Are you going to shoot me again?” His voice is like ice.

“Again?”

“I didn’t see who shot me at the barricade—were you trying to make sure I wouldn’t come back and warn my brothers that we had been betrayed?”

“The day I shoot you, St. Juste, it won’t be a flesh wound. My kind are unlikely to miss. Being criminals, we tend to have very good aim.” I yell for one of the students to come. “Joly!”

Joly enters the kitchen and, seeing me with the gun, stops and stares.

“Where is this courier? Find the courier or I’ll shoot St. Juste. You know I’m capable of it. Me being one of those criminal elements.”

I press the gun deeper into St. Juste’s chest. He barely flinches, measures me up with his eyes, and nods at Joly.

Joly goes thundering off, his footsteps echoing as he scarpers to the back of the house.

In seconds the doorway is full of anxious and curious boys. Some have weapons in their hands but hold them in a halfhearted manner, not sure what to do. Then Joly is back, pushing past them and dragging someone with him.

I turn my gaze from St. Juste to the doorway as the boys part to let the courier through.

I stare for a full trembling minute. Then I start to laugh, great belly-shaking, exhaustion-laden laughter that hits me like a wave. I lower my weapon.

Seeing my weakness, St. Juste tackles me, wresting the gun from my loose grasp, and we land in a heap on the floor. The boys are all shouting, but I can’t stop laughing.

St. Juste has me pinned to the floor, his body holding mine heavily in place. Mostly because I’m too busy giggling to struggle. With one free hand he passes Grantaire the pistol. Grantaire takes it and trains it on me. Enraged at the tears of laughter pouring down my face, he demands to know what’s so funny.

“D-don’t you know who that is?” I splutter, trying desperately to calm myself.

They all look at the courier, a woman in a dingy, patched oilcloth coat with a single untidy tendril of red hair spilling from her cap.

“Rennart’s balls, St. Juste. You’re all fools. That’s Inspector Javert of the Sûreté.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Grantaire retorts. “This is the courier. She’s been bringing us messages from the Société for months.”

Of course she has. Her mouth is a grim line, and a vein at her neck throbs angrily.

“She was there at the ball tonight, in the Salon de la Reine with the queen. The dauphin told me that the Société was created to flush out the enemies of the Crown. The Société itself is a lie.”