We scale the wall in seconds and drop into the garden. We make our way to the house and crouch in front of a broken window that’s been unevenly boarded up. We peer through the gaps into a room with an open door; it’s empty. I tie my scarf around my mouth and nose, and Montparnasse does the same with his. I reach into my bag and pull out two skin pouches. Montparnasse holds a match to the leather, and we toss both through the window. They land with a thunk and roll to the middle of the floor, small flames eating through them, and then they go out.

The burning pouches let off a thick, dark smoke that I can smell, even at this distance. It’s heavy and sweet: the smell of the poppy. Two pouches of pure opium, provided by the Guild of Dreamers, thanks to Lord Yelles. They’ll burn for hours and get stronger as they do, dulling the senses of everyone inside.

Montparnasse peers up at the building.

“The whole top floor,” he says.

I follow his eyeline.

The Tiger’s chambers. That’s where we need to go. We could climb, but we would be exposed to anyone outside, and I don’t know how long my distractions will last.

“We break into the cellar and enter from within,” I say decidedly. “Then you can murder everyone.”

We split up and do a quick reconnaissance of two sides of the building. He finds the large wooden delivery hatch on the west side. It has an ancient lock, which I pick in under a minute, and he lifts the heavy door. We drop into the darkness of a cellar, closing the door above us so as not to mark our entry point.

A feeling prickles at the back of my neck when something moves, probably a rat. Montparnasse’s knife is out in a second. Then the smell hits us. Sweat, blood, rot, and human excrement. I breathe through my mouth as I advance. It’s too quiet.

Montparnasse hesitates in front of me. He lights a match, and its tiny flame hisses to life, illuminating us. And then we see them: rows upon rows of women and children crammed against the walls, leaning on one another.

I look at them. They stare back at me, motionless. One of them blinks.

They’re alive.

They’re not tied up, but they don’t have to be; the Tiger will have already fed them the poppy, so he has complete control over them.

The match goes out, and my mind whirls as I reach for another.

If these women were intended for the city’s Flesh Houses, they’d already be there. There’s only one reason to pack them like cargo in a warehouse. They’re going to be shipped out. It is known that the Tiger made his fortune as a slaver before taking over the Flesh Guild. And though there have been rumors that he was feeding Sisters from his Guild to brothels abroad, no one has ever known for sure.