I watch from the shadows.

St. Juste is talking in low tones with Orso.

“How many fell?” St. Juste asks.

“All,” Orso says. “You are the only ones left.”

St. Juste shakes his head, tears brimming in his eyes. “I was ready to die tonight. I should have been with them. Was I wrong? Did I betray them?”

“No,” Orso says. “Death the Endless comes for us all. When your time comes, we’ll make it count.”

Grantaire is asking where they are going.

“We must cross the sewers to get to the catacombs,” Loup responds.

Ettie appears at my side, clutching at my sleeve. I know I look bad, because her face is a picture of concern.

“We’re alive,” I say, sounding chirpier than I feel.

She takes my hand, and the gesture is a powerful declaration of sorrow, of forgiveness, of love, threads of silver and gold wrapping around us: the orphan and the thief. Ettie’s arms are around me; her forehead rests against my shoulder. A thousand memories race through my mind as I lean my head against hers.

My sister.

“Go on,” I murmur, my voice faint. “We’re not out of this yet.”

She kisses me. Her lips burn against my cold cheek.

The Ghosts hurry the students down through a grate in the street. Gavroche leads the way, dancing like an excited djinn before them.

Then Orso is before me. “Well, little Cat. What now?” he says.

“Javert won’t rest till she finds le Maire,” I say. “The boys will be wanted criminals, and St. Juste won’t give up fighting.”

“No, but he might be better equipped next time.” Orso gives me one of his terrifying smiles. “You killed a monster and saved a great many lives. Not bad for a night’s work.” He frowns at me. “Try not to bleed to death.”

I’m so cold and so faint.

I feel the street beneath my feet. Through the soles of my shoes, the echo of a song trembles through me. The City sings me a lullaby. She has drunk enough blood tonight. It’s time to sleep.

A wave of exhaustion hits me, and as my good knee buckles, Montparnasse melts out of the shadows, catching me at the waist, and I fall into him.

He holds me up in his thin arms. I feel the beating of his heart as I lay my head against his chest.

Orso’s words swirl around my head.

“Let us go,” says Montparnasse. “The Dead are calling.”

I smile into the rough linen of Montparnasse’s cloak, and then the darkness swallows us.

Les milles remerciements—en ordre chronologique

To my Father, who gave me whatever talent I may possess.

To Mum and Babuji, who gave me words, language, stories, and all the classics.

To Gow, who used to get me to do her history homework, thereby sparking a lifelong passion for tales of French kings and violent revolutions.

To Victor Hugo, who created such spectacularly haunting characters as Valjean, Javert, Éponine, Gavroche, Enjolras … threw them into the most tragic of stories … and then added Marius Pontmercy, just to drive me crazy. I like to think of this book as vengeance for years of wanting to strangle Marius (how can anyone be so useless?)—and because ÉPONINE DESERVED SO MUCH MORE!