“I am not ashamed of my kin,” St. Juste says. “I was in the womb when my uncle tried to change the world. I was brought up under my mother’s name, and so I lived, but what kind of living is it when gangs of brutes set upon children? When little girls are so scared they must hide what they are under layers of shapeless cloth?”

I stare at him. “You’re mad,” I say.

“Perhaps, for only the mad would see the endless darkness, the great evil that reigns around us, and stand against it.”

“They’re going to kill you.”

“Probably,” St. Juste says with a grim smile. “But by all hells, I’ll set this city on fire and take as many of them down with me as I can.” His eyes gleam with a passion I’ve never seen before. It’s both frightening and mesmerizing. Here is a boy who is marching toward his death, and he is delighting in it.

“They’ll hang him from Montfaucon for sure, and us alongside him,” Grantaire says so mournfully that I am released from the spell St. Juste’s words have cast over me. “But we are all his lackeys, for there is a truth in what he says. This city is a broken thing, and the world itself is wrong, and we cannot sit by and do nothing about it.”

“Falling over in taverns is not doing something about it,” St. Juste retorts sharply.

Grantaire smiles at that. “I drink to you, Son of Rebellion, Oppressive Eagle of Judgment.” He raises his flask and salutes his friend before downing its contents.

As he swallows with a heavy hiccup, a sharp cry rends the night. It is the call of Aves, the Elanion; Femi.

“What on earth is that?” Grantaire asks.

“It sounds like some sort of hawk,” offers St. Juste.

“What kind of devil bird preys at this hour?”

Suddenly there is a tinkle of breaking glass, and the solitary streetlamp goes out. I cannot help but grin in the darkness. “Sirs, I will take my leave of you, and am mindful of the debt I owe you. It would be wise to leave before the Fleshers return. They will no doubt be armed this time.”

In the sudden darkness they are half-blind, so they barely see me slide past them and clamber up the wall of a nearby building.

“Wait!” Grantaire shouts, but I ignore them. I’m not afraid they’ll shoot me, because, unlike me, they are not accustomed to darkness. Well, that and I’ve stolen their pistols.

“Well, that was fairly rude. We did save her life,” comes Grantaire’s voice as I climb higher and higher, ignoring the pain in my side. “Then again,” he continues, “I can’t blame her for fleeing. You probably drove her away with your weary justice speech.”

“I am going to let you find your own way home if you don’t shut up, Grantaire,” St. Juste’s voice says clearly.

“Hold on a minute … Where’s my gun?”