Ettie is wide-eyed as she inspects the paintings hung on the walls. On the left is a smudged mural of a skeleton dancing with a beautiful young woman: the oldest existing depiction of the danse macabre. On the right is a cluster of portraits: gentlemen and women of varying ethnicities, all dressed in fine black velvet, each holding a goblet filled with what looks like red wine but is actually blood. Rumor has it the portraits are painted in blood too. Each figure either holds a dagger or has a snake wound around their free arm to show which of the two houses of the Guild they belong to: Poisons or Knives.

“Who are they?” Ettie whispers.

“The Lords of this Guild.”

The last portrait depicts a slight woman holding a dagger to show she’s of the House of Knives.

There’s a breeze.

The hair on the back of my neck rises, and every nerve in me screams danger.

“Can I help you?” asks a voice like a dagger point.

Ettie leaps in surprise. Out of nowhere a tall, thin young man has appeared beside us. His hair is black and barely curls. His skin is tanned, showing his Maghreb heritage. He’s dressed from head to toe in varying shades of almost-black. He looks at us with dark, expressionless eyes.

He is Montparnasse of the House of Knives, Master of the Assassins Guild. Children of the Miracle Court are respected for the threat their Guild poses. Montparnasse is one of the highest-ranked Masters of the most dangerous Guild of all.

“Bonjour,” Ettie says politely.

Horrifyingly, slowly, I become aware that the space around us is full of people. An ebony-skinned young man and a Corsican with an eye patch stand on either side of us, watching.

“Master of Knives.” I try to keep the tremor out of my voice. “Nous sommes d’un sang.” We are of one blood. I give the slightest of bows while keeping my eyes firmly on him.

He tilts his head and looks me over, and in a blur, he is inches from me. He raises a hand and I incline my head, a sign of submission, offering my neck for slitting if he sees fit.

Something cold and sharp touches my skin like a whisper, brushing my hair behind my ear, to reveal my diamond tattoo, the mark of my Guild.

Montparnasse is so close I am sure he can taste my fear. I try hard not to shake as he looks at me, close as a lover. I try very hard not to think about the fact that he smells of steel, salt, bone, and blood.

“Thieves Guild,” he whispers, like a caress on my skin.

Do I imagine the tiniest glimmer of surprise in his voice?

Then we’re grabbed from behind, dark sacks thrown over our heads. Ettie cries out through the rough cloth. This is bad. I was mad to have come. No one walks into the Assassins Guild and leaves alive.