I raise my chin and sound a Master Call, a short, sharp whistle. Ettie turns upon hearing the noise on my lips.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“Calling the Dead.”

A shadow moves in the fog. I slip my dagger into my hand as I wait for the person to materialize; I find comfort in the weight of it in my palm.

The shadow has a name: it is Montparnasse, Master of Knives. I wonder what he is doing here. Is he here to protect us, or to do us harm?

More shadows shift. I blink several times. I see them before Ettie does: broken mountains of gray, hollow-eyed specters in ashen robes, their faces pale as death. Some are missing limbs or eyes; others have faces that are labyrinths of ancient wrinkles. These are the Dead Lord’s children. The Ghosts.

Montparnasse looks at me. “You found your Ghosts, so I suggest you run along unless you want the Hyènes to find you.”

I’ve no desire to encounter the Hyènes, the children of the Guild of Mercenaries, men and women paid to do violence.

I turn to say something, a small word of thanks, perhaps, for his not having murdered us. But there’s only an empty space where he was standing.

With Ettie holding tight to me, we move toward the ghostly figures.

“We’re looking for your Father,” I say.

“Father?” The whisper comes back to us as a question.

An ashen boy who can’t be older than five opens his mouth. “Do you know where he is?” he asks in the high, lost voice shared by all the Ghosts. I pause, surprised. The Dead Lord is Father of their Guild. Surely they know where he is.

“I think I might,” I say noncommittally. I don’t know, of course, but I’m not about to betray that fact, or they might lose interest in me … or worse.

A murmur goes through their ranks.

“Take them to Loup.”

“Yes, come,” says the boy. And where they were as still as statues, they’re suddenly in motion, pulling us along with them. The small one leads the way, without hesitation, with surprising speed.

As we go, more shadows join the troupe, till we’re walking surrounded by a gray wall of Ghosts.

Ettie looks at me, worried, as she should be. The Ghosts are among the most dangerous children of the Miracle Court, second only to the Assassins. Because there are so many of them.

“It’s all right,” I mouth at her.

But that’s also a lie.

The train of gray Ghosts walks together, pressing in from all sides in an odd, jostling wave. Ettie’s tense beside me. Her arm is linked with mine; we’d get carried away from one another otherwise.

“I thought you meant real ghosts,” she mutters, her tone deeply reproachful.

“People mostly ignore or look through them,” I explain, “so they call themselves Ghosts because they think they’re already dead.”

Ettie is staring at a girl with milky eyes and long gray hair hanging down her back. She’s blind. Beside her an older Ghost walks with a crutch; he’s missing a leg.