“What happened to them?”

“Their Father.”

There’s a long and horrified silence as Ettie takes this in. But it’s the truth of it. The city weeps tears of silver coins to the unfortunate. So the Dead Lord occasionally takes a hand, or a pair of eyes to encourage the silver. That’s how he loves his children.

I lean over to whisper in Ettie’s ear, trying to distract her from the horrors.

“Do you know why they’re gray? They sit so long in one place begging that the dust from the carriages and street becomes part of them.”

Like the smell. It wasn’t so noticeable when there were only a handful of them, but now, as the bodies press into us, it’s overwhelming. Sweet, sour, stale.

“What’s that?”

I narrow my eyes to make out what she’s seeing. The gray road ends, but the Ghosts still move forward.

Overhead is a large barrier. One of the Portes de Paris, the sixty-two gates in the wall that imprisons the city. Its name carved into the ancient stone.

La Barrière d’Enfer. The Hell Gate.

And beyond it, only darkness. The Ghosts are disappearing into it. The closer we get to the gaping hole, the more it grows. Holding hands, we let the darkness swallow us.

We’re in a tunnel of some sort. In the distance, a single flaming sconce burns over an archway. The light illuminates the walls, which appear to be decorated with odd, detailed patterns carved in white stone.

“Nina!” Ettie gasps, her hands flying to her mouth.

I look closely. The delicate patterns of animals and flowers framing the archway are not carvings; instead, they’re made of hundreds of human bones intricately fitted together, and rows of skulls above them.

Carved into the bones, an inscription over the archway reads: L’empire de la mort—the empire of the dead.

Ettie shakes beside me.

The small boy looks at her. He points beyond the archway into the darkness.

“It’s all right,” I whisper as we get dragged with the Ghosts deep into the catacombs.

The tunnel finally widens into a giant cave, ten times the size of the Shining Hall. The walls are lined from floor to ceiling with bones. The cave is lit by sconces made from the bones of human hands, the flame emerging from wicks fitted into palms, making the light jump and casting shadows everywhere.

The Ghosts settle down, sitting on the floor or perching in the many other tunnel entrances riddling the cavern. Their numbers must be in the hundreds. Their whispery, childlike voices echo around the cave.

Ettie and I stand together. The boy still holds on to her hand and looks around.

“Who are you?” comes a voice, loud and clear.

The Ghosts begin to murmur again, taking up the question.

Who are they? Who are you—

“And what are you doing among the dead?”

—Among the dead. What are they doing?

“We’re looking for the Dead Lord.” I try to sound brave.

Their whispers echo my words.