The Ghosts are like a swarm: you can’t make out where they start or end. The gray shapes morph and move in the dim light until through them a figure seems to rise from the ground itself. A thin boy, he is all pale skin and gray rags, his hair white, and in the middle of his face, where his nose should be, is a hole. I grip Ettie so she doesn’t say anything. She remains admirably silent.

The thin boy bows low. I follow suit, dragging Ettie down with me.

“And what do you want with our Father, Thiefling?” The noseless Ghost’s eyes are sharp with accusation.

“Bonne chasse, Master Loup. We’ve come to beg your mercy.”

Loup looks at us, frowning. “Bonne chasse … Speak then, quickly, or we’ll add you to the pot with the others.”

The pot! The pot! comes the whispering cry.

I take only the briefest moment to wonder what others have been added to the pot; Ghosts are mysterious at the best of times, and their words are as garbled as a sphinx’s riddle.

“I’ve business with the Dead Lord.”

“You may speak your business.”

“No,” I say firmly. “I was sent by Lady Corday. I have matters to discuss with Lord Orso alone,” I add, twisting the truth.

Loup crosses his arms. “Then we must await his return.” The conversation is over. He turns his back on us, his torn cloak swishing as he goes.

“And when will he return?”

Loup pauses but doesn’t answer. I have the unsettling feeling that I’m seeing only part of a puzzle. First with the Assassins, and now here among the Ghosts.

The pot! The pot! Feed them to the pot! his brethren begin to chant again.

Loup sighs, and nods, and a hundred gray hands rise to grab us. We are pushed and pulled by the living wall of hands and feet and gray faces, all snapping teeth and voices whispering over and over.

“Wait! Wait! Master of Ghosts! What is this?”

“Nina, they’re not actually going to eat us, are they?” Ettie shrieks beside me.

I decide that avoiding the question is the best course of action at the moment.

We are brought to another large cavern, so hot the thick air hits us in waves. At the room’s center is a giant cauldron, big enough to hold a man. At its base roars a giant fire, stoked by Ghosts on every side.

“The pot is unusually full. I am not sure I can fit you in at the moment,” Loup says mournfully. He points a finger toward someone in a corner of the cavern. “He will be going first. You will be after him.”

I blink. The heat is making the world shimmer and move. I see a tousle-haired blond boy in a dark red coat, trussed like a chicken. He sees me, and though it’s been several years, I know who he is: the beautiful son of the rebellion who saved me from the Guild of Flesh. St. Juste. He must recognize me, too, because the look he gives me is clear enough. For someone so used to giving orders, St. Juste doesn’t need words to make his meaning clear.