Men, women, and children of differing ethnicities and backgrounds lie equal on the tables of the city morgue. Some bodies are whole: pale, terrible, eyes wide and staring. Others come up swollen from the Seine, with cut throats or missing limbs. The ones I hate seeing the most are the infants, little shrunken figures of skin and bone. The Lookers buy packets of peanuts and stand at the window asking What could have happened to that pour soul? in horrified delight. The people of Paris come to look at their dead for the price of a few sous.

“I want the freshest one,” I say into the darkness, and around me the Ghosts whirl into action.

11

The Dead Lord

The tower of the Châtelet looms above me, reminding me there’s no way to breach it. I flex my fingers, which I’ve wrapped in rags, and steady myself. I’m the Black Cat of the Thieves Guild, and I will do what I always do: I’m going to steal something. Fearful excitement ripples up my spine as I move between the shadows, noting the guards at the tower’s summit. There’s a building constructed of wood; it looks like it was added as an afterthought. It’s tall, rising to the platform where the guards patrol every quarter of an hour.

It has a crude door, rough-hewn and without a lock. It’s not guarded, and for good reason: only a madman would try entering the Châtelet this way. Most madmen wouldn’t fit. I lift the metal latch and pull Ettie’s scarf over my nose, tightening it behind my head as if it’ll make a difference. I don’t think she’d have lent it to me if she had known where I was going. My insides are churning, as they do each time, no matter how many jobs I do. It’s always the same.

Everyone is afraid, Azelma used to say.

I pull open the door, and the smells assail me. My eyes burn with tears. The entire room is covered with mountainous piles of human excrement. Even in the cold, a storm of flies is swarming overhead with frenzied buzzing. Welcome to the cesspit of le Grand Châtelet.

I take a breath and go in, closing the door behind me and giving my eyes time to adjust to the darkness. The only light shines from a small, round opening high above my head. I reach into my coat and take out my claws—hooks I’ve spent hours honing. Sharp ends and blunt grips. I attach one to the cap of each boot and wind the others around my gloves, fastening them tight. Then I turn to the wooden wall, and lifting my leg high, I kick with all my strength. The hook catches fast in the wood; I step up, testing to see if it will carry my full weight. It holds. I drive the other hook in, then each of my clawed hands, one at a time, and so I rise. I climb to the top of the building slowly, in half an hour, to avoid any noise. At the top I embed my hooks in the ceiling and hang there. The hole in front of me is too small for any grown man to fit through. Thanks to a lifetime of malnourishment, I’m just the right size. I hook my gloved hands around the rim and climb through into the garderobe. It’s a small room containing only a bench to relieve oneself through. I head to the door and open it an inch. My observations were correct: the guards are at the far end of the tower, with their backs to me. I look around. A metal door leads into the tower. I rush to it, pull it open, and slip into the prison.