The pile of rags moves, stiffly at first, and the figure turns as if its untethered limbs are gathering themselves together. Hands take hold of the bars: the fingers ravaged, scaly. As it gets closer, his terrible features are illuminated in the matchlight: his face looks like it’s melting, the skin peeling and flaking in layers.

Orso, the Dead Lord, Father of the Ghosts of the Beggars Guild, keeper of histories, teller of tales.

“Monseigneur.” I half bow in the darkness in the way of the Wretched, my head tilted to expose the mark at my neck. “I’m the Black Cat of the Thieves Guild.”

“I remember.” His voice is hoarse, as if he hasn’t used it in a while. “The youngest Cat in the history of the Court. You knew the Law by heart.”

I also remember. It’s hard to forget the first time you look upon the ruined face of the Dead Lord. It takes everything in you not to shudder. But I knew the words by heart, and he could find no fault in my knowledge of the Law.

He pauses; then, in a measured voice, offers: “You’ve gone to a good deal of trouble to speak with me, child. As you can see, I’m at your leisure.”

I take a deep breath. “I have a friend,” I say. “I ask you to give her the mark of the Ghosts.”

He looks at me, considering. “And what is so wrong with your friend that you would break into this godforsaken place to ask me to take her?”

“The Tiger wants her.”

He seems to think about it. Then he laughs, which makes his face even more horrible to behold.

“And you alone are not afraid of the Tiger,” I continue.

“The Tiger doesn’t like to be crossed,” he says.

“Perhaps it’s time for a change?”

His withered fingers strangle the metal bars. “If you could get me out of this prison, I’d give you everything you ask, but you must know, little Cat: there’s no way for me to escape.”

“Escape, my Lord? I’m the Black Cat of the Thieves Guild.” I smile in the darkness. “I’m here to steal you.”

We move like the darkness itself, in the complete silence that only children of the Miracle Court have mastered. The prisoners on each floor hear nothing and see nothing, deep in their nightmare-laden sleep. When we make it to la Gourdaine, I hear a sound: the tiny squeak of a mouse. But it is the rhythm that makes me stop. The squeak comes once, twice, and a third time, in a pattern I know well. It is one of the hundreds of Master Calls. In the darkness, Orso stills, and just when I have convinced myself that I was mistaken, a whisper floats toward us on the darkness.

“Nous sommes d’un sang.”

We can’t afford delays, but Orso makes a gesture with his hand that I should investigate. I glide silently away from the stairs and into la Gourdaine. Cells line my path, and everyone sleeps. Except for a huge shadowy figure whose eyes glint at me through the bars. The man’s bearded face tells me he must have been imprisoned for at least a year. He holds his hands out to me, palms up, so that I see he bears no weapons, but the size of those hands makes me pause—they look strong enough to crush me, should I be so foolish as to go too close.