“Sister,” he says, in a whisper so light it’s as if he did not speak. He tilts his head, exposing his neck. In the darkness, I cannot make out a tattoo, and I dare not light a match here, but if this is indeed a child of the Miracle Court rotting away in these cells, at least I can inform his Guild that he is alive. I reach out, my pulse racing, and gently touch my fingertips to the skin behind his ear, where I feel it.

It is the shape of an X, the mark of the Guild of Letters—the guild of auditors, lawyers, extortionists, forgers, and moneylenders. The guardians of secrets and information, whose spies are said to have infiltrated every position of power in France and abroad.

“Sister, thou art a Cat?” the man whispers.

I nod, swallowing.

“I don’t know how you are aiming to escape, but I can tell you that whatever you have planned won’t work.” He wrinkles his nose. “Although apparently you got in through the privy? Clever. He won’t fit out that way, though.” He motions at Orso, who has silently joined me. “And even if you got out, there are the gendarmes, and among them the Sûreté—”

“I have procured a gendarme’s uniform for Lord Orso,” I interrupt. I grabbed it from the cloakroom of the gendarmerie before I broke in to the Châtelet.

The prisoner pauses, bows his head at Orso in respect. Orso, for his part, eyes the prisoner with curiosity.

“They know the names and faces of every guard,” the prisoner continues. “The number of them and the number of prisoners. The roaches can’t sneeze here without someone noticing.” He rubs a large hand down the side of his face. His eyes narrow cunningly. “But if you get me out of this cell, I’ll show you how all three of us can walk out of here.”

I don’t have time for this. Another rescue, another body, another opportunity for things to go wrong. But then again, he is a son of the Guild of Letters, trained in the art of espionage and subterfuge. If anyone knows how to escape a prison such as the Châtelet, he probably does. Of course, trusting him could be unwise. He is a criminal, after all, locked up for some reason I can only guess. But I have to save the Dead Lord, and we must choose our allies wisely in times of great trial. That, and I’d be a fool to miss the opportunity for the Guild of Letters to owe me a debt for freeing one of their sons.

I sigh and take out my lock-picks.

On the prisoner’s instruction, I open the locks of every cell in la Gourdaine, moving like a whisper between the iron cages; the inmates don’t even wake as I do my work. The Dead Lord, dressed in the garb of a guard, silently watches me. If something goes wrong, it was my decision to set this son of the Guild of Letters free. The giant, on his release, towered over me like a threat, murmured his quick instructions, told me he would return, and then disappeared, moving surprisingly quietly for a man of his size. A few thumps later he is back, carrying the body of a dead—no, just unconscious—guard. He strips him of his uniform, throws him into the cell, and swaps clothes with him. Some of the prisoners start to awaken. It is a testament to how long they have been there that they simply stare at me without making a sound. They are dumbfounded at my presence.