“Now!” she barks, and the men hurry away, disappearing inside the Châtelet.

“PRISONERS ESCAPING! PRISONERS ESCAPING!” screams a guard rushing toward them moments later as a frantic bell cleaves the night.

Javert swings sharply around. “Report!”

“Inspector Javert, the prisoners are loose inside the prison! We have been overwhelmed. It is only a matter of time—”

“Gendarmes! Prepare the horses. Not a single inmate is to make it past these gates.”

The gendarmes have barely had time to assemble, when a handful of blue-coated guards come running, fleeing from a swell of prisoners in rags, their eyes mad with hope.

The Châtelet spews forth so many prisoners that even the gendarmes on horseback have to hold tight, rocked by the wave of men flooding the courtyard, scaring the horses.

There’s the sound of gunshot and the acrid smell of grapeshot. The gendarmes have to choose whom to stop, and for each prisoner they manage to restrain, ten more go rushing past, threatening to trample them. Two of the horses buck and lash out, throwing their riders, then rush about in panicked circles. In the total chaos, the Ghosts and their corpse are forgotten. As instructed, they slink away into the night, taking Ettie with them. In the middle of the fray, I see two guards in blue uniforms halt the riderless horses and mount them. I know they are not the same guards who were thrown.

The prisoners have passed the gates, battering them down and flowing into the streets and alleyways. Javert screams at the top of her lungs for the gendarmes on horseback to go after them. They carefully back out of the swell and lead their horses after the prisoners … She has ordered them to go, and so they do—though two of them won’t stop riding till they’re far beyond her reach. And they’re not out of danger yet: there’s time enough for the gendarmes to realize that neither of those riders is one of their own. I fear for the Dead Lord and his new ally. I need to increase their chances of a smooth escape. I need to cause a distraction.

The night-soil cart, now loaded, starts to move toward the river. The workers will carry their fragrant cargo to a soil yard in the south, where they spread it out to dry with used hops from breweries before selling it as fertilizer to the farmers outside the city walls. I wait till the cart is on the bridge before I leap off, rolling as I hit the street. I duck down the alleyway where we left St. Juste and appear out of the darkness before him. Dagger out, arm raised, I register the widening of his eyes as, with a single arc of my blade, I sever the bonds at his hands and feet.

“I don’t have time for explanations. Just do what I say and we’ll all get out of this in one piece,” I order as I remove the gag from his mouth.