There’s a strange steely light to St. Juste’s eyes as he answers, his jaw set in a rigid line.

“I know,” he says.

The guard sniffs, unsure how to interpret this but knowing they have a job to do.

“I think I’d rather be a prisoner of the Châtelet than be called by the name St. Juste in this city,” the guard says, shaking his head as his colleagues drag St. Juste away.

As he passes, St. Juste raises his head to the darkness where I have disappeared. He can’t see me, I’m sure of it, and yet I feel the burning of his eyes upon my skin. I swallow down guilt. They won’t keep him, not once they realize he’s not actually an escaped prisoner. At worst, they will rough him up to get out their frustrations, which is better than ending up in the Ghosts’ pot. He should really be thanking me.

I keep moving and pretend it doesn’t bother me at all, that I can’t feel the heat of his glare on me as I let myself down under the shadows of the bridge. The Ghosts and Ettie are waiting for me. We climb into the entrance to the catacombs, drag the metal grate behind us, and flee down the tunnels, hoping desperately that everything has gone according to plan.

When I hobble into the Halls of the Dead, Loup’s first words are a gracious suggestion that I clean myself. When a Ghost tells you to bathe, you know you must smell bad. Gavroche leads me to a sulfurous pool of steaming water. Ettie sits by my side and informs me that this is Orso’s favorite pool, a fact I wish I didn’t know.

I’m freshly dry, with tight, clean skin, and I’m wearing the dusty gray cloak of a Ghost, when the Ghosts erupt in loud cries. I run to the Halls of the Dead, knife in hand and Ettie trailing behind me, in time to witness Orso’s entrance on horseback, like a great hero of legend, amid hysterical cheers from the Ghosts, who weep and wail with delight, throwing themselves at him and greatly frightening his stolen mount.

Orso is enveloped in the guard uniform, a scarf at his neck swallowing his face and his hat pulled down low over his brow. He leaps from his horse and is immediately engulfed by a wave of gray figures, some at his feet, others pulling at his arm or face. He laughs and looks around; spotting me, he gives a roar.

“My children, behold: my savior.” He inclines his head at me. I frown and back away as the Ghosts swarm me, batting them away ineffectually. They touch my face with dusty fingertips, whispering and moaning their thanks. It takes another roared order from Orso for them to unhand me, and Ettie stifles a giggle at my expense.

I straighten my robe and turn to Orso. “Monseigneur.” I bow. Beside me, Ettie does the same. She’s getting the hang of this.