I raise my eyebrows at Orso.

“Or maim him,” I add.

“Or that.”

“Or pay the Hyènes to beat him, or the Assassins to kill him, or submit him to a Dead Trial.”

“Indeed!” says Orso. “You have my word that no harm shall come to him under my care. I have plans for him. We will have much use for him in the days to come.”

Under Orso’s lordship, the Ghosts have flourished and grown to the size of a small army. They say the Great Bear’s mind is always turning. Whatever plans he has for St. Juste, it is probably best that I keep well out of them. I have my own battles to fight.

“And our other new friend sent a message,” Orso adds under his breath.

I look up at him; he must mean the son of the Guild of Letters.

“He bade me carry it to you, as if I were the Messenger.”

I give a wry smile at the thought of Orso scrambling over the rooftops like Femi.

“He, too, took a bone oath, pierced his flesh before me, proclaiming that he is in your debt.” He looks at me unblinking, calculating. “It would seem we all are.”

I nod shortly, as if having Guild Lords and People of the Pen in my debt is an everyday occurrence and I expect no less. Orso seems to find this funny and laughs as he gathers his children around him like a king in his court. They flock to his side, pressing into him.

The Ghosts cry out enthusiastically to hear the tale of how he escaped. And Orso’s laughter rumbles through the caverns and echoes off the walls over his excitable children’s cries.

Every story I’ve ever heard was lifted from Orso’s mouth. It was from his lips that Femi heard the tales, and from the Messenger that they were whispered in Azelma’s ear so that she could weave them, a net in the darkness, around me, to keep me safe and warm on cold nights.

Orso’s ruined face splits into a wry smile.

“Il était une fois …”

When the last tale fades away, I see that Ettie looks stiff and pale. Loup notices and leads us to a side cavern, a small room with delicate frescoes of bone animals.

We collapse in a heap on the floor.

“Nina, what’s wrong with the Dead Lord?”

“A disease of the skin. It’s not contagious.”

She shivers violently, winding her fingers around the edge of her cloak; her eyes flit nervously to the ivory-encrusted walls. The bones were taken from the dead of the Cimetière des Innocents, where the ground swelled so full with bodies that they broke through into the cellars of houses, poisoning the air with fumes potent enough to kill.

“It’s been a long night,” I say wearily. “You need to sleep.”

“Yes,” she murmurs, curling against my back. Little Gavroche appears silently, as is his way, and sets himself down beside her, leans his head on her, knots his tiny hands in her cloak.