Around us the Ghosts are buzzing and bouncing with excitement, pulling at one another and cavorting like puppies.

“It is time we were off,” the Dead Lord says. “Are you ready, little ones?”

His children’s agreement echoes off the walls.

“Where are we going?” Ettie asks.

“To Court,” Orso says, and motions for us to walk beside him.

The Miracle Court gathers at unpredictable intervals. Summonses to the Court are whispered from the Messenger to the ear of each Guild Lord. They pass the call through the Masters to their children, and so the Wretched come.

The Dead look like a gray worm winding through the catacombs and up dark stairways to the street. Through the city we go, until we come to the ruins of a neighborhood so broken that even the poorest have long since fled. When the Ghosts go marching, the people of Paris know to close their windows and doors and not look out for fear of what might look back.

There are entrances all over the neighborhood. Through a hole in the wall, a broken doorway, the Wretched squeeze, climb, and clamber. The Cats dance on rooftops and swing from chimney to chimney on long ropes. The Assassins prefer to use windows, and therefore no one else does. Inside, the buildings are falling apart. Ettie watches her feet; the floorboards are rotten, and one false step could send her crashing to the story below. Orso, in front of us, moves like a spirit, gliding through the broken corridors of peeling paint.

“Welcome,” Orso whispers to Ettie at the threshold of a great room, “to the Court of Miracles.”

Tonight’s Court is held in an ancient theater long abandoned by Those Who Walk by Day. Its ruined elegance is lit by candlelight reflecting off a crystal chandelier. The Wretched pour in from every door, holding their candles aloft. The shining light is meant to remind the Court of the long darkness in which it was born.

The Court is a great rookery of crime, the haunt of Death Dealers, Thieves, Mercenaries, and Beggars, as well as a nest of immigrants: Lombard, Jew, Romani, Maghreb, Corsican, African, Qing, Edo, Mughal. We all come to the Miracle Court as equals. The Court recognizes no race, no religion, no marriage or tie of blood. The Wretched have only one Father, their Guild Lord; one family, their Guild; and one Law.

Tonight, the Wretched spill in, filling the hundreds of dusty seats that line the mezzanine and the galleries above. Music comes from the pit, where an out-of-tune piano is being played. There’s laughter, talking, murmuring, whispering.

The Ghosts enter last, slowly flooding the auditorium. The other Wretched pay them no heed as they begin their silent vigil. Orso grasps Ettie by the hand, and I watch her face as she takes in the stage, the backdrop a giant oil painting of wolves roaming an ancient forest, the set framed by dark velvet curtains.

On the stage, candelabras brighten a long table. Around it are nine seats, one for each of the Lords of the Court; eight are occupied. Standing at the edge of the stage are the Masters of the Guilds.