Orso steps with us out of the darkness and starts the long procession to the stage. I swallow hard. It’s against the Law to address a Lord at the high table without invitation. Following Orso like his shadow, I feel the weight of what we’re doing.

Conversations come to a stop. Orso’s name is spoken and then hushed. People crane their necks to see my face or Ettie’s, but we keep going, our heads held high, a sea of Ghosts behind us.

The Lords at the table are talking to each other. Lady Corday looks up first. Somewhere behind her is the shadow of Montparnasse.

Tomasis’s sharp eyes spot me, and he raises his eyebrows. Doubtless Thénardier is lurking nearby.

And seated right in the middle of the table is the Tiger. All the hairs on the back of my neck go up, and my fingers curl into fists.

Orso has reached the stage and climbs the steps with us trailing behind him. Gavroche has appeared beside Ettie and is clinging to her gray robes, half hiding her.

“Nous sommes d’un sang,” Orso says with a reverential bow of his head. Then he raises his hands in greeting. “Good hunting, my Lords.” Orso is the keeper of knowledge for the Miracle Court, the teacher of the Law. When he speaks, everyone listens.

The Lords bow their heads in recognition, murmuring their answered greeting. All save the Tiger. His mouth is closed in a tight line, and his yellow eyes don’t leave Orso’s face.

“I see you’ve started without me,” Orso says as he takes his seat. “What a pity. It’s almost as if you thought I wouldn’t be present.”

Ocan Maloni, Lord of the Guild of Chance, speaks up. “My Lord Orso, we heard you had disappeared and no one knew where you were.”

“We heard you were never coming back,” says Rime Temam, Lord of the Guild of Mercenaries, glancing sidelong at the Tiger.

“I wonder where you heard such vicious rumors.” Orso’s chin dips.

“How did you get out?” the Tiger asks bluntly, betraying that he knows where the Dead Lord was.

Orso smiles. “My dear Kaplan, I’m the Father of Ghosts. I’m not like the mortals of flesh and blood. There’s nowhere that can hold me.”

“You lie like Ysengrim.” The Tiger spits on the floor.

“And yet here I stand.” Though Orso is smiling, his eyes are as hard as nails. “And while we’re on the subject of my absence: Do you know, Kaplan, that my last memory before I was, er, misplaced is of five men ambushing me, two of whom bore marks of the Guild of Flesh?”

“You accuse me of having a hand in your imprisonment?”

“I tell you only what I saw. Do you doubt the word of a Lord?” Orso’s voice is like steel.

The Tiger grimaces. He crosses his arms and gives a short whistle. His Master appears at his shoulder. Lenoir sees out of only one eye: when he took the mark of his Guild, a single blow from the tail of the Tiger’s cat-o’-nine-tails struck his face. The Tiger murmurs something in Lenoir’s ear, and he nods, rushes off. Seconds later, two burly Fleshers are brought forward.