“Bread …,” I say as it dawns on me what the Dead Lord is saying. I must find a way to feed the entire Miracle Court. Dread fills the pit of my stomach.

There’s only one place in the city where there’s always bread, even during a famine. Bread enough to save Ettie, to save us all, though no Thief of the Miracle Court would dare steal from there: the Palace of the Tuileries, nest of viperous, lawless nobility, and home to the king and queen of France.

17

The Pont Neuf

There are several ways to get into the Tuileries, the most heavily guarded building in the city. The last time I slipped into the palace, I was smaller and more desperate—and unencumbered by Ettie, who is useless at most things that require any sort of stealth. But I can’t risk leaving her behind. It has been two days, and the Tiger will surely have heard that his plan to kidnap her failed. Ysengrim knows what he might do next.

Ettie and I make our way to the Faubourg Saint-Germain. He is there, as I knew he would be, sitting among the bodies of the dead, for the dying are everywhere.

“Nina!” Ettie says in a weary voice. “Isn’t that St. Juste? He is so beautiful.” Her deliriousness is clearly unhinging her brain.

St. Juste looks up at me and frowns.

I’ve often watched him from the shadows. Not—despite what Ettie thinks—because he’s handsome, nor because he’s good at giving rousing speeches, which he is. But because my debt to him weighs heavily on my shoulders. I owe him a blood debt, which I’ve yet to repay.

Trying hard not to blush, I sit Ettie down in a spot where I can watch her. She winks at me and shoos me toward him.

Several of St. Juste’s student cronies are milling around. A lot of them are crying.

Beside him, a young man with sandy hair and large round spectacles is drawing blood from a corpse with a wicked-looking needle.

“Stealing from the dead?” I ask.

The young man with the needle looks up at me, his face lined with tiredness.

“Taking samples,” he says.

“Feuilly is studying medicine. He will analyze the blood and look for any abnormalities,” St. Juste explains in a flat voice.

“What kind of abnormalities?”

“The kind caused by a water supply contaminated with waterborne disease,” says Feuilly, carefully wrapping the chamber of the syringe in cloth and leather.

“Death in the water,” slurs Grantaire, the drunkard who was with St. Juste the night they chased off the Fleshers. He is propped up against a wall nearby, watching the proceedings with an air of gravity. “I told you this when the bodies starting piling up,” he adds, “and you called me a drunk, St. Juste. Well, now you know. The only reason I drink spirits is to avoid poisoning.” He winks at me, taking a swig from his ever-present hip flask.

“Grantaire, it is not yet midday; can you not remain sober for even one morning?” St. Juste snaps.