The inspector.

I don’t know if she recognizes Ettie from the night at the Châtelet, but she sees that we’re too close to the carriage. Frowning, she nudges her horse toward us.

Rennart’s balls!

Grabbing Ettie, I pull her back into the crowd, but the inspector keeps coming, eyes narrowing as she keeps us determinedly in her sights.

“Nina, what do we do?”

Then an explosion rocks the ground and everyone turns toward the back of the bridge in time to see a cloud of smoke rise. The crowd gives a gasp of delight. Someone is blowing something up! What grand entertainment! General Lamarque yells an order, and his men go careening, guns raised, toward the explosion. Over the sound of the crowd the shouting begins. It’s a blur of noise to start, but the tone is all that matters: voices raised in pure and utter outrage.

I grin. St. Juste decided to grant me this additional favor after all.

The soldiers can barely push through the trapped crowds as the invaders appear. A swarm of young men, wearing shining boots and tailored coats, carrying signs—and, to my horror, entirely unarmed—march red-faced and chanting toward the soldiers. At their head is St. Juste.

Lamarque notes their lack of arms and the seething crowd, and he shouts for his men to lower their weapons.

“We don’t need your penance!” St. Juste shouts at the procession. “Take the bread from the tables of the nobility and feed the people!”

The crowd cheers in response, though it’s not clear whom they’re cheering for.

Inspector Javert leaps off her horse and advances on us. I dare not back too much farther into the crowd; with the agitated soldiers, horses, students, and onlookers, there’s the very real threat of being trampled. Then, like a puppet on a string, the inspector jerks to a stop. The blood drains from her face; her mouth opens in surprise. I follow her gaze. There’s a man in the crowd staring at her, a broad-shouldered man with a brown velvet hat and a country coat of olive green. The son of the Guild of Letters whom I freed from the Châtelet and who warned me that Ettie was in danger.

“Valjean!” the inspector shouts as the man turns and flees. She springs into action, leaping into the crowd after him like a suicide into the Seine.

A Cat knows how to taste the air and feel the perfect moment to act. In a rush of movement, I grab Ettie, push back through the crowd, and launch myself at the carriage door. Flinging it open, I leap inside, a dagger in my hand, prepared to go face to face with the poor children chosen for l’Enlèvement. I land perfectly, and in a heartbeat I’m inches from the occupant’s face, the point of my dagger sticking into his throat.

Except that he is not a poor child. He is quite handsome, and drowning under such a vast amount of lace, silk, frills, and velvet that my horrified mind starts ringing every alarm bell it knows. This is not a commoner selected to take tea with the royals. Time slows down as I gaze into the exquisitely long-lashed eyes of a handsome brown-haired young man on whose lap I am almost sitting. I hear Ettie scramble into the carriage behind me. I hear her gasp. I catch the faintest whiff of chocolate and spice.