The room is the size of Thénardier’s entire inn, and of all the rooms in all the fine homes I’ve broken into, this one seems the most weighed down with an oppression of gilt. It frames every door and window, every corner, and marks the decor throughout, from an ornate clock to the chandelier to the candlesticks. Everything is gold. And what’s not gold is silk: patterned curtains; hand-painted wallpaper, cushion covers, and bed linens. Even the draperies that fall from the gaping mouth of the bed canopy are silks, heavy with tassels, and topped with gilt carvings of frolicking animals.

What’s not silk is covered in flowers. It looks as if a flower girl has gone mad and strewn her posies over every available surface. There are roses painted on the ceiling, delicate Qing gardens trailing along the walls, lilies and carnations woven into the impressive pastel Ottoman rug.

There is a click behind us: they’ve locked us in, which doesn’t faze me at all, since I’ve never met a lock I couldn’t pick.

Next to the obscenely large bed, almost made minute by a mountain of fluffy pillows, is a table bearing a platter of cold meats, sliced fruit, and cheeses. My stomach growls, and I go to inspect the offerings: thick slabs of pressed beef tongue, honeyed ham, and wafer-thin cured meats; a hard yellow Comté, a soft, peach-rinded Reblochon, a white-dusted Tomme de Savoie; thin slices of golden pears.

I pick up a piece of Comté and sniff it.

“It’s fine,” Ettie says, and I can hear her stomach growling.

I look at her reproachfully. I’ve told her many times not to eat or drink things offered unless you trust the giver. And sometimes not even then.

“Oh, just eat something, Nina.” She passes me a plate.

Giving her a look of condescension, I choose a single slice of pear and take a tiny bite. It melts in my mouth, all sweetness and juice. I swallow carefully and wait to see if I feel any side effects.

Ettie laughs. “Not everyone is trying to poison us.”

“That’s what you think,” I say darkly, deciding it’s probably safe to wolf down another piece of the pear.

“Isn’t it delightful to be so clean?”

I frown. Since I smell like I’ve been attacked by a lavender rosebush, I refuse to agree.

When my stomach is full, I pick through the leftovers and secrete some in the drawer of the bedside table.

“Why are you doing that?” Ettie asks.

“So we have more for later. Nobles always throw away leftovers.”

“They throw away food?” She looks affronted.

“Yes.” I stretch my body out on the bed beside her. I lay my head on the mountain of pillows and tell her every tale I know about the nobility: of la Reine des Gâteaux, who told her people to eat cake in the middle of a famine; of leprous King Louis XV, who thought his sickness could be cured by bathing in the blood of innocents and had his men steal children from the city streets until riots broke out in protest.