The ball is a snarling chaos of gold, crystal, and glass. The candlelight from a hundred chandeliers shimmers and bounces off mirrored walls. The air is thick, heaving with the heat of so many bodies made bold by drink, voices merging into a blur of shrieks and cries. Their faces are terrible painted masks of white, their lips blood-red with rouge, and they’re unable to hide the fever that burns within them: a strange, violent madness laced up with linen stays and clothed in velvet and silk.

“This is horrible,” Ettie says finally.

But for me it’s a good chaos, the kind that will let me slip away to explore the palace.

“I don’t much enjoy balls,” the prince admits, appearing at our side and ruining all my plans. “But now that you’re here, it will be much better,” he adds, evidently cheered at the thought.

The prince points out several persons of interest, which bores me to tears, until I spot the flash of bright blue, brass, and red. The inspector is stationed at one corner of the room, looking grim. I spot three other Sûreté officers standing conspicuously in various alcoves.

“We could dance,” the prince suggests, eyeing me hopefully.

There’s loud music coming from one end of the ballroom. It fights against the nobles’ shrill voices.

Ettie laughs. “We don’t know how to dance,” she says, watching the couples gliding around the floor in perfect time. “Not like that.”

“No one taught you to dance?” The prince looks at me.

I lift my chin defiantly. Gentleman George hasn’t yet taught me all the courtly dances.

“I had other things to learn, Your Worshipfulness,” I answer.

He smiles and bows. “Mademoiselle,” he says to me sotto voce. “Will you give me the honor of this waltz?”

I frown. “She just told you we don’t know how.”

He reaches out his hand. “Then let me teach you.”

I could refuse him; I’ll embarrass myself if I accept. What do I know but the wild hyène dances of the Miracle Court?

Ettie nudges me from behind, trying to get me to accept. She likes the prince. She likes that the prince likes me.

I sigh and take his hand. His face lights up, and I feel a small thrill. He’s standing there like an idiot, not letting go, not leading me anywhere.

“Aren’t we going to dance?”

“Yes,” he answers, clutching my fingers like they’re jewels. “But first I must celebrate this hard-won victory.”

The dauphin stops a servant. “Champagne,” he tells us as the servant passes us each a glass of sparkling pink liquid.

I look at the glass, admiring the tiny bubbles in it. As I lift it to my lips, my ears suddenly prick up, making out a whistle so low it’s nigh impossible to hear through the din. The hair on the back of my neck rises as I identify it; it’s a rare call, one I was taught but have never heard used: the call of the Assassins Guild.