My eyes widen, and I see a dark face watching me from the other side of the hall.

Montparnasse.

I almost drop my glass, snatching my hand from the prince’s. He protests, but I ignore him. My eyes sweep the room.

A servant moving through the crowd catches my eye; he’s dressed as a waiter, but the points of his collar are starched exceedingly sharp and high. It is Col-Blanche, Master of the House of Poisons.

Two Assassins, here in the palace?

I swing around again. Scores of Assassins are here, carrying trays of champagne.

“Drink nothing!” I hiss urgently.

Ettie and the prince look at me.

“Stay with her,” I order the prince. “Don’t leave her alone for a second, and don’t eat or drink a thing, either of you!”

My stomach is tying itself in knots as I make my way through the crowd toward Montparnasse, their raucous laughter ringing in my ears like the bells of Saint-Sulpice, like some terrible nightmare I can’t escape.

When I get to where he was standing, no one is there. I poke my head through a frosted-glass door to the balcony and he grabs me, dragging me out into the night, crushing me against him with a finger to my lips, just as two Sûreté officers step into the exact spot I where was standing. The door is only open a crack, but we can hear their low conversation behind us.

“… deserve a demotion for your behavior yesterday, Inspector Javert.”

“Forgive me,” the inspector murmurs.

“You can’t lose your head each time you think you see Valjean.”

“I don’t think I saw him—he was there.” Through the crack in the door I can just see her turn her head slightly toward the man beside her. “In all the years I’ve worked for you, when have I ever been mistaken?” Her tone is reproachful. “Valjean is the key to the whole criminal underworld.”

The officer sighs. “There’s no proof that this underworld exists.”

She flinches. “How can you say that? You’ve seen the reports. They date back years—”

“Rumors and old wives’ tales. We’ve no solid evidence. And the fact remains that you had a duty to protect the procession, a duty you failed to attend to when you gave chase to a convict. The events on the bridge might have been disastrous. The dauphin was injured.”

An uncomfortable silence follows.

“It won’t happen again.”

“It had better not.” The man shakes his head, and they move away from the door, doing circuits of the room as they speak.

It’s begun to snow. The tiny flakes land on my skin like icy pinpricks.

Montparnasse is still holding on to the gauze of my dress, and I realize I can’t breathe. I’m not sure if it’s because of the inspector or the Assassins—or him.

“The prince was holding my hand because he was about to teach me to dance,” I say before I can stop myself.

His expression is unreadable.

“What are you doing here?” I snap, annoyed with myself for explaining the situation to him.