Paris prides itself on their adaptation to electric lights, but the Louvre Museum looks like something from a medieval painting tonight. The steps are lined with torches that look like person-sized golden goblets. The flames flicker against the pale stone of the building and in the eyes of the upper echelons of Parisian society.

Maxine looks at home among them in her midnight-blue House of Worth gown, but I know her well enough to know, like all of us tonight, she’s wearing a carefully crafted disguise.

The beads of my earrings clink in my ear with each step up, like sleigh bells or prisoner’s chains.

“Ready?” Lena asks. Her dark hair is wound on top of her head tonight, a coronet of emeralds set against it, matching the earrings.

“The answer has to be yes, doesn’t it?”

“We’ve planned for this.”

But not enough.

We don’t have enough information about the key, the veil, or museum security to give me any real confidence we’ll be able to pull it off.

But I remember the dead boy in the catacombs, and I know I have no other choice but to try. Every day the veil is still open means another person potentially lost.

I wish desperately we could just tell the Sons and my father what is going on and ask for their help. We know the location of the veil and they have the key, but if they have the key and know about the murders, I fear they could be a part of it. I won’t risk them taking the key to somewhere we can’t get it. We can’t tip our hands this early lest we be outplayed.

And there is the tiniest, weakest part of me that fears what they’d do to Finn. Relying on them for help almost certainly means turning him over.

The bells of the church down the street begin to peal the moment our heels hit the stone steps.

They clang, one after the other, echoing off the night nine times. Each hit of the bells reverberates off the bones of my rib cage, and I know in my bones we have a long night ahead of us.

The boys meet us at the base of the stairs standing close together like real friends. I’m probably the only one who notices the way Oliver’s hands are balled into fists inside the silk-lined pockets of his tuxedo pants. I can’t quite hear them from this distance, but Finn has said something to make Pascal laugh. Oliver glares down at him and Pascal’s grin falls. Finn shrugs, undeterred.

We reach them and Oliver threads his arm through mine, the picture of a respectable escort. Lena takes Pascal’s arm with a grimace. Finn attempts to take Maxine’s hand in his but earns himself a sharp jab to the ribs.

“That’ll bruise,” he hisses.

“Good.” Maxine smiles.