LeBlanc smiled, took one of Sophia’s red-tipped feathers, and stuck it securely into her tangled hair, patting her cheek when he was done. Then she was pulled up and into the haularound, her bound hands tied tight to the post. She looked back over her shoulder, where Tom was being tied to the other post, closest to the driver. She hadn’t yet seen him in such strong light. He looked terrible. Gaunt, dirty, bloody, and exhausted. But he smiled at her, even though his lips were cracked, and it made her stand straighter.

“The mob may do as they like,” LeBlanc was instructing their escort, “but they may not remove the prisoners or …”

“Give my brother water,” Sophia said. “Or he might not be able to stand.”

LeBlanc went on. “… or we will remove them to the Tombs. Allow no one to impede your progress through the streets. Only the driver knows the route …”

“And what will Allemande say if he can’t walk to the scaffold?” Sophia shouted.

LeBlanc turned his pale eyes on her, and then he smiled. Something about that smile made Sophia wish she’d never drawn his gaze. “There is no Allemande,” LeBlanc said. He turned back to the gendarmes. “Shoot anyone who attempts to deny the will of Fate.”

The haularound started forward with a jerk.

The lift jerked, and Spear paced inside it, waiting through the long, slow journey down the building and into the cliff. He’d used Renaud’s keys to unlock LeBlanc’s office, finding nothing but the dead, contorted body of Premier Allemande lying on a sofa, then used the same keys to open LeBlanc’s private lift. He was so angry. Angry to be back here. Angry that he’d thought they were safe when they weren’t. Angry that he had blood on his hands. Why had everything in his life gone wrong since he’d heard the name Hasard?

When the lift finally reached bottom, he used the smallest key on the empty rivet hole to open the false back, just the way Renaud had described, unlocked the second false door, snagged the lantern from the lift, and hurried down the dust-thick stone steps into the cavern of bones. He took one moment to stare, and then he yelled, “Sophie! Tom!”

He would unset that firelighter again if he could. But he would get Sophie and Tom first this time. And if the rest of the world exploded, then it exploded.

René looked up at the sagging brick structure that covered the entrance to the Tombs. He didn’t really care if it exploded. He cared for nothing but getting Sophia out. The window he’d climbed through before had been boarded, guards now in front of it. And he could not get in the main door, either, no matter what story he told. No one without black robes and a white streak in his hair was coming in, not without a fight.

But it wasn’t him those gendarmes needed to be worrying about, René thought. There was something moving through the mob, a subtle shift in current after the night’s violence, an increasing hostility to the uniforms of the city. Perhaps his uncles had chosen the wrong disguises. Benoit had assured him again and again that when Sophia and Tom came out through that door, there would be enough gendarmes that weren’t really gendarmes gathered and ready to take them. If Allemande’s control was developing fault lines, would the mob help, or hinder them?

He looked up to the edge of the cliffs, where LeBlanc’s office building perched, and where he knew there was a lift. The moon was gone, the sky just beginning to pale in the northeast. He wondered if he had time to climb.

Spear wondered if he should try to climb the stacks of bones and see the layout of the paths from above. Probably his light wasn’t bright enough even if he could. He kicked the pyramid of skulls in front of him, putting his foot through one. He was lost, and furious, and beginning to be afraid that Sophia and Tom were not even in this godforsaken grave. He studied the hole he had made in the skull, fourth one from the corner, near the floor, and took off at a run down the next narrow path.

Sophia wondered if she would have time to climb the fencing, slip her bonds over the top of the post, and perhaps set fire to the haularound before they could catch her. But her hands would still be tied, and there would still be Tom. So she looked straight ahead, ignoring the shouts and stares, and the people standing along the streets and in the doorways of their shanties. News in the Lower City traveled much faster than a haularound, and she could see the crowds gathering farther down the road.

There had been fighting here. Smoldering wood and rubble, and doorways with something black nailed on, announcing a death. And the sign of the red feather. And now that she was listening, some of the shouts were not the mockery she had expected. “Red Rook” came at her from all sides, but they were shouts of encouragement, and there were men and women who stood in respectful silence as the haularound passed. And then she heard her name.

“Sophie!” She turned her head, scanning the crowd until she saw a young, bearded man with his hair cropped short. “Sophie!”

“Justin!” Tom called.

Sophia felt a smile break over her face. She leaned as close to the edge of her rolling wooden prison as the ropes would allow. It was Mémé Annette’s son. “Justin! How is Maggie?”

“Five children!” he said as the haularound passed, his face falling as they all three remembered they were not actually having a reunion.

“Tell her we love her!” Sophia called. “And the children!”

He nodded, and Sophia watched a small crowd form around him, asking questions and listening to his response. “Justin!” she yelled suddenly. “Can you get Tom water? Do you have a flask with you? Please!”

She watched Justin patting his shirt and pants, as if he might discover water, others around him doing the same. She wondered how many would remember Sophie and Tom from Blackpot Street, the children who spent their summers selling an old woman’s oatcakes and romping around in the mud and grime of a Lower City market, Tom’s hair tucked up in a cap.

She heard a thump behind her and turned her head to see a leather flask at Tom’s feet. He slid down the post and got his hands on it, the gendarmes around them seeming inclined to do nothing. She sighed in relief. So there was still goodness somewhere in the Lower City. It made her stand straighter as they drove the twisting streets, all the way to the turn into the prison yard.

There was a mob there the size of which she’d never seen. An ocean of bodies and faces packed into the square, the Razor rising up like an illuminated island of black and white flowers in its midst. She looked up at the sky. Surely they were early; there was only the barest lightening of the dark on the northeastern horizon. She met Tom’s eyes, and he shook his head. If there was anyone in that crowd who wanted to rescue them, she didn’t know how they could possibly do it. The numbers were unbelievable, overwhelming. She felt the loss of hope solidify, rock hard inside her. And then, as the people caught sight of them, one by one, the mob went silent.

Spear had gone silent, no more yelling. They weren’t there. There was no one there, nothing but death. He found the steps to lead him out of the cavern, ran straight through the lift and out into the prison. There was no one there, either, no guards. No Sophia. No Tom. Dread settled on him, like the bone dust that was covering his face. He turned right and dashed down the stairs and into the stinking tunnels, feet splashing in the quiet. Surely it couldn’t be dawn yet.