The Court of Miracles

by Kester Grant

  Ettie is one of them now.

  She is safe.

  Still, the Tiger’s face flashes through my mind, his ceaseless, roaming gaze determined and hungry.

  Within the Halls of the Dead he cannot touch her.

  She is safe.

  For now.

  I close my eyes. I don’t open them for days.

  THE TALE OF THE SIX LITTLE MICE

  FROM STORIES OF THE MIRACLE COURT, BY THE DEAD LORD

  Il était une fois…There was once a land so full to the brim with mice that they overflowed into every city and town.

  They were busy little mice, growing crops and building all the fine things in the city, from the shining roads to the great houses.

  At the heart of their country was a court of cats. Now, the cats were few in number, but they had the silkiest fur, and they walked with the most graceful step, and of course they knew they should be in charge of the whole land.

  So the cats took everything, leaving the mice with little, and sometimes nothing at all. For the land belonged to the cats. And the houses and roads that the mice built belonged to the cats. The cats even sent the mice into battle for them.

  The mice were hungry and poor. Their children died for want of bread, and although there was bread to be had, the cats had it all; they held great feasts at which they drank and ate until they could consume no more. They kept anything left over just in case they needed it later, and because they didn’t like to share.

  Now, there were six brave little mice that thought, Why do our children starve when there’s food we’ve grown with our own hands? They spoke to one another first, and then to other mice. They spoke the truth about what is good, what is right, and what is just. And far and wide across the land, the mice listened. And those that listened asked them to go reason with the cats for their children’s sake.

  The six little mice asked the cats if they could have a small amount of bread. The cats said there was no money for bread because of the war. But the mice knew that was a lie, because they had grown the grain themselves, and they had fought in battles and knew how much bread there should be. A great anger grew within them.

  One night, the six quietly led every mouse in the land to the cats’ palace. And while the cats slept, the six little mice bade their companions tie the cats’ paws together, front and back. And they carried off every last cat to a place where they would have to answer truthfully for the terrible troubles they had brought on the mice.

  The cats, once awake, were angry. And when the six brave mice demanded answers, they refused. They had no fear of the mice, nor tears for their suffering.

  The mice decided they did not need the cats in the land anymore. They would make a new land, and their children would no longer hunger, thirst, and die. And so they built a scaffold and made nooses for the cats’ necks.

  When the cats saw the scaffolds, they caterwauled so loudly that their brethren in other lands heard them. There came a fierce army of felines, who snuck up on the mice and took over the city. They burned everything in their path, rescued the cats from their nooses, and killed one-third of the mice for reason and one-third for sport.

  In the end, they took the six brave little mice whose questions had inflamed the whole land, and they called all the remaining mice to bear witness. Then the cats hanged the six before all of their brethren to teach the mice fear.

  Legend says that one of the six survived, a mouse born without a tail. For in the confusion, when the mice knew the cats were coming, one bold young mouse said, “If all of the six die, we’ll forget the truth they have spoken. We’ll forget we were brave once. Let me take your place, brother. I’ll hang from the noose for you, and you will live with my name.”

  “How can you take the noose for me?” asked the sixth mouse. “I’m known to all, for I’ve no tail.”

  But the bold little mouse cut off his own tail and took the place of the sixth mouse.

  And the cats, who could not tell one mouse from another, caught the bold young mouse, saying, “Here’s the one!” They hanged him with his brothers, and all the mice that witnessed it were afraid, and from that day there was a great silence in all the land.

  But they say that sometimes on the wind you can still hear a voice whispering about what is good, what is right, and what is just. And that somewhere out in the wilds, a mouse without a tail still lives.

  It has been two months since I received Thénardier’s hand. And a month since I could walk normally again after the beating.

  In that time, Death the Endless has begun to haunt the city, taking the weakest: the old, the frail, the young. The bodies are piled high in the streets. It’s best not to look too hard at them. Especially the ones that are still moving; desperate families have put their sick out on the street to die, no longer able to bear the sight of their suffering.

  It is an evil time; either we live or we die.

  The dead are laid out in the place de Fouche, waiting for the corpse carriers to cart them away and leaving the square mostly deserted of Those Who Walk by Day. That’s where I find Ettie, sitting cross-legged on the ground, dressed in her dust-gray robes. Loup is going through the pockets of a body nearby.

  “That’s a dog’s trick,” I say to Loup. Ghosts aren’t known for stealing anything, let alone from corpses; the dead are their kin, after all.

  “Looking for food.” He turns to glance at Ettie.

  She’s sitting with her back to us. Loup goes everywhere with her now; he’s Orso’s eyes, ever watchful for the Tiger.

  “We have one here that can’t endure long.”

  There is never enough food, but it has been weeks since there was any bread or grain to be had—unless you are among the nobility. Police are stationed outside the city’s bakeries to prevent riots. Starving urchins turn themselves in to the poorhouse of the Hôtel-Dieu, ready to risk death within its infested walls, in exchange for a mouthful of gruel. Those Who Walk by Day have declared days of fasting and humiliation. They bring out the reliquaries of Sainte-Geneviève and parade them around the city. From Notre-Dame to the Tuileries the procession walks daily, led by barefoot penitents dripping blood from the wounds of their flagellations.

  The Guilds have no time for such archaic superstitions. But we, too, are powerless to feed our numbers. All the amassed wealth of the Court means nothing if there’s no grain to be purchased. My insides are scraped out and hollow, aching with constant hunger.

  Ettie is not as strong as Loup and I, not as used to feeling her insides shrink in preparation for the long famine. I’ve tried my best to steal what food I can, but since the beating, I’m not as strong as I was, and hunger makes me even weaker. Plus, anything I forage for Ettie gets shared with at least ten other Ghosts. She can’t bear to see them hungry.

  Loup glances over to make sure Ettie is not listening and says sotto voce, “She has a shadow.”

  I give a start, look around at the dark corners of the buildings. There’s a Ghost on every street between here and the city gates. The Ghosts are everywhere, and they see everything. If Loup says there’s someone following Ettie, I believe him.

  “A child of the Court?” I ask, fearing Thénardier or the Tiger.

  “No,” Loup answers.

  I try to rid myself of the fear gnawing at my insides. I give a low whistle and Ettie turns to me; I’m pleased that she has started to learn some of the Master Calls.

  “Nina!” She greets me, but she’s slow and unsteady on her feet, her eyes sunken. I take her arm and feel little more than bone between my fingers.

  “Have you brought anything to eat?” she asks hopefully.

  I shake my head.

  Her face falls. “The pot has been empty for days. Gavroche doesn’t get up anymore. He barely takes any water.” Typical Ettie. She’s dying of hunger and all she can think about is Gav
roche.

  I glance at Loup. He nods solemnly; the little ones are always the first to go.

  “How many have you lost?” I ask him quietly.

  “Ten so far.”

  Ten Ghosts dead of hunger. Perhaps I’ll sing the death song after all.

  “It will pass.” It will pass. But whether we survive it or not is another story.

  “Does it hurt?” Ettie asks. “To die of hunger?”

  “If it is merely hunger,” Loup says, rifling through the pockets of a dead man, “then why do the plague doctors come?”

  The plague pits have been reopened, and carts trundle through the streets, pushed by men wearing masks with beaks like birds, calling as they go for people to bring out their dead. There are so many ill that even the plague doctors, those birds of death, are overwhelmed.

  “I tell you, it’s hunger and sickness,” Loup says. His hands come up empty and he pushes the corpse over, rolling it away so he can get to the next one.

  Ettie shivers, though there’s no breeze.

  “Let’s go get water,” I tell her. “The fountain isn’t far.” I slip my arm through hers and bear the weight of her.

  She leans into me and smiles at Loup. “I’ll bring you water, my Loup.”

  He nods, unhooks a water pouch from his cloak, and throws it at her. I catch it, since she doesn’t even lift her arms.

  My heart wrenches. She’s too weak; she won’t survive. And there’s nothing I can do.

  * * *

  The Fontaine du Diable is a disorder of town criers, brandy vendors, shoeblacks, and barefoot match sellers with hollow eyes. A bony-limbed boy dances for pennies while his blue-capped monkey plays a tiny hand organ beside him. Ettie claps in delight and begs to watch. She can hardly see the dancer since the crowd is so thick. But I let her have a minute or two of fun as I scan the area.

  I’m not a Dog, used to daylight activity. The throng unnerves me; the sunlight blinds my eyes. Perhaps it’s the mere idea of the shadow that Loup spoke about, but I’m jumpy, twitchy with nerves.

  When he comes, he appears out of nowhere. First he was not there and suddenly he’s beside her: a black gentleman, excessively broad of shoulder, wearing a brown velvet top hat. He watches her stretch on tiptoe trying to see past the crowds, an indulgent smile on his face. I see a million details in one second: the smile lines at the corner of his eyes, his shiny boots, his country coat of olive green, and the end of a silver-and-ruby rosary peeking out of his pocket. How he fidgets with his sleeve, an unconscious nervous tic.

  Could this be the shadow? There’s an intensity to his dark eyes I dislike, as if he’s planning something. Every muscle in my body tenses, my dagger ready in my hand. The gentleman moves suddenly, strong arms whisking Ettie up as if she were a leaf of paper. He lifts her higher just as I stick the sharp edge of my dagger against his gut, and he freezes.

  He’s deposited Ettie on his shoulders so that she can get a better view of the scene, and she, oblivious to what’s unfolding below, is laughing in delight.

  Our gazes are locked, and to the gentleman’s credit, he doesn’t even raise an eyebrow.

  I bare my teeth. “Put her down,” I command.

  His voice is calm and deep as he begs my pardon. “Forgive me, little Cat,” he says.

  How does he know I’m a Cat? I am not familiar with this man’s face, and yet he knows my Guild. He gently lowers Ettie to the ground.

  “Oh, Nina! The little monkey is adorable!”

  I take her firmly by the arm and draw her away from the man before lowering my dagger. My eyes remain fixed on his, and he slowly raises a hand, palm up, to show he bears no weapon. And on his palm is a scar, as if someone stabbed his flesh with intent. The mark of a bone oath.

  “We are of one blood, thou and I,” he murmurs.

  My eyes widen. He cocks his head slightly in a motion that means he wants to speak. I glance at Ettie, and when I look up again, I see nothing but a mass of people. Then I spot him, on the move, swallowed by the crowd.

  The crowd is like an ocean, thick and heaving. With a careful eye on the gentleman, I jostle past a knife grinder sharpening a cleaver on his treadle and a stick seller waving whips, crops, and walking sticks at anyone who will listen. Ahead of us, the brown velvet top hat bobs.

  We plunge into a crowd lining up around the fountain. If people can’t eat, at least they can fill their bellies with water. There’s no semblance of order, and we pass some poor maids and kitchen boys. I stop behind a servant wearing a fine velvet coat; his clothing tells me he is employed by an important house. I wink at Ettie and she nods in understanding. I push her gently and she falls into the servant.

  The man curses. Ettie is all apologies and pleas for forgiveness. Meanwhile, I slip a hand into his coat and relieve him of a coin for water, and another for luck. I whistle low, and Ettie disentangles herself and meets me a little away in the crowd. I pull out the coins and show them to her. She laughs the silvery laugh that I love.

  I give Ettie the coins. “Ask for half a bucket and drink your fill. We’ve got nothing else to put in our stomachs.”

  I push past some fine-liveried footmen but do not see the gentleman. I look around. There’s a stand of trees nearby, and I head toward them. If he’s anywhere, he’ll be there, where it would be harder to see us between the trunks.

  Indeed, he is waiting for me, arms crossed, leaning against a tree.

  “Good hunting, sister.” He greets me with a bob of his head.

  I am nervous, and try to hide it. But I keep turning back to the fountain, Ettie always in my sight.

  “Who are you?” I ask sharply.

  “A son of the Guild of Letters, one of the People of the Pen. And a brother who owes you a debt of blood. You set me free from the Châtelet.”

  I blink in surprise, studying his features. The beard is gone, but yes, it is him.

  He smiles. “I have come by some information that I thought might be of use to you.” He moves to glance over my shoulder to where Ettie is. “The Tiger is going to take the girl,” he says.

  My heart drops, Ettie: she’s there, handing the water man her coin.

  “He can’t. Orso will go to war with the Flesh Guild.”

  “He will use your father, Thénardier—”

  “Thénardier is not my father,” I say, baring my teeth.

  He raises his eyebrows.

  I shake my head. “How do you know that he will take her?” I ask, even though Loup’s warning of a shadow pounds in my head.

  “Is there anything the Guild of Letters does not know? All things come to our ears eventually. My brethren learned that Thénardier plans to kidnap her and give her to the Tiger.”

  “I’ll tell Tomasis.” I frown as I watch Ettie. She’s got her bucket and is carrying it slowly away from the crowd, where no one will jostle her. She’s so weak her progress is unsteady.

  The man gives a small, grim smile. “The Thief Lord will not involve himself in such a matter. There is an…understanding between the Guilds. He won’t defy the Tiger.”

  My mind is racing. I look at the crowd, suspicious of everyone, as Ettie unhooks the water pouch and dips it into the bucket.

  “When?” I ask, turning back to the man.

  “There was no time or day specified,” he begins; then his eyes go wide. “Sister—”

  I whip around. One glance shows me that the water pouch lies on the ground and a desperate-looking stranger in a loose shirt and ragged boots is pulling Ettie away from the fountain and toward the streets.

  Part of me is amazed that anyone would dare take a child of the Guilds in broad daylight. But the part of me that is the Black Cat of the Thieves Guild is already moving, racing after them, dagger in hand. I sing a call so sharp that people turn to look, and every Ghost within a mile must be able to hear it.


  Ettie is kicking and flailing, but the man’s arm is tight around her neck. She sees me loping after her and reaches for me, tries to call out but can only choke.

  I repeat my call again and again, and as I run, an echo begins to hang in the air. The Ghosts have heard me. They’re answering.

  The man reaches the street and drags Ettie around a corner just as I spot the first Ghost. Like a shadow, she seems to melt from a wall, her voice picking up the call.

  By the time I reach the corner, my breath is spent, but that’s not why I stop.

  I stop because my ears are ringing with the sound of a hundred calls as Ghosts fill the street, pouring from corners and doorways like gray rats.

  The man has loosened his grip on Ettie, who is taking great drags of air and clutching at his arm to keep herself upright. He looks around wildly, not sure whether to push forward or turn another way, but the Ghosts are everywhere now.

  They walk with the deliberate shuffle of those who never have to run anywhere. They’re not afraid for Ettie. They don’t have to be. There’s no way the man can escape them. They’re too many, and they know it.

  The man’s eyes are bulging like those of a maddened animal. He turns this way and that, finding himself surrounded. Leading the Ghosts is Loup, like a terrible vengeance, fearlessly staring down this man three times his size, because he knows what happens next.

  “Au secours!” the man yells in a panic. “Au secours!”

  Anyone near enough to hear, and who is not a child of the Miracle Court, turns away. Young boys carrying giant buckets of wash disappear down alleys. Windows that open onto the street close. The City knows when to shut its eyes.

  “Quelqu’un! Aidez-moi!” the man cries piteously.

  “Let her go,” I say, lunging toward him.