THE LAW OF THE
MIRACLE COURT
Now these are the laws of the Miracle Court, as old and as true as the sky; the Wretched that keep them may prosper, but the Wretched that break them must die.
All the Wretched are equal before the Miracle Court; neither blood nor race, religion, rank, or name is recognized.
All the Wretched are free; slavery is forbidden in the Miracle Court.
The Lord or Lady of a Guild is its Father/Mother. Their word is law to the Guild.
Keep to your Guild for protection and strength.
Let Guild leaders parley before risking the welfare of their Guild or the Miracle Court.
Physical attack on a member of another Guild is considered an act of war.
If your activities put the livelihood of the Miracle Court at risk, your Guild Lord will deal with you appropriately for the protection of the Court.
Children of the Miracle Court are protected by their Guild Lords first, and the Court second.
Daytime is the time of the Court’s enemies: Those Who Walk by Day, police, and nobility. Children of the Miracle Court work best at night.
You must have permission to enter other Guild Houses.
Commit crime for survival and prosperity and the benefit of the Guilds, but never for pleasure.
Each person may divide their spoils only after first sharing with their Guild Lord.
Don’t forget the weakest among you. The Guild must provide for all its children.
Keep the laws, or punishment will be swift and certain.
THE FOUNDING OF THE MIRACLE COURT
FROM L’HISTOIRE DE PARIS, BY THE DEAD LORD
In 1160, Ysengrim the Boar was appointed grand prévôt. His commission was to keep order in the streets of Paris, which was a dark and lawless place. He led violent assaults on the city’s poorest spaces and its hives of beggars, thieves, and outcasts, killing or imprisoning all in his path. Those who survived the purges knew of no one who could be trusted, as Ysengrim’s men had a legion of spies alongside their corrupt officers.
To protect themselves, the city’s Wretched formed nine guilds: Thieves, Beggars, Assassins, Gamblers, Mercenaries, Smugglers, Prostitutes, Opium Eaters, and Men of Letters. The Lords of each guild sat together to form the Miracle Court, bound as brethren by laws that they had written.
Among the outcasts of the city were Lombards, Corsicans, Moors, Africans, Maghrebi, Mughal, Romani, Qing, Jews, Ottomans, Edo, alongside the leprous, the maimed, the sick, the elderly, and those accused of witchcraft. They were despised and rejected by prévôt, king, and country. But all were welcomed into the shelter of the Miracle Court, beneath whose roof all are equal and free.
It is a time of famine, a time of hungering want that threatens to eat you from the inside out, leaving you good only to wait for the coming of death. And Death the Endless always comes.
It is before dawn, dark and silent. The corpses of the starved have been laid out on the cobblestones overnight, waiting for the carts to bear them away. The dead are wide-eyed, unhearing, uncaring, unafraid. They remind me of my sister, Azelma.
Azelma, who never cries, cried for two whole days. She wouldn’t eat or sleep. I tried everything, even saying that Father was coming with two bottles of whiskey in his belly and rage in his eyes. But she didn’t move, unhearing, uncaring, unafraid.
She’s finally stopped crying. For the last few hours she’s been lying on her bed, staring into the distance. She won’t answer me, won’t even look at me. I think I prefer the crying.
Azelma used to wake me with a murmur of “Viens, ma petite chatonne,” and I’d lean into her warmth while she brushed my hair and helped me draw on my clothes.
Now I slip from the bed without her and change in the cold, putting on a dress that’s getting too short. Giving my hair a few tugs with a hairbrush and teasing it into a lopsided braid. I splash my face with icy water poured from a heavy porcelain jug and sneak a look back at her. She’s on her side, eyes open but seeing nothing.
The inn is quiet at this hour. I hesitate a moment longer, but she doesn’t move, so I go downstairs and grab a pail, take a faded scarf from a peg by the door. The scarf is Azelma’s and is too big for me, but the well is many streets away from the inn and the walk will be cold. I hate making the trip alone, in the darkness, but I must.
Outside, the freezing air burns my throat. I hasten to the well, trying not to look at the bodies I pass on the street. At the well I lower the pail and heave it back, full, my numb fingers straining with the weight of it.
The road back is treacherous, and with every cautious step my breath rises in clouds. With every breath I think of my sister, and the fear eats at my insides.
When I reach the inn, my shaking arms are relieved to put the bucket down. I pour some of the water into a pan and set it to boil, then look around. The floor needs mopping, even though that never keeps out the smell of spilled wine, and in the dim light, the main hall is a disarray of plates, empty tankards, and jugs; all need scrubbing.
I have dried hundreds of plates while Azelma flicked soapy bubbles at me. I duck and complain. She wrinkles her nose and tells me, “Kittens hate water.”
I sigh and decide to start on the floor. The mop is heavy, and it makes my tired arms ache dreadfully, but I push it back and forth with vigor. Maybe if I can scrub away the stains, I can also scrub away the sick feeling growing in the pit of my stomach.
My sister, my sister.
Last night Father said nothing when Azelma didn’t emerge from her room for the third night in a row. It was as if he’d forgotten she existed. He hummed, drumming his fingers on the table cheerily. He even threw me a hunk of warm brioche, which was so unlike him that I couldn’t bring myself to eat it. There’s barely flour in the city for bread, let alone for brioche, so I don’t know where he got it. My father is a thief; he’s stolen many a shinier jewel or weightier gold purse than this scrap of dough. But what use are jewels or gold in a time of famine?
My stomach growled low and heavy at the scent of the pastry. But fear was gnawing at my bones worse than hunger, so I brought the bread to Azelma, and now it sits, growing stale on a chipped plate beside her bed.
My hands are red with cleaning, and there’s a sheen of sweat on my brow, but still I shiver. If Azelma doesn’t eat, she’ll soon be lying with the corpses outside in the cold, waiting for the carter to pick her up. But she’s not feverish, I checked; there’s something else wrong with her, something dreadful. What’s worse, I can’t do anything to heal it. I feel like the kitten Azelma likens me to—tiny, fragile, batting my paws against the wind.