With time and patience, the Fox escaped. And under the cloak of darkness he came to stand before the crib of Ysengrim’s daughter.
“Slay her, I must slay her,” Rennart cried to himself. “Does the blood of my men, my wife, my child not cry out for vengeance? All has been taken from me. I have earned the right to do this midnight deed.”
And though Ysengrim had wounded him beyond healing, despite all that he had lost and suffered, Rennart knew that if he slew the child he would be no better than his enemy. He knew that he could not kill her.
And so instead the Fox took her. He stole her from her crib, and carried her away to his den, and in doing so inflicted a thousand hurts on Ysengrim, worse than burying a wife and child, worse than seeing men fall, worse than losing all that you have built. The Fox gave Ysengrim the Boar a terrible gift: the gift of never knowing what had become of his daughter, the guilt of wondering endlessly whether she had lived or died.
I watch Ettie from the corner of my eye. I have to; Thénardier will beat her if she doesn’t learn fast. And I cannot afford for her perfect face to be marred. Not today of all days.
The inn is crowded early this evening, voices merging into a dull roar. They’ll get louder as the night goes on and people get drunker. The air is thick with the scent of beer and wine long soaked into the floor and the sweet smoke of poppy from the pipes of the Dreamers in one corner. It’s roasting in here, too many bodies in too small a space. Carrying drinks to any table means walking through a maze of wandering hands and lecherous grins. I avoid the men with tattoos behind their ears: those are the ones you don’t want to trip over.
I glance back at Ettie, who’s struggling beneath the weight of a jug. Her skinny arms aren’t used to lifting such things.
I take a deep breath.
I can do this. I’ve rehearsed it in my head a thousand times.
I weave through the customers and bump my hip into a table just hard enough that the man at the far end is jostled into Ettie.
She is fighting to keep her hold on the jug when a large hand darts out and grips her shoulder, steadying her.
“Not used to waiting on tables, are we, little one?”
The voice is a rough, warm growl. My heart sinks into my boots, when it should be soaring.
The world seems to slow. I drop whatever I was carrying onto the nearest table, ignore the protests of the customers, and push through the crowded floor to her.
The man has stood to help her with the jug, and, relieved, she lets him take it.
Don’t look at him, Ettie, I think, despite myself.
But she does, a single golden curl escaping from her white cap as she tilts her head up to see who has saved her from a fall. She’s small and he’s a giant of a man, exuding strength and warmth. He has yellow eyes, a face tanned dark from years spent at sea, hair bleached orange-blond by the sun. The long, corded scars that cross from his forehead to his cheek don’t take away from his magnetic charm. He smiles at Ettie, a smile that is all teeth, and God forgive her, she smiles back.
“What is your name?” the smiling Lord asks.
“Ettie,” I blurt out before she can answer.
She turns to me, her eyebrows raised in question.
“I’m sorry she disturbed you, Monseigneur,” I say, not looking at his face. Definitely not looking at the scars. “Come with me, Ettie. You’re needed in the kitchen.”
I reach out to her, but his hand clamps down tight on her shoulder again.
“Lord Kaplan! Are my daughters bothering you?”
I’ve never been so delighted to hear Thénardier’s voice. The customers watch with interest as he moves through the crowd toward us. It’s a promising spectacle so early in the evening. After all, someone might be about to die—and that someone isn’t them.
Kaplan, the Tiger, is a Guild Lord, and he dresses his huge frame in rough sailor’s garb: loose shirt, trousers, boots, and an old naval jacket he legendarily took from the back of an admiral at sea. He carries no weapons; he doesn’t have to.
Thénardier, in contrast, is only a Guild Master. He is a small man, thin and wiry. He can be recognized from afar by the purple-and-yellow-striped waistcoat he favors. He’s a distraction, like a peacock fanning its brilliant tail. Like many members of the Thieves Guild, he’s given to wearing fine jewelry. His right hand is heavy with rings of gold. I’ve felt the mark of them on my skin too many times to count.
“Eponine, take little Cosette outside.” Thénardier rubs his hands together, as he’s wont to do when bargaining, for he sees Kaplan’s interest; he knows there’s something to be gained here.
My stomach churns. I remember the night the Tiger came for Azelma.
Stay calm. It’s all going according to plan.
I step forward and take Ettie’s hand. Everyone is staring at her and she doesn’t know why.
She tries to pull away from Lord Kaplan. But he doesn’t let go.
“Your daughter too?” Kaplan’s yellow eyes flick to my face.
“Nina is my little Cat,” Thénardier says.
Like everyone we know, he says one thing and means another. He says I’m a Cat, but he means I’m a full member of the Thieves Guild, so touching me is making argument with the Thief Lord. Thénardier is saying back off in such a way it comes out dripping in sweetness. He smiles, his mouth full of gold teeth. He cut them from the gums of soldiers dying on the battlefield and paid a butcher to put them in for him when his own rotted away.
“Your Cat has claws.”
Kaplan releases his hold on Ettie. She sways into my arms.
I grab her and begin moving us toward the door, hoping the Tiger’s eyes will follow us. Hating that they do.
“And the blond one?”
“My ward.”
“I didn’t know you were in the habit of dispensing charity, Thénardier.”
“Her mother pays me for her keep.”
We’re almost at the door, and Ettie is protesting because I’m pulling her arm too hard, but I must, to get her out. Out of the room, out of sight, out of his presence.
I yank the rough door open. The wind comes racing in, biting at my cheeks. Ettie is saying something about the cold, but I ignore her. I drag her out and tug the heavy door closed behind us. The last thing I hear is Lord Kaplan’s voice, as clear as the bells of Matins: “How much can I pay you to take her off your hands?”
I suck in deep breaths of the cold air. My mind is racing. I’ve just heard the words I needed to hear. He’s taken the bait.