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“Bonjour.” Hoping I wasn’t about to make a fool of myself, I went for it: “Je voudrais un café sombre, s’il vous plaît.”

She didn’t miss a beat: “Très bon choix, Madelle.”

I followed her to the back of the building, past tables and framed photographs, and she took a key from her apron. She led me through a concealed door and down a winding flight of steps.

We descended into a tunnel, which resonated with chamber music and the beehive hum of a hundred conversations. It seemed many Parisians had a taste for gloomy coffee.

The waitron escorted me past a statue of a veiled woman, who seemed to be holding her own heart. Candles glimmered at her feet. An amaurotic was on his knees before her, hands clasped, head bowed. Dim impressions came to me: fragrant smoke, voices raised to a vaulted ceiling. Tendrils of a memory.

The coffeehouse was a warren of cozy spaces, lit by tapers and cluttered with tables. A peppery fug of tobacco and regal hung in the air. The vast majority of these patrons were voyant. I was getting closer.

In the largest chamber, where a quartet of whisperers played baroque violins, several alcoves served as private booths, cut off from the rest of the coffeehouse by red velvet curtains. I took the last vacant one and slipped into an upholstered seat. The waitron set down a glass of hot blood mecks and a basket of bread before she closed the curtains. I removed my gloves and read the menu, which boasted such delicacies as cassoulet au cimetière and tarte ténébreuse.

My eyelids were heavy. Now that I had stopped moving, all my aches had crept back in. I kept my coat on and burrowed into it.

Arcturus soon joined me in my alcove. The curtains fell together in his wake, muffling the clamor again.

“This place is so . . . you.” I took a slice of bread. “How on earth do you know your way into a secret coffeehouse?”

“You sound surprised,” Arcturus said. “I have been a revolutionary for a very long time.”

“Oh, yes. Such a rebel, with your organ-playing and gramophones and good manners.”

“Are you mocking me, Paige Mahoney?”

“Fondly.” I smiled into my glass. “Seriously, how did you find this place?”

“After France pledged to Scion, this crypt was used first for clandestine religious services. Later, artists and musicians discovered it, too,” he said. “Nine years ago, Nashira sent Alsafi to find a seditious painter, and his investigation led him here. He told me about it.”

“Did he turn the painter over?”

“Yes, though he did not betray the crypt. Alsafi did only what he believed was necessary to keep his place beside the blood-sovereign.”

Alsafi had made ruthless choices. He had sacrificed others to maintain his cover, but given his own life to save mine.

I pushed the memory aside. “Why are we here?”

“Two reasons,” Arcturus said. “The first: since this is a crypt, it may connect to the carrières, or serve as a meeting place for those who know their way in. Perhaps you can find a link to Mélusine.”

“The thought had occurred.” I stole a glance between the curtains. “And the second?”

“To give you an opportunity to rest.”

That made me look back at him sharply. “I’ve rested for three weeks,” I said. “We need to start looking for Mélusine now if we’re going to make it back to the safe house by dusk.”

“Half an hour to eat and warm yourself.” He held my gaze. “Tell me you do not feel drained. Tell me this day has not taken its toll on you, and we will leave.”

I drew in a breath to lie to him. As if to mock me, pain sliced into my chest, so deep I had to set my jaw against it.

“I hate this,” I said. “This weakness.” My exhalation made the candle flicker. “I used to be able to run all night. Fight off thugs twice my size. Now this.” I wrapped my hands around my glass. “Our mutual friend might not have killed me, but she’s left me essentially useless.”

“You believe all those she has tortured are rendered useless, then.”

That made me look up.

“Sorry.” I reached across to touch his wrist. “I didn’t mean that. Of course you’re not.”

“Tell yourself the same.” The candle made shadows feather over his face. “There are always other ways to fight.”