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A cavern loomed before us, far larger than the first. Its ceiling had been smoothed into a dome and decorated with breathtaking skill. The chandelier illuminated the twenty-two scenes of the Major Arcana, the trumps of the tarot.

The painting was an illusion, designed to make the ceiling appear higher than it was. A sky beneath the earth. Among the clouds I saw the Hermit with his lantern, and the Wheel of Fortune, and Justice with her sword and scales. There was the Devil—its staring eyes followed me—and there were the Lovers, torn to opposite sides of the assembly, reaching for each other.

The Devil and the Lovers. Those had been the third and fourth cards in my reading. In Edinburgh, the Spaewife had warned me of their meaning:Follow the path of the Lovers.Stay close to the person you think the card might represent, and make sure you’ve identified that person correctly. If you stray from whoever it is, I suspect you’ll be vulnerable to the Devil.

Jaxon had often waxed lyrical on clairvoyant life and history in France. There was some debate about whether the ring of fortune-tellers involved in the seventeenth-century Affair of the Poisons should be considered the first French syndicate, or whether that honor should be given to a secret society founded later by a cartomancer named Louise Gilbert. In 1782, she had attracted the interest of a lady-in-waiting at the French court, who had invited her to read for the Queen of France. Seeing bloodshed in the cards, Gilbert had not been able to keep the dread from her face, and the Gray Queen, in turn, had started to fear her.

Having earned the disfavor of the Queen, Gilbert had made a swift return to Paris. By the time the French Revolution began, she had befriended a younger cartomancer, Marie-Anne Lenormand, whom she took under her wing. Together, they had resolved to take advantage of the chaos and make themselves indispensable to key figures of the Revolution—after all, never was a clairvoyant more useful than when the future was both dangerous and uncertain. The pair had founded a secret circle of influential voyants, which had evolved into the present Nouveau Régime. That must be why this ceiling venerated the art of cartomancy.

Three thrones of raw crystal stood before us, raised on a dais enshelled by stacks of polished bones and skulls. Behind these thrones loomed a statue representing Jeanne of Arc, a medieval oracle. She was clad in armor, had chin-length hair, and raised a sword and shield in defiance. The shield was emblazoned with a message.

je trouverai

le chemin libre

A paunchy binder, who I guessed was in his seventies, was draped across the throne beneath her sword. Rouge smeared his pasty cheeks. Despite his posture, he was stately, crowned with an abundant gray wig that belonged in the courts of the monarch days. Plump feet hung over the right arm of the chair, clad in a pair of steel-buckled shoes.

Beside him, a younger cryomancer picked at a bowl of sweets. Thin as a flute and with dark circles to rival mine, she had umber skin and black hair that rippled to her collarbones. Her gown was a wash of pale blue satin and lace. She wore a diamond brooch, shaped like two interwoven ribbons, and matching diamond bows in her ears, each of which supported a teardrop-shaped pearl. More pearls hung around her neck.

The third seat was empty. That must belong to the missing grand duc.

“Who dares stand uninvited before the rulers of Paris?” the binder drawled. “Who disturbs the lords of misrule?” He peered down at us. “Oh, Nostredame deliver us, a pair of panhandlers. Begone, or I shall have you both thrown into the ossuary. Drip your destitution all over someone else.”

I schooled my face into a smile. With a smart flourish, I bowed to them.

“Grands ducs de Paris,” I said, “merci de nous avoir reçus.”

“A courteous vagrant.” The cryomancer rolled a dark, sugar-dusted sweet between her fingers. “La Cour des Miracles earns its name again.”

The binder guffawed.

“We are not from the Court of Miracles.” I stood tall, hands tucked into my pockets, boots a shoulder width apart. “I would have appeared before you in something more befitting of your court, but I’m afraid I left all my finery in England. Along with my crown.”

They both did a double take so abrupt it was almost comical.

“Crown,” the rouged binder spluttered. “Crown! Whoareyou, rogue?”

“Paige Mahoney, Underqueen of the Scion Citadel of London. I’m here to forge an alliance between our two syndicates.” I cast a cool gaze over the scene. “If you’re not too busy, of course.”

The cryomancer dropped her sweet. Beside her, the binder swung his legs from the arm of his chair.

“Paige Mahoney. What a notion,” he scoffed. “Raise your head and let us see you, imposter.”

I did, so the candlelight could reach my face. He stuck a peevish lip out.

“You look nothing like Paige Mahoney. Nothing,” he said, and all of a sudden his accent was not quite French. “The Underqueen is in the æther.” He peered at me again. “And yet, I do believe I hear a charming Irish lilt. And I do see a red aura. Red as a rosy-fingered dawn.”

“Forgive me,” I said, “but are you from London?”

“Gracious, no, but I did live there for fifteen years. How the accent clings,” he sighed. “I only meant for it to be a holiday. Alas, it is so very easy to find oneselfanchoredin London.”

“May I ask why you left?”

“Oh, you would have abandoned ship if you’d had to wither away under that utterboreof an Underlord, Jed Bickford. Getting himself skewered in the kidney was the first noteworthy thing he did.” He rubbed the corner of his eye. “My half brother stayed behind. Didion.”

“Didion.” My lips twitched into a smile. Surely not. “Your brother is Didion Waite?”

“Half brother,” he stressed. Improbable though it was, I could see a resemblance. “He always was a vexation. And a ghastly poet. Dire.” He squinted at me. “If you truly are Black Moth, you will understand that we really must have some proof of your identity, Madelle.”