The Court of Miracles

The Court of Miracles

Les Misérables meets Six of Crows in this page-turning adventure as a young thief finds herself going head to head with leaders of Paris's criminal underground in the wake of the French Revolution. In the violent urban jungle of an alternate 1828 Paris, the French Revolution has failed and the city is divided between merciless royalty and nine underworld criminal guilds, known as the Court of Miracles. Eponine (Nina) Thénardier is a talented cat burglar and member of the Thieves Guild. Nina's life is midnight robberies, avoiding her father's fists, and watching over her naïve adopted sister, Cosette (Ettie). When Ettie attracts the eye of the Tiger--the ruthless lord of the Guild of Flesh--Nina is caught in a desperate race to keep the younger girl safe. Her vow takes her from the city's dark underbelly to the glittering court of Louis XVII. And it also forces Nina to make a terrible choice--protect Ettie and set off a brutal war between the guilds, or forever lose her sister to the Tiger. “The narrative shines in its depictions of the gritty criminal underworld and its fierce and resourceful heroine. . . .  Raw and spirited. ” — Kirkus Reviews “ Vividly sketched characters, high stakes, and a harrowing plot distinguish Grant’s tale, which champions justice and found family while opposing human trafficking.” — Publishers Weekly “[ An] adventurous new take on a classic.” — Booklist “If you've been looking for a  Les Miserables  retelling,  Kester Grant has the book for you! ” — BuzzFeed "Fans of alternate histories will enjoy this adventurous new take on a classic. ”  —Bookpage Kester (Kit) Grant is a British-Mauritian writer of color who has lived all over the world: Mauritius, Democratic Republic of the Congo, England, USA, and France. She has worked as a copywriter and a volunteer writing mentor for the Ministry of Stories, a UK nonprofit based on Dave Eggers's 826 National. You can learn more about her on her website at kestergrant.com and follow her on Twitter at @kgtellsstories. 1 Le Début de l’Histoire  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 thi