While the rest of the capital sat in cold, dark houses rationing stale bread, the Quarter was alive with a feverish, desperate energy. Strings of red and violet lanterns cast a hazy glow over the wet cobblestones. Music spilled out of open tavern doors—lutes, drums, and the loud, raucous laughter of people trying very hard to forget that they were hungry.
Mirabelle walked down the center of the street, pulling her grey wool hood lower to hide her face. It was a flimsy disguise, especially with a squad of heavily armed Grey Ghosts flanking her, but it made her feel slightly less exposed.
Beside her, Revas walked with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He was sulking.
He hadn't said a word since the warehouse. He didn't make snide comments about the architecture or the scantily clad women waving from the balconies. He just stared straight ahead, radiating a moody silence that cleared the street in front of them more effectively than the guards did.
