Page 71 of The Song Rising

Fortress

I allowed myself to be persuaded to go back to Hari’s for an hour’s sleep, a decision I soon bitterly regretted. Shortly after our return, a friend of Hari’s called to say an inspection of the nearest SciPLO factory was under way, meaning increased government activity for the next few hours. Hari categorically refused to let any of us leave until they were gone.

I found myself pacing around the attic as the morning wore on, consumed by frustration. The clock became a source of mockery. Every second was another second the Mime Order was trapped, and so far our mission had gone nowhere. I couldn’t imagine how Nick was holding up.

At noon, I lost patience and knocked on the door to Hari’s room. “Hang on a mo,” he called, but I was already through.

“Hari, we really have to—”

I trailed off, and my eyebrows shot up.

The curtains in the room were closed. Hari was sitting up in bed with his arm around Eliza, whose head rested on his shoulder. Both were disheveled and heavy-eyed. When she saw me, Eliza let out a yelp of “bloodyhell, Paige” and clawed the sheets around her bare shoulders. I cleared my throat.

“Underqueen.” Hari fumbled for his glasses. “Sorry. Uh. Is everything all right?”

“Spiffing. If you’re . . . finished,” I said, “would you mind checking to see if we can leave?”

“Yeah, course.”

I retreated sharpish. Behind me, Eliza let out a mangled groan that sounded like “never live this down.”

I should have learned years ago not to barge through closed doors. That habit had landed me in hot water plenty of times while I was collecting money for Jaxon.

Jaxon . . . I envisioned him smoking a cigar in the Archon, chuckling as the army brought London back to heel.

In the kitchen, I piled on layers of clothing while I waited for the others to emerge. Hari hurried in after a couple of minutes, wearing a fresh shirt and a sheepish expression.

“The inspection just ended,” he said. “You can go now, if you like.”

“Good.” I fastened my jacket. “We should be back in a few hours.”

“I’ll be working. Come to the counter when you get back and I’ll give you the key.”

Maria and Eliza joined me in the hallway—the latter with pink cheeks—and we left for the monorail station together, walking through a drizzle. While we waited for our respective trains, Eliza whispered, “Sorry, Paige.”

“You don’t need to apologize. I’m not the sex patrol.”

She bit down a grin. “No. But I shouldn’t get distracted.” Water dripped from her hairline. “It’s just . . . been a while.”

“Mm-hm.” I blew on to my hands.

“Don’t do anything reckless while you’re out of our sight.” She elbowed me as my train appeared. “You have a bad habit of not coming back when you get on a train.”

“When do Ieverdo anything reckless?”

She gave me a skeptical look. I stepped on to the train before she could answer.

The sky must never be blue above Manchester. I watched the citadel through the window, taking in the flickers of activity beneath the monorail track. When the train rounded a corner and jounced past another SciPLO factory, I leaned forward until my breath misted the glass. A small group of workers were gesturing angrily at the Vigiles beyond the gate.

This place was on a knife-edge.

As the train pulled away again, my thoughts inevitably drifted to Warden. I hadn’t felt the cord since just before we had left London. I had thought at first that he had broken it somehow, but it was there—just still. I must not be able to feel him while he was in the Netherworld, working his way through the ruin of that realm beyond the veil.

It was strange to remember the distant, shadowy dealings of She’ol, embroiled as I was in human affairs. They would be searching for Adhara Sarin, to persuade her that I was capable of leading the Mime Order against the Sargas. Perhaps they had already found her. But when she asked for evidence of my skill as a leader, Warden would have nothing to give her. Not yet. He believed in me so utterly, and I had given him so little in return.

Thinking of him made a sharp pain flare behind my ribs. The silence on his side of the cord was unsettling, as if I’d lost one of my senses.

The district of Ancoats slumped in the shadow of the largest SciPLO factory in the citadel. I descended from the monorail and trekked through the snow, my head stooped against the wind, grateful for the protection of the respirator. As I wandered past back-to-back dwellings—infested with dry rot, so small that I could have reached up and touched their roofs—I passed a scrawl of orange writing on the stonework:MAITH DÚINN, A ÉIRE. Seeing the Irish language in Scion jarred my nerves, then filled me to the brim with homesickness for the place I hadn’t seen since I was eight.

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