Page 107 of The Mask Falling

I stopped in front of them and drew my shoulders back. Arcturus stood just behind me.

“I’m told you are the perdues,” I said. “The followers of Le Vieux Orphelin.”

“Five of the thirteen.” Shadows filled the eyeholes of the nearest mask, which was decorated with painted wisteria and nettle leaves. “I am Renelde du Linceul. And I ask that you show us your face.”

“Mélusine has already seen it.”

“Yes.” Renelde slid a gloved hand into her pocket. “We would like to confirm her claim that she met the Underqueen in Montparnasse. Since the Underqueen was killed in December, I’m sure you understand our confusion.”

I reached up to untie the scarf and let it fall away. There was a long silence as they all took the measure of me—of my facial landmarks, as Gabrielle Auclair would have said. Renelde reached up and removed her mask, revealing angular eyes, deep brown skin, and low cheekbones. Long, dark braids framed her face. She was about thirty, perhaps a touch younger.

“Je ne leur fait pas confiance,” muttered the sensor beside her. His half mask was fashioned into a vulpine face, complete with ears and a black nose. “Il se pourrait qu’elle soit imposteur.”

“The grands ducs thought I was an imposter, too,” I said.

Renelde raised her eyebrows. “You speak French.”

I nodded. The fox pressed his lips together. They were just visible in the shadow of the mask.

“Madelle,” he said, “no offense intended, but you could be anyone. You must show us your gift, or—”

“You do notwanta dreamwalker to show you her gift, Malperdy,” Renelde cut in. “That”—she nodded to Arcturus—“is a Réphaïte. Which means that this woman is Paige Mahoney.” She gave me a brief smile. “Welcome to Paris, Underqueen. We were hoping you might pay us a visit.”

“How did you survive the bullet?” came another voice. “We all saw.”

“It was a rubber bullet,” I said. “You know about the Rephaim, then.”

“Yes, the pamphlet was translated here.” Renelde eyed Arcturus. “Instant bestseller.”

Another one of the perdues stepped forward. “Underqueen.” He went so far as to drop to one knee, making the bells in his three-pronged hat jingle. “An honor. I am Le Bateleur.”

“Please, stand. There’s no need.” I held out a hand to him. “You’re one of the patrones.”

“Yes.” He accepted my hand and stood. “I serve under Le Vieux Orphelin.” His voice was like gravel. “He has heard tell of you, and of your Mime Order, from the merchants who go between here and London. He wanted to strike an alliance with she who destroyed Senshield—to help you, should you ever come to Paris.”

Someone who had heard of me and whose first response hadnotbeen to want me dead. What a treat.

“Le Vieux Orphelin is missing,” I said.

“Yes,” Renelde said. “Le Prince Creux, his compagnon d’armes, now holds his authority – I think you would call him a mollisher in London.” She fitted her mask back over her face. “We fear Le Vieux Orphelin is in the Bastille, along with Le Prince Creux’s sister, La Tarasque. She disappeared the same night.”

“I don’t know about La Tarasque,” I said, “but Le Vieux Orphelin is definitely not in the Bastille.”

They all looked at each other. “You know what became of Le Vieux Orphelin?” Le Bateleur said softly.

“He was taken.” I folded my arms. “You have an interloper in your syndicate. A trafficker of anormales with a network of hunters at his command. He goes after those he deems valuable and sells them to Scion.” Mutters. “Le Latronpuche and La Reine des Thunes have been hand in glove with him since he arrived here. They confessed to it when I met them.”

“The Man in the Iron Mask,” another of the perdues muttered. “The shadow in the slums. Is he the interloper?”

“Yes. He called himself the Rag and Bone Man in London. He preyed on my syndicate, too,” I said. “He means to find and sell all of you to the Grand Inquisitor. Ménard is out for your blood.”

“Fuck Ménard,” came a sharp retort.

“Hush, Malperdy,” Le Bateleur said, just as sharply. “We have guests.” He turned back to me. “Did you bring us here only to warn us of this danger, Underqueen, or do you have a plan?”

“Both. I believe that the other two grands ducs sold Le Vieux Orphelin, and that he was transported to a new high-security prison in Versailles. And I believe you know a way in.”

There was a tense period in which they all traded looks again. Renelde planted her hands on her wide hips and took a breath.

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