Page 11 of The Mask Falling

“All right,” I said. “I’ll teach you. But fair warning—nothing in Irish sounds like it looks.”

“I enjoy a challenge.”

“Good.” I took a pen and paper from the table and scribbled the longest word that came to mind,grianghrafadóireacht. “Your best conjecture, then. How would you pronounce this?”

Arcturus considered it, then served himself a large glass of wine.

“This may take some time,” he said.

****

We found a collection of films and took to watching them together in the evenings. I looked forward to that time, when we would sit on the couch and I would eat my supper. Often I would fall asleep there. In the morning, over breakfast, he would tell me how the film had ended.

One such evening, not long after my birthday, found us sitting in the parlor as usual. Arcturus was immersed in the film. After weeks of stress and separation, it was strange to be resting at his side. The set of his jaw was softer, his hand at ease on the arm of the couch.

A month ago, I might have moved closer. He might have drawn me to his chest and pressed his lips to my hair.

Sometimes I wished we could talk about how it had been. Not that there was much to say. I had ended our trysts because as Underqueen, I could put nothing and no one above the revolution—and because if they had found out, the Ranthen would never have tolerated it.

And yet I was Underqueen now only in name. And there were no Ranthen here to see us.

As if he had sensed the thought, Arcturus glanced at me. I looked away a second too late.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine.” I put my plate aside. “I just can’t believe you’re here sometimes. That we both are.”

“Hm. We have come a long way since you last contemplated killing me.”

“We have.”

Out of habit, I traced the silver marks on my palm. When I had banished the spirit that powered Senshield, it had joined the scars there, forming the wordkin. I had no idea what it was supposed to mean, or how I had banished the spirit without knowing its name.

Women with damson lips and penciled eyebrows glided across the screen. There was just enough light to remind me that I was no longer chained underground. Curled up next to Arcturus, I slipped into a drowse. I was warm. I was clean. I was safe, if not entirely free.

I jolted awake when a spirit glided through the window, frosting the panes. A psychopomp. I held still as it approached Arcturus.

“What did it say?” I asked when it had gone.

“That Hildred Vance’s replacement has been summoned,” he said. “Vindemiatrix Sargas, the blood-heir, is on her way to London. She will assist Scion with Operation Albion.”

“Vance isn’t dead?”

“No. Hospitalized.”

Alsafi should have finished her off. I might have known she would cling to life with every finger.

“Operation Albion.” I rubbed my eyes. “That sounds familiar.”

“It is the formal name for the eradication of resistance in the homeland. This includes the complete dismantling of the Mime Order.”

A military operationwithinScion. I sat up a little. “You think this . . . Vindemiatrix Sargas is going to help with that?”

“Her principal duty for the last two centuries has been to monitor the free world. She likely intends to put some of her skills to use to find and infiltrate the Mime Order.”

“I assume the Ranthen have warned Glym and Eliza.”

“Yes.”

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