Page 153 of The Mask Falling

“No.” I would thrash it out with Léandre, but not now. His proud scowl would remind me of all the people we had left behind. “Did you know about his plan to leave most of the prisoners, Renelde?”

“None of us did. I suspected he was keeping something from us, but believe me, I had no idea,” she said. “When he sent me ahead with Nadine and Le Vieux Orphelin, I was under the impression that everyone else would follow.”

Cam toyed with her plait, eyes downcast. “All right,” I said.

“If you want to use the spring, you are welcome,” Renelde said. “There is a small bathroom next to it.”

“Thank you.”

Trying not to think of how Malperdy had died, I left them alone. Thuban Sargas would have survived the fire—of course he would—but I hoped Nashira would punish him for the loss of the second colony.

For a cramped alcove that several gangsters pissed in every day, the bathroom was a civilized affair, with buckets of water for washing and a hole carved into the floor, which led to another bottomless drop. I crouched over it. When I passed the water-spotted fragment of glass that served as a mirror, I decided not to look.

A cleft in the wall led to the spring. Steam ruffled from its surface. Except for the candles at its edge, the cavern was dark. My heart thumped, but I was too burned-out to give way to fear.

I stripped down to the camisole and shorts and dipped a cautious foot into the pool. Candlelight rippled across its surface. A shelf of smooth rock at its edge would let me sit in it up to my shoulders. I got in gingerly, trying to ignore the sting in my wounds and the gooseflesh that rushed over my arms and stomach, and found that it was wonderfully hot.

And I could savor it. It felt good.

Perhaps my fear had reached its peak. Perhaps fighting it to the death in those caves had finally allowed me to defeat it. I hardly cared if this lasted—for now, I would relish being unafraid. I would let the heat unknot my muscles and steam the chill out of my bones.

I had forgotten what a pleasure it was to be wrapped in warm water. Droplets glittered across the ceiling. I breathed in the steam and drifted in a trance-like state, light and relaxed for the first time in months.

Something caught my eye as I basked there. A bust of a woman in an alcove, sculpted from dark stone, a wreath over her waving hair. I sat up to take a closer look.

“Her name is Marianne.”

A start went through both me and the water. A figure had arrived at the mouth of the cavern.

“Underqueen.” The voice had a muted quality to it. “We often share the spring, but I understand if you would prefer to bathe in private.”

The solitude had been restful, but I thought I knew who this was. And he might bring something better than peace and quiet.

“No,” I said. “By all means.”

“Thank you.”

The newcomer strode to the other side of the spring. I caught a glimpse of him through the thick billows of steam. He was about my height, perhaps a little taller, with midnight skin and sinewy muscles. Dark, tightly curled hair was trimmed close to his scalp. His hands were long and fine-boned, and his aura was that of an oracle.

As he entered the pool, I saw that his face was wholly hidden by an elegant gold mask. Floral embellishments surrounded the eyeholes. In this gloom, those openings looked empty.

“Marianne.” He motioned to the bust. “She is the embodiment of Revolutionary France. A popular representation of liberty and reason. I keep her image in all of my hideouts. Sometimes I talk to her, as I spoke to the statue of the Maid of Orléans beside my throne.”

A man who conversed with inanimate objects. “Do you chat to your collection of skulls, too?”

“Hélas, pauvre Yorick,” he recited. I must have looked blank. “You are not familiar with Shakespeare.”

“Oh, him,” I said. “His plays sometimes washed up at the black market. I skimmedThe Tempest.”

“That one is popular among anormaux here. And yes, I do occasionally consult the skulls of the great voyants who came before us,” he confessed, “but Jeanne and Marianne—opposites, in some ways—are my true councillors. Jeanne reminds me to embrace the visions of the æther. To speak out, no matter the cost. And Marianne reminds me why France strayed to Scion. We are republican to the bone here, suspicious of monarchy and religion. These are pillars the anchor also despises.”

His voice was smooth, molten. It lacked the velvet quality I had noticed in other soft-spoken people, like Arcturus—that subtle edge of roughness, like a match being struck.

“Yes, Marianne carries the anchor well. And yet, we are also revolutionaries here in France. We do not brook tyrants for long. I hear the old cry like a drum in my head—liberté, égalité, fraternité. We have none of these now. No vote or voice. Only the impression of safety.”

A brief silence pealed.

“Le Vieux Orphelin,” I said. “Ignace Fall.”

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