Page 171 of The Mask Falling

“If it’s so easy, why hasn’t the Rephaite already found a way out?”

“Because they’ll have him restrained.” I tried not to picture him bound like Kornephoros, flowers twined around iron chains. “I didn’t say it would be easy, but it’s not impossible. I’ll need a diversion, a disturbance—something like a brawl on the Pont au Change. It will draw the soldiers away from the fortress.”

“People could get hurt. You know what krigs are like.”

“A small fight will do. Just enough to get them away from the entrance, not to open fire. You could make that happen.”

Léandre drew a long breath in through his nose and folded his arms.

“We might have to use your free-world friend. The Québécoise,” he said. “You will have one shot at this, marcherêve.”

“I only need one.”

Léandre didn’t point out my low chances of success. We both knew how insane it was for me to break into another Scion-controlled building and expect to come out alive, but I had done it more than once. He took a burner phone from his coat and made a call.

Arcturus, I’m coming.

****

Dusk approached the Scion Citadel of Paris. Stars tinseled a dimming sky. Far below, all seemed peaceful as sunset drew to a soft close. Portugal had fallen. Spain was almost won. All was well.

On the Pont au Change, a woman elbowed through the crowds. Clad in a velvet coat and tinted lenses, she could have been a raconteur or a fashionable denizen of the Rive Droite. Gloves hid her peeled fingers. She marched to a stall that glittered with jewelery—a stall that had appeared not long before—and slammed her handbag onto it, unspooling scarves and banknotes from inside.

“You. Cheating swine, you lied to my face,” she snapped in French. The vendor straightened, tensing in expectation of a fight. “Everyone, gather round and mark the face of a charlatan!”

Her own face was so fury-stricken, nobody paid much attention to her accent, which was not quite French. A crowd gathered, drawn to the prospect of a spectacle. The pickpockets of the bridge ought to have been circling this affluent denizen, but none of them went near her.

“You are mistaken,” said the vendor, with pockets full of bribe money. “My gems are among the finest in Paris.”

“I have the evidence,” the woman proclaimed, fist clenched. Nadine was enjoying herself. “He claims to sell the best emeralds of the Rila”—she emptied a succession of lucent green jewels onto the table, drawing gasps of wonder at their size, the brightness of the gold that connected them—“but I ask you, do these look like emeralds to you?”

At this, she dropped the lovely necklace to the ground and slammed down the heel of her boot. The ersatz jewels shattered beneath it, brittle as boiled sweets.

Outrage erupted at the sight. People craned to look. Already, those close enough to overhear were beginning to suspect that they might also have been hoodwinked. Teeth bared, the vendor overturned the table. Every one of his jewels soared, yet none of them broke as they scattered the cobblestones. Quick-fingered gutterlings darted for the treasures.

“See,” the vendor bellowed over the clamor of angry voices. “This woman accuses me of forgery, but she is the only one holding false jewels. It was not me who sold her that necklace!” He pointed at her. “She is a liar. She probably made the damned thing herself.”

“Only an unnatural would accuse an honest person of lying,” the woman retorted. The word froze the crowd. “Perhaps you work for the grands ducs, who terrorize us from the shadows. Perhaps you fund their criminal activities with the sale of forgeries!”

Now the scent of a fight was in the air. With my mask in place and a hood over my hair, I watched as more and more people were drawn into the disagreement. As words became shouts, then shoves, then blows. And then I watched the soldiers clock what was happening.

One of them nodded to the others. Moving in regimented unison, they stepped from their posts.

Léandre and Nadine had bought me time, but it was sand in an hourglass. I could not waste one grain. I sprinted for the Forteresse de Justice.

I ran through the side passage and into the courtyard beyond, where I stared up at the nearest building. Arcturus was much closer than I had realized. I took in the high walls of the church-like edifice, topped with a dark wooden spire.

Dreamscapes were closing in. Guards, no doubt, called to cover the front gates while the soldiers were away. With little choice, I slipped into the building and closed the doors behind me.

The crypt-like space beyond was barely lit. There was still a rosy glow in the sky, but the windows in this place were small. Gilded struts streamed like sunrays from the ceiling, swooping down to kiss the tops of crimson pillars. It did not strike me as a likely entrance to a prison.

I found a winding stairway in a corner. Nerving myself, I began to climb. At the top, I stopped, wonderstruck.

This was definitely not a prison.

I was standing in the corner of a jewel box. Stained-glass windows soared to a starry vault high above me, which was crisscrossed by ribs of gold. The moribund light of dusk spilled in, scattering the marble floor with splinters of a rainbow. For several moments, I could do nothing but absorb it, the shimmering iridescence of the hall.

Though its name eluded me, I knew of this place. A former chapel, it was famed for these spectacular windows, which had once portrayed hundreds of scenes from a religious text. Wanting to preserve its beauty, if not its purpose, Irène Tourneur had ordered the medieval glass to be rearranged. Now the windows narrated the story of Scion. Not all of it, of course. Just the parts we were allowed to know.

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