Page 192 of The Mask Falling

Ménard was like a statue. For someone who despised the Rephaim, he could look just as emotionless.

“France will seem like a bastion of stability in comparison, and you—Benoît Ménard—like the only worthy replacement for a fool and a marionette,” I said. “You could take England. We wouldn’t be averse to that, so long as you keep working against Nashira Sargas.”

“And in return?”

“You will suspend all capital punishment of clairvoyants.” I placed both hands on his table. “I know you can’t release all the prisoners in the Bastille without compromising your public support. That support keeps you in power. But youcankeep the prisoners alive. You can retire the guillotines.”

“And how am I to justify this sudden absence of executions in France?” Ménard asked, unperturbed. “The people expect blood. Since the dawn of human civilization, they have thirsted for it.”

“You’re a clever man. Perhaps you can pretend you understand the concept of mercy.” I leaned closer to him. “I’ve been busy in the year since I was arrested. As you said yourself, I have made a great many connections that I could, at any moment, exploit. If you break this ceasefire—if you kill one clairvoyant, even in secret—I will know. Do not test us.”

“That is all you want, then.” He laid a hand on his mask. “An end to the bloodshed.”

“For now. Prove that you can keep to this arrangement and resist your deep-rooted urge to murder innocents, and perhaps, in a few months, we can discuss the ways we might work together to bring down the Suzerain. To save humankind.” I straightened. “But make no mistake, Inquisitor Ménard—this is a marriage of convenience, nothing more. We might both be human beings, but we have very different ideas of what humanity means.”

Ménard dredged up a grim smile at that.

“I will announce a suspension of public executions in a week. I will say that we must show greater restraint than monarchs like Esteban de Borbón,” he said. “Two years, Madelle Mahoney. That is what I will give you. Two years of clemency. If I hear a single whisper from the Mime Order against me before this truce comes to an end . . . I will burn all of you.”

“I would expect nothing less.” I turned away. “Enjoy your evening, Inquisitor Ménard. You’ll be hearing from us very soon.”

I left.

Outside, Cade was leaning against the wall, arms folded. When I blazed past, he followed me down the steps. “That was quick,” he said. “Did you get what you wanted?”

“That remains to be seen.” At the bottom of the steps, I turned to him. “Have you had enough yet?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m asking you if you’re ready to stop working for him. If you’d like to work for me instead.”

Cade glanced up the stairs. The door had just closed above us.

“Meet me on the Pont Neuf. I need some air,” he said. “Getting a little stuffy in this place.”

****

We returned to the checkered floor. Cade left first, to avoid drawing attention, while I lingered in a corner. I shook my head when Le Vieux Orphelin moved to approach me. If someone saw me with him and reported it to Ménard, he would know exactly what Le Vieux Orphelin looked like, and I could not give him that power. He had to fear the specter of the streets.

Léandre came to my side instead. “Well?” he said. “Did he agree?”

“Yes.”

“Well done.” He breathed in through his nose. “Although . . . all of this seems too easy.”

“That’s why I’d like another lick of varnish on the deal. We need someone on the inside. Someone to watch him.” I glanced up at him. “Wait for me. I won’t be long.”

“Where are you going?” Léandre asked, but I was already heading for the cloakroom to retrieve my coat.

The cold hit me like a solid wall of ice. I pulled on the coat as I walked past the Vigiles outside, away from the light show at the front of the cathedral, past the line of last-minute arrivals and the limousines. Cade was nearby. If I could get him on side, it would make my deal with Ménard watertight. Let it be my next move in the game against Nashira Sargas.

And the blood-consort. Let him see that I was not defeated. Steel queen. Iron heart.

I crossed the cobblestones, my head bowed against the snow-flecked wind, and followed the street left toward the Petit Pont. Cade was waiting for me under a lamppost.

He had removed his mask. When he looked at me, I stopped dead. Fatigue was stone-rubbed under his eyes, which were dull and bloodshot, and his brow shone with sweat. He wiped it with his sleeve. Despite it, he was clearly feeling the cold, burrowed deep into his coat.

“So,” he said, with a dour smile, “what kind of employment are you offering, Paige?”

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