Page 23 of The Mask Falling

“I’m from the London syndicate,” I said under my breath. “Help me, and I can make it worth your while.”

Mélusine searched my face.

“Katell sent you,” she said at last, her tone resigned. “Didn’t she?”

****

Sunlight glittered on the snow again by the time we emerged from the bathhouse. I savored the crisp air, willing the steam out of me. Beneath my coat, I was uncomfortably damp.

Mélusine walked at my side. Gaiters covered her heavy-duty boots, she wore a puffer jacket, and her hair was scraped into a ponytail. Now we were outside, I could see it was mossy green.

“How is the syndicate structured in Paris?” I asked her.

She glanced at me before she answered.

“We call it Le Nouveau Régime,” she said. “There are three grands ducs—Le Latronpuche, La Reine des Thunes, and Le Vieux Orphelin, who each control two of the six cohorts. Within those cohorts, there are local officers, the patrones, who oversee the districts. They are all named after tarot cards.”

“Is there an overall leader?”

A snort escaped her. “Not officially, but Le Latronpuche thinks himself king.” Her lips pressed together. “If you wish to see Le Vieux Orphelin, you will be disappointed. He has been missing since New Year. No one knows what has become of him.”

Another missing voyant. Now I was suspicious. “And what do the other two grands ducs say about this?”

“They are trying to find him. Or so they say.”

“You think otherwise?”

“If I did, I would not tell you so.” She looked straight ahead. “Thoughts like that are dangerous.”

Arcturus was waiting for us in the derelict church. He stood in a pool of sunlight where the roof had caved in.

“Mélusine,” I said, “this is my . . . associate.”

She had to crane her neck to look Arcturus in the face. Her eyebrows crept up, and I knew she was trying in vain to read his aura.

After the scrimmage, I had asked Eliza, who was sighted, what she saw when she looked at Arcturus. She had described his aura as resembling a dark cloud that spat occasional glints, like embers.All their auras look unstable, she had told me.Like sparking wires.

Mélusine finished her examination with a shrug. “Is it just the two of you?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“It is forbidden to show anyone the way through the carrières without express permission from the patrones. I was caught once before.”

She showed me her tongue, solidly black. I remembered now. In Paris, revealing the secrets of the syndicate earned you a spoonful of l’encre ardente, a poison that discolored the mouth and caused a week of excruciating cramps. It could take months for the stain to fade.

“Should it happen again,” she went on, “I will be banished. And I cannot let that happen.”

“I wouldn’t be asking you to do this if it wasn’t urgent.”

Mélusine looked hard at my face, as if she could remove my lenses through sheer willpower.

“You say you are from the Mime Order,” she said. “Tell me, did you work for the Underqueen?”

“You could say I still do.”

At this, she chewed her lip. Uneasy allies were rarely reliable, but she was our best shot at getting to the syndicate.

“Katell is an old friend,” she said at last, “and I know she has been desperate for coin since Paul was taken. For her sake, I will guide you to the grands ducs. You are clearly not Vigiles.”

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