Page 54 of The Mask Falling

“You’ve been drinking,” she observed.

“Of course not.”

“I have been in Scion for a long time, but I know a hangover when I see one.” She raised a dour smile. “Something has to fill the hollow this life carves in us. For some agents, that something is drink. For some, it is sex. For me, it is smoking. An extension of a transgression I have already committed.”

“What transgression?”

“Hurling myself into destruction.” She held my shoulder. “You have been through a great deal, Flora. This once, I will turn a blind eye to your conduct, on the condition that this never happens again. Do I make myself clear?”

My nod was tiny. She pressed another coffee into my hands.

“Drink.”

I took an obedient sip.

“While you wake up,” Ducos said, “you can listen.” She sat on the end of the bed. “Unfortunately, the ventilator was damaged in transit and now requires manual replenishment every three hours. You’ll need to return to your body while that happens. Not ideal for creating a convincing façade.”

“I’ll make it work,” I said.

“If anyone notices your infiltration, or if you believe your physical location has been compromised, return here at once and leave the building. Steph—our courier—is keeping watch nearby. They will guide you to safety.”

“What if Scion reaches me before they do?”

“In the unlikely event that you are detained, we will not be able to assist you. Our last attempt to rescue an agent almost exposed us.” She looked me in the eye. “Do you have your kill pill?”

I nodded. The capsule of fast-acting poison was tucked into my jacket.

Ducos reached into her briefcase and unrolled a floor plan I recognized. “I wanted to draw your attention to one room in particular. The Salon Doré.” She pointed to the main building. “This is where Ménard is likely to store important and sensitive documents. His private study.”

I kept my face blank. Even if it contained nothing of use to Domino, I needed to get inside that room. It might well hide the second piece of information I wanted.

The location of Sheol II.

“We know for a fact that Ménard has a safe in the Salon Doré,” Ducos said, “and that the safe contains a number of letters that he considers too sensitive for the Scionet. Now, he will certainly be in meetings in that room all day, and for most of the evening—but watch for any opportunity to enter it. I presume a seasoned criminal like yourself can crack a safe.”

“Depends on the safe,” I said. “What if I find other information that could be useful to you?”

“Your assignment is to collect information pertaining to the relationship between Weaver and Ménard. Do not risk your cover for anything else.”

After a moment, I nodded. “Excuse me.”

Eating had been a bad idea. I locked myself into the bathroom and sighed at the unholy mess in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes, clammy face. Quietly, I heaved over the sink. All I brought up was another clot of yellow.

“Great,” I said under my breath.

Something was wrong in my body. I could feel it. I was afraid to find out what it was. If Ducos thought I was too ill, she might take me off this assignment, and I needed to do it.

I set my jaw and washed the sink out. Though it made me flinch, I dabbed my face with icy water. That and the caffeine took the edge off the hangover. I was ready. At least, that was what I told myself.

There were voices on the other side of the door. When I emerged, I saw the newcomer, a woman who was probably in her early thirties. She wore a pencil dress with short flared sleeves, which flattered her hourglass figure. White skin struck a high contrast with the deep plum velvet of the dress and the raven hair that gleamed to her chin.

“—should she be doing this, if that’s the case?” she was saying. “Surely there’s no need to rush this job.”

“There is every need, as yesterday should have taught you. Given the situation—” Ducos stopped talking at once when she noticed me. “Flora, this is our medical officer, Eléonore Cordier.”

The woman regarded me with sparkling corvine eyes. Her lips were painted the same plum as her dress.

“Flora,” she said with a smile. “Welcome to Mannequin.” Her handshake was delicate, and her accent, as far as I could tell, was French. “I hear you’ve given Scion more trouble than the rest of this organization put together. And that you’ve had a persistent cough. I’d do a checkup now, but we’re out of time. Madelle Guillotine is about to wake up.”

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