Page 55 of The Mask Falling

“We would not be out of time if you had beenontime,” Ducos muttered.

“Would you sooner I had not been careful?” When Ducos pursed her lips, Cordier sighed and turned back to me. “Flora, are you absolutely sure you feel up to this?” she asked, serious. “From the little I know about what you can do, this will put a lot of strain on your body.”

“I’ll cope,” I said. “I want to do my part.”

Ducos gave a satisfied nod.

“All right.” Cordier steered me toward the bed. “Make yourself comfortable, then, and we’ll get you hooked up.”

I lay on my back. Cordier tucked a couple of pillows under my head while Ducos switched on the ventilator. Now I wished Arcturus had come with me. It was unnerving to leave my body vulnerable with two people I barely knew.

“We’re almost ready to go.” Cordier reached into her bag. “Just need to give you the sedative.”

“What?” I sat back up. “Why?”

“For the ventilator.” Cordier showed me a narrow tube. “I need to sedate you to insert this.”

Danica had custom-made my old ventilator for a dreamwalker. All it had required was a face mask. “If you sedate me, I won’t be able to dreamwalk.” When Cordier looked blank, I said, “Project my spirit.”

She exchanged a troubled glance with Ducos. They were amaurotics, with little idea how my gift worked. “Sorry, Flora. This is all new to us,” Cordier admitted. “Any ideas?”

“I can go into my dreamscape. I’ll be less aware of my body.”

Cordier brightened. “I have no idea whatdreamscapemeans, but that sounds like a fabulous solution.” She took a spray can from her bag. “Let me give you this, at least, to numb your throat. It won’t make you drowsy.”

“Fine.” I tried to relax. “When we’re ready to go, pinch me hard. I’ll feel it.”

“I’ll do that.” She gave the can a shake. “Open wide for me.”

I did, and she blasted something foul-tasting into the back of my mouth. It trickled down my throat.

“Watch the clock,” Ducos told me. “Remember, you have three hours. Bon courage.”

With a nod, I withdrew into my dreamscape. Red flowers opened their petals around me. I was distantly conscious of a strangeness, a discomfort, before the pinch came. I jumped into the æther.

The Hôtel Garuche was close, and I had met Luce Ménard Frère before. Her dreamscape was a beacon. When I took hold of her, it was quick, but gentle. Like catching a mouse by the end of its tail.

****

The first thing I felt was silk against my cheek. My eyelids fluttered as my borrowed senses woke. In the deep blue light of morning, I could see that I was lying on my side in a canopy bed.

Slowly, I lifted one hand to find soft, delicate fingers and manicured nails. I knew I was in the right host when I saw the spousal ring—a ruby flanked by diamonds, mounted on a band of pure gold.

Frère had offered no resistance. She had never been taught to see or react to intruders in her mind. Unlike Hildred Vance, the last Scion official I had walked in, her dreamscape had not been surgically clean, though it was colorless, like every amaurotic mind. It resembled the affluent Place des Vosges, where she and Ménard had first lived together.

A floral scent crept up on me as I settled into my host. I savored it. It had been so long since I had been able to take a deep breath without a stab of chest pain. Still lethargic, I looked around the room, at the lavish crimson furnishings, the dark and polished floor, the vase of fresh white roses. Embroidered gold anchors bordered the sheets.

I checked for a nosebleed and found nothing. Time to go. Filled with resolve, I propped Frère up on her elbows—and remembered she was nineteen weeks pregnant. Her abdomen bulged.

I didn’t think I’d ever even met anyone pregnant. No one purposely had children in the syndicate. Kids cost hard-earned money. Still, I had prepared for this. I could handle a little passenger.

When I was confident that I could stand, I did. Even though I was still connected to my own body through the silver cord, and Arcturus through the golden one, I was virtually cut off from the æther in this amaurotic host. Her flesh numbed me to half the world.

A chandelier glistened above me. This must be the east wing, which housed the private apartments of the Inquisitorial family. Frère and her personal stylist discussed outfits in the evenings, and the stylist would set one or two aside for the next day. I opened the right armoire and found a floor-length dress with a high collar and a low neckline, made of blood-red chiffon.

A golden clock ticked on the mantelpiece. Almost quarter to seven. Above it was a mirror with a giltwood frame. I approached it and scrutinized my host, trying to perfect her expression and keep her dark eyes attentive. Her nose sloped up a little at the end, and her hair fell in waves. Like Ducos, she had the kind of perfect skin, almost poreless in its clarity, that could only be achieved through high-priced cosmetic polishing.

A flicker low down in my stomach. When I gave the bump a tentative nudge, it nudged back.

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