Page 56 of The Mask Falling

“Shh.” I gave it the lightest pat. “I’ll give Maman back soon, I promise. Don’t tell anyone.”

Another kick.

There was a little time left to compose myself. I walked to the nearest window and looked down at the private terrace. I fluttered my fingers, rolled my shoulders, cracked my neck. Arcturus had been right. After possessing a Rephaite, this was effortless.

At the stroke of seven, a smartrat-a-tatcame at the door. I wet my lips before I spoke.

“Entrez.”

The door opened to admit a pale woman in delicate wire-rimmed spectacles. Her oxblood hair was sliced into a bob. This was Alexandra Kotzia, the personal secretary. Her father was a close friend of the Inquisitorial family—I suspected collaboration with Scion before the invasion of Greece—and at twenty-four, she had moved from the Scion Citadel of Patras to join their household staff. She had since married Charlotte-Marie Deschamps, a popular journalist.

If I could remember all that in a heartbeat, I could remember everything else I needed in this place.

“Luce.” Kotzia held a white data pad, to match her bleach-white teeth. “Good morning.”

“Aleka,” I said, using her nickname.

“I’m sorry to leap on you right away, but Auclair called on urgent business last night.” She spoke in rapid French. “I scheduled a meeting at half past seven, before your breakfast with the Société Française pour la Préservation Culturelle at eight. I did try to reschedule it, since you have more pressing engagements, but they really are insistent. It’s about the state of the public gardens.”

Well, at leastsomebodywas thinking about the state of the public gardens.

“After that, you have lunch with Madelle Vérany, a meeting with the Minister for Industry at three, a phone call with the Chief of Vigilance at half past five, your obstetrician will visit at six, and then you have some time to spend with the children.” Kotzia glanced up. “And the Grand Inquisitor has asked if you would like to join him for supper at nine.”

“Yes,” I said. “Of course.” I tried to tug up the pitch of my voice. “Where is the meeting with—”

The Minister of Internal Security. Surname: Auclair. Arcturus in the parlor, testing me.First name?

“— Gabrielle?”

“Your office, as always.”

“Of course.” I kneaded my forehead. She seemed oblivious, but there was no harm in guarding against future suspicion. “I have a migraine. Would you fetch me something for it, Aleka?”

“Luce,” she said, all concern. “Please, go back to bed and rest. Let me speak to Minister Auclair and postpone the meeting.”

“Is she already here?”

Kotzia looked apologetic. “Yes.”

This was a spanner in the works. Canceling would be the easiest option, but it would be out of character. I doubted anything kept Frère from her work.

“No need to postpone.” After a pause, I said, “But I wonder if you could move our meeting to the Bureau Cramoisi so I can stay close to the apartments.”

“Yes, of course.”

I gave her a tiny nod, as if even the smallest movement hurt. As she clicked out on white kitten heels, I remembered the floor plan. The Bureau Cramoisi was very close to the Salon Doré. Two rooms away.

Frère needed a shower before she met anyone important. Mingled with sweat, I could have sworn I smelled two distinct fragrances on her skin. Ménard must have spent the night with her and risen early. In interviews, he claimed to work long past midnight and start again at five.

The bathroom was all dark marble and gold leaf. I stapled my gaze to the ceiling while I undressed, and while I showered behind a glass screen. Jets bathed my host in cool water and covered her in scented foam. Frère might never have been waterboarded, but my fear snowed her with gooseflesh.

Her loyal assistant had once been a free-worlder. I had learned all I knew of the Balkan Incursion from Maria, who had been a resistance fighter in Bulgaria. She had never gone into detail about what had happened in Greece, the first country to ever face invasion by Scion, but clearly some its denizens had escaped the taint of rebellion. Kotzia had only been three or four during the occupation—she must have little memory, if any, of a world before the anchor.

New jets rinsed my host clean and blew her dry. I stepped out of the shower. It was lucky I was accustomed to pain: Frère was riddled with it. Her thighs cramped. Her back was sore. She was breathless, almost as much as I was in my own body. Pregnancy was clearly no picnic. I enveloped her in a towel, brushed her perfect teeth—her gums hurt and bled—and took her back to the bedroom, where I found the silver watch she always wore. Next, I put on the red dress, feeling like the Queen of France. For a Scion official, Frère dressed remarkably like a monarch.

An elderly attendant soon arrived with sweet Greek coffee and some tablets. I took all of them. While I fed my host sips of the coffee, I combed her thick hair until it shone.

Two key opportunities had already presented themselves. First, a chance to size up the Salon Doré. Second, the dinner with Ménard, which I needed to prioritize.

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