Page 106 of The Mask Falling

“I will go on the condition that you rest while I am gone.”

I assented with a heavy nod. The numbing agent was already wearing off, and I was becoming acutely conscious of the fact that my lung had been flushed with a seven-inch needle.

In my room, I got back into bed. Arcturus brought a jug of water. “Cordier has left instructions for intravenous therapy,” he said, as he filled my glass. “If you wish to start at once.”

“Might as well. Can’t wait to get shot of this cough.”

For our first few days in the safe house, I had taken saline through a drip, unable to stomach water. Arcturus set everything up again, then sat on the edge of my bed. I watched as he gently attached my hand to the pouch of medicine.

“You know Cordier was flirting with you,” I said, breaking a long silence.

“I had not noticed.”

“She’s . . . very beautiful.”

“Doubtless.” He released my hand. “I will return soon. Use the cord if you need me.”

He was gone before I could wish him luck. Or admit how selfishly relieved I was that throughout the time Eléonore Cordier had been with us, his gaze had been reserved for me.

****

The apartment was too quiet. I drank as much as I could. Even though breathing was easier, my chest still ached, and my face was so hot I thought the pillow would catch fire. In the end, I slid into a drowse—but a vivid image swam toward me. Arcturus, intertwined with Cordier, her hair caught between his fingers. Then Kornephoros took her place in his arms, and I was chained in agony on the waterboard again, unable to move. Only to see. To watch.

I jolted from the fever dream, weltered in sweat, each cheek an open flame. Almost at once, I tumbled into a much deeper sleep, the hallucination drowned by darkness.

It was past midnight by the time I woke, sensing Arcturus. I released myself from the drip and went to meet him.

His hair and coat were damp with melted snow. “Did you find Mélusine?” I asked him.

The fever dream was scorched onto the front of my mind. I forced myself to look him in the face.

“In the coffeehouse.” His eyes were pure yellow, no trace of the green tinge they had in their neutral state. “Those perdues who are not in hiding will meet us in Impasse Hautefeuille.”

“When?”

“Half past two.”

“Good.” I turned away. “I’ll get ready.”

Disturbed though it was, the nap had refreshed me. I went back to my room, where I took the cannula out of my hand. Once I had staunched the bleeding, I opened the nightstand and lifted out a velvet-lined box I had seen, but never used. Greasepaint and brushes glinted inside.

Black Moth had slept for too long. Time to paint over the cracks in me and resurrect the queen.

First, I needed to make a concerted effort with my hair. Leading a rebellion hadn’t left me with an abundance of free time to look after it, as I had when I was still in the gang. Back then, I had loved taking hour-long soaks in the tiny bathtub at the den, then lounging on my bed and working one buttery cream or another into my curls. Jaxon had usually banged his cane on our shared wall and told me to stop steaming up the windows with my faineance, whatever that meant.

At present, my hair was a mess of split ends and stubborn knots. I sat on the edge of the bath, wet my curls in stages, then worked conditioner through to the ends. Once they had a good coating, I teased out the tangles with a wide-toothed comb. Though the wetness on my scalp and nape unnerved me, I found myself relaxing into the routine: the scent of the conditioner, the small victory of undoing a knot. Finally, I rinsed out the suds and found a diffuser to attach to the blow-dryer. My hair sprang.

Back in my room, I took out some cosmetics and mixed a base to cover my bruises, leaving my scar from the scrimmage on show. Next, I dipped a brush in lampblack. From the first stroke, I could see my old self rising from the ashes, all the fear and damage left beneath. Once my eyes had wings, I painted my lips with a dark glaze that went on smooth as ink.

In the wardrobe, I searched for armor, wishing I had Eliza to offer her opinion, or Nick to tell me how fierce I looked. On days and nights like this, I felt their absence keenly. I pulled on a blouse and trousers before I found a black coat, severely cut, which I belted at the waist. My hair had grown just long enough to sit on its roped shoulders. I laced on a pair of boots and slid a blade-like clip into my hair. The final touch was a scarf over my nose and mouth.

Even with all this chain mail and greasepaint, I would have to work hard to convince the perdues that I was a strong ally, worthy of their respect. I could not show them the part of me that wanted to curl inward. The part of me that was forever trapped in the dark.

Arcturus was waiting by the door, gloved and booted. We left without speaking. Ducos had ordered me not to go out, but I would have to risk it. There was no more time to waste.

Impasse Hautefeuille was a dead-end alley, close to the safe house. When we arrived, the perdues—five of them—were already waiting under a lantern. It bathed them all in eerie blue. Instead of skulls, like the rest of their syndicate, they wore the most beautiful masks I had ever laid eyes on. They gave the effect of a shelf of dolls, turning as one to look at us.

“Réphaïte,” one of them muttered.

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