Page 12 of The Mask Falling

The Mime Order was still very young. Its divisions had made it fragile from the beginning, then Senshield had paralyzed it for weeks. Now this. A coordinated effort to destroy it.

The capital was still under martial law, thronged with ruthless soldiers. Eliza and Glym, who were ruling in my stead, would have to work around the clock to keep this operation from snuffing the flame of revolt.

“What are the Ranthen doing at the moment?” I asked.

“We cannot entrust too much information to psychopomps, since they can be intercepted,” Arcturus said, “but before I left, Terebell told me that her current aims were to reconstruct Alsafi’s network of human contacts, and to continue making Rephaite allies.”

“Good.”

The film ended. Arcturus gave a half nod of approval—I took that as a seven out of ten—before he rose.

“I must take aura,” he said. “I will not be long.”

It was a risk for either of us to go outside, but he had no choice. “Be careful.”

He stopped beside me on his way out, to cover me with a second blanket and tuck it around my shoulders. As the door closed behind him, my thoughts returned to the threat in London.

I had faced an army, but never had to contend with spies. Ognena Maria had once told me it was thanks to espionage that Scion had crushed the rebel militia in Bulgaria. Leaks had opened in its ranks, one by one, until it sank without a trace. That could happen again.

I was still Underqueen. Even though I was over the sea, I had a duty to protect my syndicate.

My body was still reclaiming lost sleep. Close to midnight, the sound of the door woke me. I traipsed downstairs, collected the supplies, and restocked the fridge and cupboards.

Under a warm loaf of bread, I found an envelope. Inside was the map of the citadel I had requested from Albéric. Once I had looked it over, I folded it and tucked it into my pocket.

There was no reason Scion should know I was in Paris. To avoid damaging faith in the regime, it was possible they hadn’t even told the Vigiles I had escaped the executioner.

I knew how to avoid detection. I had done that before, under worse circumstances. I could go outside. It would be a risk, but the news from home—that the revolution was once again in danger— had galvanized me. I could not just sit and wait for Domino.

I had arrived in London as a frightened child. I had left as the ruler of its underworld. If there was one thing I knew how to do, it was twine myself into the sinews of a citadel. I needed to acquaint myself with Paris, find its voyants, and help the Mime Order.

Not long after our arrival, I had glimpsed some hair dye in the bathroom cabinet. I dug it out, scrubbed it through my curls, and set a timer. As always, it took a while to negotiate the shower, and I shook as I rinsed out the dye and watched it drain away, red as old blood. When I blow-dried my hair, it sprang back richly copper, each curl shiny as a coin. And I almost looked—

—like my father.

My father.

Saliva washed into my mouth. I hunched over the sink, gripping its edges so tightly it hurt.

He was gone. He was dead. I saw the block again—the swing of the gold-plated sword, the blood that had dripped from its blade. I met my own eyes, the eyes of a daughter who had abandoned her father to his doom. Who had defied Scion, knowing he might pay the price, and had not lifted a finger to protect him.

I would make it right the only way I knew how.

And I would start tonight.

2

Paris

When Arcturus returned, he looked stronger, as he always did after a feed. He found me sitting at the table with a coffee. I had pinched my cheeks and dabbed concealer over my dark circles.

“Hi,” I said.

“Paige.”

He made no comment on my hair. Just took off his coat and hung it up.

“Albéric came,” I said. “We have more wine.” I cleared my throat. “Can I talk to you?”

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