Page 121 of The Mask Falling

Arcturus returned his nod. “You may call me Warden.”

“Warden. Fine.” Léandre twitched his anvil of a chin toward Ivy. “Who is that?”

“Ivy,” I said. “One of my allies from London.”

“The passages are unstable,” Léandre said, eyes flinty. “I had not accounted for seven people.”

“She has experience of working underground.”

The corners of his mouth pinched as he pulled on his jacket. I took that as a reluctant agreement.

When everyone was ready, Le Bateleur gathered us all together in front of the entrance. Léandre waited for a long beat before he spoke.

“There are certain rules to follow underground,” he said. “I will not hesitate to leave you behind if you break them.”

Ivy gave me a blank look. “Ivy doesn’t speak French,” I said to Léandre. “Could we use English?”

Léandre stared at the ceiling for a moment.

“We must hope we do not encounter anyone,” he continued in English, “since the grands ducs are on the hunt for all of us. Do not stop. Do not speak to anyone. If you can, do not speak at all. A single raised voice could set off a cave-in.” He was going to love my cough. “Le Passage des Voleurs is a very deep section of the carrières, beginning at the bottom of a mining shaft we call Apollyon. It will lead us to Versailles, but it is slow. A journey that would take a few hours above ground will last at least two days.”

Two days without any daylight.

“If you get lost, you sit and wait for one of us to find you. If you are afraid, you sit and wait for us to return for you. And make no mistake,” Léandre said, “you will be afraid. When we reach the bottom of the earth.”

With that, he adjusted his backpack and disappeared so smoothly it was as if the wall had swallowed him whole. I let Renelde and Ankou go after him before I crouched myself.

“Good luck to you, Underqueen,” Le Bateleur said. I slid my legs into the gap and dropped onto a mound of rubble. As soon as I had my balance, a hand caught my arm. Léandre had waited for me.

“There is one more rule,” he said in an undertone. “You may be queen in London—but here, in la ville souterraine, I am king.”

“Of course,” I said. “Your turf.”

He seemed to weigh my sincerity before he strode ahead, to the front of the line. As I followed, I double-checked the outer pocket of my backpack for the stimulant from Ducos.

In silence, we ventured into the dark. Arcturus walked close behind me, Ivy in front, with Malperdy bringing up the rear. Their presence, and the nodding beams of our headlamps, made it easy to stay in the present. I let my gift sleep so I could focus on the placement of my boots and head.

When we reached a half-flooded gallery, Renelde signaled for us to keep quiet. We picked our way between stepstones that jutted like teeth from the flood. Not a single drop touched my skin, but the smell of it—stagnant, lurking water—was enough to unsettle me. I used my sleeve to stifle my coughs.

At the end, Léandre steered us left, into a tunnel so low I had to dip my head. Arcturus must be bent double behind me.

The air was already too close for my liking. Straight ahead, Ivy moved fluently, used to these conditions. The silence was a bellows, smothering me even as it opened space for thoughts to prey.

I thought of the last time I had seen Jaxon, living in opulence while I was tortured. I thought of piercing his heart with the stiletto, of burying a bullet in that ever-ticking brain. I imagined how it would feel to watch the light in his eyes disappear for the last time.

I should want to see it. After everything he had done, I should wish him dead. I should want to be the one to kill him.

Just then, the æther fluted a warning. I overtook the others—difficult in the confined space—until I reached Léandre.

“There are people coming.”

Léandre spared me a glance. “How do you know?”

“Marcherêve,” I reminded him.

I could have sworn he rolled his eyes. “Mettez vos capuches. Vite,” he said, signing into the flashlight for Ankou. He lifted his scarf over his mouth and raised his hood. “You keep your head down, marcherêve,” he added to me. “You are too conspicuous.”

I was getting the distinct impression that Léandre did not particularly like me.

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