Page 183 of The Mask Falling

We had another source of coin outside the syndicate. We could be more than just a rabble of thieves.

We could still beat Scion.

“I know a way to prove our organization is more than ready,” I said. “Meet us on the Île des Cygnes tomorrow, just before midnight.”

“Given your track record, I will come armed.” Ducos rested her cigarette on the nightstand and dug back into her coat. “I am going to break the rules and give you something. Because I like you, Paige, in spite of the headaches you have given me.”

She held out a sealed tube. I took the dissimulator.

“Do not lose it,” she said, “because that is the last one you will ever get.”

“Ducos,” I said, “thank you. Foreverything.”

“Don’t thank me. Just . . . shower.”

She took the dossier from my backpack, then retrieved her cigarette and left without a backward glance. I sat where I was for a long time, holding my stippled arms.

Somehow, I did as she asked. I rose and stepped into the bathroom, where I confronted my own face in the mirror. Ashen and blotchy, eyes bloodshot, hair clumped in knots, the dye faded. My mask leaned against the mirror. Slowly, I drew a thumb across its features, hard and inert, cold to the touch. I turned away from its empty stare and pulled off my nightshirt.

I shivered under the shower for a while. When I emerged, I dried off and returned to the bedroom, my hair dripping. I tucked it into a woolen hat before slinging on a coat and boots, picking up the backpack, and unlocking the doors to the balcony. I got one heel onto the balustrade and used it to reach a ledge above, and from there, I clambered onto the roof.

The illuminated Arc de Triomphe sent a fire-like glow into the sky. Traffic beeped and roared. I sat down and opened the backpack, taking out the only objects I had left to my name. The leather-bound ledger, my inheritance from my father, and the songbird box, exquisite and delicate. It was a miracle it had survived being thrown from a window.

My fingers curled around it. Before I could second-guess myself, I held it over the edge of the roof.

All I had to do was loosen my grip. The music box would shatter on the pavement below, the song inside forever silenced. There would be nothing left—nothing concrete—of his connection to me.

“Slán,” I whispered.

My ribs seemed to constrict. Instead of loosening, my fingers tightened. My weakness struck again. Even if this box was part of the lie he had spun for me, it was the most beautiful thing I had ever owned. With an unsteady intake of breath, I pressed it to my heart.

It was him. All I had left of the person I thought he had been, the person I had believed would be at my side for years to come. It was a castle in the sky. Breathing in stabs of white fog, I shoved it all the way to the bottom of my backpack and crammed the ledger on top of it. Smashing it would be a waste. I could at least find an antiques dealer to take it off my hands.

All that remained was the gift from my father. I took the penknife from the front pocket of my backpack and dug its blade under the lid. When it broke, I allowed myself to wait for a moment—only one—before I cracked it open and tilted the lid up. Its hinges were stiff.

Inside, cushioned by dark velvet, lay a folded leaf of paper. With care, I opened it. The handwriting was familiar.

It just wasn’t my father’s.

I was curious to see if dear, dull Daddy left you anything in his will. And, lo and behold,he did. Sitting pretty in the Bank of England.

I’ll be waiting for you, darling. Come and see, Pale Dreamer.

Come and see.

Wind stripped flurries of snow from the rooftop. I sat there, staring at the words, until the paper came apart between my hands and the two pieces fluttered into the night.

When I returned indoors, I went straight back to the bathroom. I took the ceramic face and held it up to my own. And I watched Paige Mahoney—all her fears, all her sorrow, all her rage, and all her weakness—disappear behind dark wings. Instead, someone else stared back.

Black Moth.

****

The Île des Cygnes lay right in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower. Separated from the quay by a thin collar of water, the tiny island was home to nothing but storehouses awaiting demolition. A bridge had once tethered it to the riverbank, then a foot tunnel, which had been closed to the public for years. Fortunately, Le Vieux Orphelin had a key to the entrance.

The Eiffel Tower glowed like something newly forged. As I walked, I didn’t let myself recall how I had felt when I had last seen it. Someone else had felt that anticipation and newness and resolve—the woman underneath the mask.

The perdues were waiting at the rusted gate to the tunnel. We pulled it shut behind us and strode between graffiti-coated walls, Ankou lighting our way with a signal lantern. Léandre met us on the other side.

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