Page 186 of The Mask Falling

“Have you any evidence of this so-called bargain, Ignace,” he demanded, “or is that another secret you hide behind that mask?”

“I thank you for asking that question, mon frère,” Le Vieux Orphelin said. “Rest assured, I have evidence to prove your corruption. A ledger that belonged to the Man in the Iron Mask.”

He held up the object in question. Every gaze was pinned to him as he opened it and skimmed a finger down the page.

“There is my name,” he said softly. “And the names of our lost friends, all anormaux who have not been seen since the listed dates. Their sponsor—the person who betrayed them—is listed as one P. Waite.” He showed it to them all. “This is your true name. Is it not?”

“I deny it.” Le Latronpuche mustered a grin. “You would make a poor lawyer, Ignace, to bring nothing but ink to a trial—ink from a pen that could have been yours. In fact, if that ledger does belong to the Man in the Iron Mask, one might wonder how you obtained it. Areyouin league with him?” He whirled to face the witnesses. “Are there no others who can verify your story, give credence to your forged document? Anyonenotfrom your own pack of sycophants?”

“I can.”

Every head turned. It took me a moment to realize that the voice that had broken the silence was mine.

“Hello again, Latronpuche.” I moved toward him, parting the crowd. “I know I promised I wouldn’t interfere. As it turns out, we can both lie between our teeth.”

When I was close enough for him to see me in the dimness, I removed the mask. At once, the mutters turned to high-strung chatter. I walked past Le Latronpuche and joined Le Vieux Orphelin on the platform.

“Anormales of Paris,” I said to them, “I am Paige Mahoney, Black Moth, Underqueen of the Scion Citadel of London. With his brave perdues at my side, I retrieved Le Vieux Orphelin from the clutches of Scion, and from its masters, the Rephaim. And I hereby accuse Le Latronpuche of treason, of collusion with the anchor, and of human trafficking.”

Le Latronpuche appeared to have frozen in place. His gaze darted from one face to another, drinking in the reactions to my appearance. He conjured another of his smiles and stepped toward me.

“Underqueen,” he said in a honeyed tone, “this is a terrible misunderstanding. Of course, as I said when we last met, you are most welcome in Paris—”

“The Underqueen was alive, and you knew?” an augur shouted. “For how long?”

“Did you plan to sell her, too?”

“—but,” Le Latronpuche shouted over the din, “whatever you believe you saw, whatever lies Le Vieux Orphelin has told you, it had nothing to do with me.” His voice hardened. “There is no evidence that I have ever conspired with Scion.”

Our gazes locked. The slippery bastard was right.

That was when the æther rang. For the first time in days, a smile pulled at the corners of my mouth.

“Actually,” I said, “I have a witness. A witness who would be deemed credible in any court of law, be it voyant or amaurotic. Someone who knows you better than anyone.” While Le Latronpuche looked baffled, I motioned to the voyants at the back of the hall. “Open the doors.”

They obeyed. Not half a minute later, a lone figure in a tailcoat marched inside, his wig aquiver.

Last I had seen him, he had been pounding a street with his fists as his auction house burned to the ground. Jaxon had always dismissed him as an incompetent fool. He might be a terrible binder and an even worse poet, but I had never been more pleased to clap eyes on anyone.

“Oh, for the love of Nostredame and the fear of Hades,” Le Latronpuche said wearily. “Please. Not like this.”

“Mister Waite, welcome to Paris,” I called across the hall. “Thank you for answering my urgent summons.”

“You are very welcome, Underqueen.” Didion was ruddy-cheeked, panting as if he had run all the way from London. “Any question I can answer, any service I can provide, it would be my pleasure and my privilege.” He spoke at great speed in French. “Ask, and I shall deliver.”

Ivy slipped into the hall behind him. She gave me the smallest nod.

“Thank you,” I said, with a smile at Didion. “First, would you be so kind as to introduce yourself ?”

“Friends, I am Didion Waite,” he declared, in his element at last. “Binder, auctioneer, curator of rare spirits, and renowned author of illicit literature, includingBring Forth the Smelling Sa—”

“Thank you, Mister Waite,” I cut in, before he could list all one hundred and forty-seven of his published works. “I only have two questions, if you’d be so kind.” I pointed at Le Latronpuche. “Who is this man?”

“His name,” Didion said, almost slavering in triumph, “is Pantaléon Waite.” He took his time over each syllable. Le Latronpuche looked as if he had just aged twenty years. “It was given to him by our late mother. You see, Underqueen, this man is my elder brother.”

“Half brother ,” Le Latronpuche said under his breath.

“Thank you again, Mister Waite,” I said. “And may I confirm that this”—I took the ledger from Le Vieux Orphelin—’is his signature, to the best of your knowledge?”

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