Page 188 of The Mask Falling

“They wenttoo farwhen they marched on Dublin,” I said. “Our Taoiseach called for aid. No one ever came.”

We stood side-by-side for a long while. Ducos reached into her coat and handed me a phone.

“Keep this close. I’ll call you,” she said. “Until then, Paige, don’t get yourself killed.” A breeze teased her short hair across her face as she turned to face me and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Mannequin thanks you for your service. As does the Domino Program.”

She walked until the darkness of the tunnel swallowed her. I gazed at the Eiffel Tower for a long time after she was gone, until footsteps broke my trance and Le Vieux Orphelin took her place.

“To Passy, then, Underqueen?”

It was a moment before I answered.

“Yes.” My voice sounded distant. “Throughout all of this—every step we have taken to get here—we’ve just been sowing the seeds. Now our pieces stand ready. So does the enemy. It’s time we tear open this war.” I looked at him. “And I think I know where we need to start.”

26

All the Devils

MARCH 7, 2060

The Grande Salle de Paris had never looked finer than it did tonight. A spectacular light show played across its façade. Guests from all over the Republic of Scion France were arriving in white limousines in front of the cathedral, all dressed in their best and wearing elaborate masks.

In the distance, red fireworks erupted. Across the citadel, revellers were out in force, drunk on the glory of the double conquest of Spain and Portugal.

Effigies swung from wrought-iron streetlamps. On a corner, a crowd launched another one onto a bonfire. It had straw for hair and wore a crown, and a sign was tied around its neck.

ça ira, ça ira, ça ira

les monarques à la lanterne

The execution of the King of Spain had ended all formal resistance. For trying to help a monarch escape, Pilar Brugués Olivencia had been stripped of her power and imprisoned. In Portugal, the Scion Citadel of Lisbon had been formally named. Madrid would be next.

The Republic of Scion held eleven countries. For all intents and purposes, and with the exception of any last-ditch rebellions, it had won total control of the Iberian Peninsula. From the tip of Scotland to the south of Spain, the anchor now presented an unbroken front to its enemies.

On the other side of the empire were its territories on the Balkan Peninsula, as well as Cyprus. Sweden loomed to the north. Slowly but surely, Scion was enclosing the remaining free countries of Europe.

Eleven would not be enough for its masters. The entire world now lay in the shadow of the anchor.

A blast of wind brought me back to the present. I was with Le Vieux Orphelin on the dimly lit Quai des Orfèvres, and his arm was linked through mine, sure and sturdy. He wore a cream doublet, its sleeves woven with gold thread, the cuffs long enough to cover his knuckles. Léandre walked a short way behind. His half mask was silver, cast in the likeness of a lion.

I had not been back to the Île de la Citadelle since the night the blood-consort betrayed me. Knowing he might be close sent a bolt into my stomach.

“There is every chance, of course, that Ménard will have you arrested on the spot,” Le Vieux Orphelin murmured. “I would not be surprised if he has erected a guillotine in there.”

“I’ll be fine.” I looked at him. “I never asked if he knows your mask.”

“Fortunately, no. I did not wear this mask in Lyon.”

“I suppose you don’t want to tell me what happened between the two of you there.”

The mask tilted up a little.

“I called myself Le Vieux Orphelin,” he said, “because I am a son of the æther, and because my family is this underworld. Butorphelinhas another meaning. Among the criminals and unfortunates of Paris in centuries past, the word could also refer to a goldsmith, or a jeweler. This strange life of mine began in a bookshop—and as you know well, Underqueen, stories hold more facets than jewels, and more worth than gold.”

Another carnival of fireworks lit the nearest rooftops.

“There is always a price to be paid for their telling,” Le Vieux Orphelin said. “The story of myself and Georges Benoît Ménard . . . I am not yet ready to pay that price. Forgive me.”

I nodded. After all, he had never insisted I tell him what had happened between me and the blood-consort that night, in the place I now knew was called Sainte-Chapelle.

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