Page 7 of The Mask Falling

The snow-covered quay trimmed the river with lace. Beyond it were the louring rooftops of the Île de la Citadelle, home of the Inquisitorial Courts and the Guild of Vigilance.

“I suppose Domino did not mean for us to access the roof,” Warden said, “but when I found the key, I thought we might use it to celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?”

He nodded to something behind me. I turned.

On a flat section of the roof, overlooking the Seine, a rug had been rolled out. Candles flickered in jars around dishes of food, which surrounded a small and ornately decorated cake.

It was past midnight. My twentieth birthday. After everything, it had slipped my mind.

“I know this is a modest celebration.” Warden spoke to the chimney. “After all you have endured, you deserve—”

“Warden.” I gave his wrist a brief squeeze. “It’s perfect.”

That made him look back at me. No smile. Unlike humans, Rephaim rarely signaled their thoughts or emotions through facial expressions, but his features softened a little—at least, I liked to think they did. I liked to think I was learning to read him.

“Many happy returns of the day, then, Paige,” he said.

“Thank you.”

We sat on the rug, Warden with his back against the chimney. I swung my legs over the edge of the roof and basked in sweet, unbottled air. He knew I had been restless indoors. Here, I could lie under the stars without risk.

He had somehow assembled a picnic for me. A cheese board accompanied by sliced bread and butter. A bowl of crisp salad, tiny potatoes and hard-boiled eggs nestled among its leaves. Pears and red apples and oranges. Pastries so delicate they looked as if they would vanish if I picked them up. There was even a dish of sugar-roasted chestnuts—my favorite.

“Where did you get all this?” I went straight for a chestnut. “Don’t tell me you made it from scratch.”

“I am not so impressive. Albéric delivered it at my request.”

Albéric was the contact who provided our supplies. Even though all our requests had been fulfilled—Warden had illegal wine, I had coffee—I had never seen our mysterious benefactor come or go.

“Cake was, apparently, not available,” Warden continued. “I acquired this one elsewhere.”

A smile pulled at the corners of my mouth. “Are you saying youstoleme a birthday cake?”

“A tribute to your vocation, Underqueen.”

My smile widened.

We listened to Paris. Citadels were never silent.Blue tone, Nadine called it—that low and ceaseless roar, like one long exhalation, the rush of lifeblood through vein-like streets. Sirens and traffic and an undersong of voices from the transmission screens, which spoke all the way through the night. I took a bite from a wheel-shaped pastry filled with praline cream.

“A drink?”

Warden was holding a silver jug. “What is it?” I asked.

“Le chocolat chaud.” His voice deepened when he spoke French. “Do you care for chocolate?”

“I do,” I confirmed.

He poured some into a gold-rimmed demitasse and passed it to me. It was thick and sweet as molasses. I sipped it between bites of food.

For our first week here, I had barely eaten. Now I was ravenous. Once I had sampled everything, I made a start on the cake, which was swathed in coffee-flavored icing. It had been a long time since I tasted something so good, something meant to give pleasure.

“What would happen if you had a bit of this?” I asked Warden as I cut a second wedge.

“I would rather not say while you are eating.”

“Now I’m really curious.”

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