Page 61 of The Mask Falling

“Si je te laisse gagner, c’est pas gagner pour de vrai. Papa ne sera pas d’accord.”

“Tu m’embêtes.”

It took a moment for my hearing to adjust, and for their voices to sound less than a mile away. This time, I had seized control of Frère while she was wide awake.

“Maman.” Jean-Michel rested his head against my stomach. “When will the baby come?”

He spoke in English. “Soon,” I said, mirroring him.

Jean-Michel looked up at me, brow crumpled in thought. “If your head still hurts when she comes out, will she have a headache, too?”

I had to smile at that. “No, mon trésor. I don’t think so.”

Frère had been left with enough of a headache for me to keep up that charade, then. Good.

“Maman will be all right soon, Jean-Mi,” said another voice. “Papa will make her feel better.”

An older boy was leaning against another pillar, one eye on his data pad, dressed as if for a formal dinner. Onésime. He took more after their father than his siblings. I had known I would have to deceive the children, but it felt wrong to involve them more than necessary.

“Of course he will.” I gave Jean-Michel a brief pat on the head. He yawned. “Speaking of Papa, I think it’s time I got ready for supper. And time that Jean-Mi was asleep.”

Kotzia was up faster than a jack-in-the-box. “Come, then, children,” she said. “You can have milk and cookies before bed.”

“Cookies!” Mylène sprang up, fist clenched in triumph. “Yes!”

“Calme toi, petite sotte,” muttered Onésime, with a flick of his forefinger. “And . . . you lose.”

Mylène stared back at her data pad and stuck her lip out. “Cheat.”

As Kotzia picked up the drowsy Jean-Michel, I glimpsed the toy in his hand. A doll with its head twisted off.

“The Grand Inquisitor will see you in the Salon Vert,” Kotzia told me in French as we proceeded upstairs. “He may be a little late. He is on a call with Chief Tjäder.”

“Very well.”

Birgitta Tjäder commanded Scion’s invasion force. What was the Butcher of Strasbourg whispering to the Magpie?

Focus, Paige.

After Kotzia had handed the children to another member of staff, she returned to do my hair, securing it with a ruby-studded comb. She passed me an ivory shirt with an overlay of bobbin lace, then helped me into a crimson evening gown, unbuttoned to the waist to show off the lacework of the shirt, with sleeves that cut off at the elbow.

“Will you need anything else?” Kotzia said, once I was ready.

“No, thank you, Aleka. Give my regards to Charlotte-Marie.”

She looked mildly surprised. “I will. Thank you.” A proud smile. “She has a front-page piece tomorrow, about our moral obligation to the people of Portugal. It’s very good.”

“I look forward to it. Every word furthers the cause.”

Her smile widened. When she was gone, I gave myself a final appraisal in the mirror. I looked the part.

All I had to do now was convince a tyrant.

The Salon Vert, true to its name, had mint-green walls and curtains. A table set for two was covered by cloth of a deeper green, and a fire roared in the hearth, its light reflected by gold adornments on the walls. So far, there was no sign of Ménard. I took a seat.

“Madelle.” An attendant looked into the room. “Good evening. Something to drink?”

“Rose mecks, please, Émilien,” I said. It was what Luce was usually seen drinking at engagements.

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