Page 62 of The Mask Falling

“Of course.”

I waited, hands clammy, every muscle tense. The attendant brought my drink and a basket of bread. The clock ticked.

At ten past nine, Georges Benoît Ménard, Grand Inquisitor of the Republic of Scion France, emerged from his study. As usual, he wore a black suit and a red tie. Nothing too flashy.

His face creased into a smile when he saw me. How strange that someone feared for his cruelty could almost look kind.

“Luce.”

I was about to say his name, but stopped in favor of a warm smile of my own. Ménard used his middle name officially, but I had no idea what Frère called him in private.

Ménard walked around the table. As he embraced me, I stole a glance toward the Salon Doré. He had left the door just slightly ajar. A moment later, I was looking at his face, and he touched his mouth to mine. To hers.

His lips were smooth and soft. His skin smelled of soap, his breath of lemon. He smelled clean.

“You are beautiful. As always.” Ménard placed one hand on my stomach. A plain gold spousal ring shone on one finger. “Is all well with the little fish?”

He spoke French, like all his staff. I was starting to wonder if it was a small act of defiance against England.

“Kicking away,” I said, locking my hand over his. “Impatient to meet us.”

His brow darkened. “You never told me she had started kicking.”

“I felt the first one this morning,” I said smoothly. Hard as it was to hold his penetrating gaze, I kept going. “I came to tell you earlier, but Jaquot said you were on the phone.”

Ménard smiled back at me. “I think this one will be Inquisitor. If Mylène doesn’t get there first.” He placed a kiss on my temple. “Onésime joined me for breakfast this morning. He still seems very worried.”

A memory. The Archon. Frère had said that her elder son always thought a new baby would take her away from him.

“Of course he is.” I let out a light, Frère-esque laugh. “Yet he was the first to love Mylène and Jean-Michel.”

“I reminded him of that. But perhaps you should talk to him again, too.”

“Of course.”

He took off his dinner jacket and folded up the sleeves of his crisp shirt before he sat. His olive skin looked golden in the firelight. There were shadows under his eyes that aged him by ten years.

“It will have to be a quick supper. I’m expecting another call. And you must be tired,” he said. “Aleka said you had a migraine earlier. The pressure of this charade is affecting you.”

Charade.The blood froze in my stolen veins.

“I wish I could deny it,” I said carefully. “But when the anchor calls—”

“—we all must answer.” Ménard reached across the table to hold my fingers. “Well said, as always. But this is not your burden, Luce. Perhaps you should see the consultant tomorrow.”

I kept an iron grip on my composure. Bythis, he was referring to something I had yet to understand.

“Your burdens are mine. And there’s no need,” I said. “Migraines are common in pregnancy.”

“You never complained of them with the other children.”

“Well. Each time is bound to be different.” I willed my hand to remain dry. “Gabrielle was telling me that she had them with Nora.”

“Auclair.” Ménard nodded. “How is she?”

“She brought disturbing news.” I looked deep into his eyes. “She believes Paige Mahoney may be here, in Paris.”

“Mahoney.” His hand tightened, just a little, around mine. “How sure is she?”

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