Page 66 of The Mask Falling

It had worked. I was distantly aware of my own body, the chill of the metal roof beneath it. If I could get the hang of this, I could take or leave my life support.

My hand slid across the disheveled sheets, searching for any trace of another body. Nothing. Frère was alone. Either the couple slept in separate beds, or Ménard was still working.

Frère was slow and heavy with sleep. I drew back one of the curtains and craned her out of bed.

I felt my way to the lamp. There was a tiered box of accessories on her dresser. I opened it and selected two hairpins. With tweezers from the bathroom, I bent one of them and straightened the other. A lever and a pick. As if to tell me off, a little flutter came from my passenger.

The bedroom door opened without a creak. Every breath, every tiny rustle of nightdress, seemed painfully loud. The carpet hushed my footsteps as I padded into the Salon Blanc, where the only light was the glow from the hearth.

I glanced over my shoulder before I tried the door to the Salon Doré. It was locked. Ménard had retired for the night.

Good.

The lock was a dead bolt, to blend in with the old-fashioned grandeur of the mansion. I slid the hairpin in, the way Eliza had shown me when I first joined the gang. I edged the pick in above my lever and used it to hook the closest pins. Once I had a feel for them, I worked on the first one until it gave way.

Sweat pearled on my brow as I coaxed the next pin, and the next. At last, the lock admitted defeat. Now for the electronic defense. Heart in my throat, I turned to the scanner beside the door and pressed one finger to it. With a tinybeepand a click, the door opened.

I was in.

Darkness hung thick in the Salon Doré. I retreated a few steps, took a candle from the mantelpiece, and lit it on the embers of the fire. Beneath my heartbeat, there was another patter. Rain against the windows.

My own body would be soaked to the bone before long. I needed to get this done and get out.

I stepped into the study and closed the door. Gold leaf reflected the candlelight. A chandelier, dripping with crystal, adorned the white ceiling. And there was the desk, near the north wall. As I made toward it, I glimpsed my host in the mirror. Frère looked as if she was sleepwalking. When I reached the desk, I turned the lamp on low and blew out the candle.

In this amaurotic body, I almost missed the threat. Elsewhere in the mansion—two rooms away—a creak sounded.

For a displaced spirit clinging to the mind of a pregnant woman in a nightdress, I moved fast. I switched the lamp off, rushed back into the Salon Blanc, and gently shut the door to the Salon Doré. I had barely turned around before a man appeared on the threshold.

Not Ménard. A little taller. And as his features came into relief, I remembered them.

Remembered him.

Light brown skin and asymmetric eyes, one hazel and one dark. His hair had grown out a little since I had seen him last, forming small russet curls. A face from the past.

David.

From the Bone Season. The red-jacket who had known too much. The oracle who had spoken in riddles.

His gaze was intent. I was so stunned to see him at all, let alone here, that I half-forgot I was in Frère. I watched him slide the bolt across. How had he escaped the colony? Why the hell was he here?

“Madelle Frère?”

He came to stand right in front of me. Close enough for me to count the freckles on his nose.

“Luce,” he said, softer, “what is it?”

I was too shocked by his appearance to speak. Before I could form another clear thought, my face was cupped between his palms, and a moment later, his mouth was on mine.

The shock hurtled me back to myself. My own eyes snapped open—rain, darkness, bitter cold—before I looked through hers again, at the bolted door, the gilded walls. I felt as if I was in freefall. Heart thudding, a high-pitched note in my ears, sweat on my palms.

Muscular arms wrapped around me. Strong hands roved over my hips, my back, up to my waist, gathering me against a hard chest. A tongue roamed in my mouth, tasting of mint. A white wind of panic blasted through my mind. What the ever-lovingfuckwas happening?

Raw instinct jolted me out of my freeze. I wrenched free, took aim, and socked David right in the face.

Frère had a weak arm, but her spousal ring caught David on the cheekbone. He managed to strangle his own shout of pain. I plastered myself to the wall as he reeled back, staring at me like I had lost my mind.

“Merde—!” He covered his bloody cheek, eyes watering. “When did you learn to punch like that?”

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