Page 76 of The Mask Falling

Drip, drip.

He was in his study with Frère. They stayed there for a long while, then retired together to the private apartments, leaving only a handful of dreamscapes on the move. The mansion had a skeleton staff at night, including the armed Vigiles who stood outside my door.

Cade was in his room. I still wasn’t sure what to make of him, just as I had never been sure in the colony. His commitment to Ménard was a riddle. So was his liaison with Frère.

Drip, drip.

I wondered about Frère. Cade had a clear motive for the affair, if a naïve one, but all Frère seemed to have gained was a pregnancy that might spell her undoing. No matter how much he adored and relied on her, Ménard could not allow an unnatural progenitor to remain at his side. She would lose her opulent lifestyle, her children, and in the end, her life. All for a fling.

Frère was devoted to Scion. Now I considered what else she might be. Bored of the many constraints of naturalness, even as she preached them. Hungry, after a lifetime of comfort, for a taste of real danger. Cade was good-looking, and he had a certain assurance about him that she must have found attractive. Attractive enough, apparently, to risk her head.

Drip, drip.

Every muscle in my body was spring-loaded. I stared at the wall, my head full of voices.

Drip, drip.

That fucking tap. I fantasized that I could tear it off the sink, smash it to bits, burn the whole mansion to the ground so that good-for-nothing tap could never drip again. I thought of shoving the mantle into the sink, knowing I would be too cold without it. Finally, I clamped the cushion over my ear. With the sound muffled, I started to slide into a doze.

Paige.

I bolted upright, every fine hair on end. A whisper in my mind —my name, clear as a stricken bell.

Arcturus?

Silence answered on both planes, but he was closer than before. He was coming. Solaced by the thought, I clapped the cushion back over my ear and slept.

****

A Vigile slammed a tray on the coffee table, jerking me awake. Before I could fully remember where I was, he was gone, and the door was locked.

I remembered soon enough. Sore all over, I sat up, the mantle around my shoulders, and examined the meal. One heel of stale bread, scabbed with mold, and a small glass of milk. I nibbled around the mold, but left the drink. I knew spoiled milk when I smelled it.

The Hôtel Garuche was beginning to wake. When dreamscapes started to trickle in, and Frère stirred in her room, I knew it must be almost six. Cade was already up and pacing.

Fear warred with my resolve. I could defy Ménard. Steal another body. Search the Salon Doré. Grow a spine. How many times had I stared death in the face before, and how many times had I cheated it?

If I failed to find Sheol II, I was condemning the voyants there to enslavement and death. I needed to be brave for them. Yet every time I started to dislocate, I saw myself trapped in another dark room.

Cade had promised to get me out of this cell. I would wait and see if he came through.

The sun ascended. I brushed my teeth. Another Vigile threw down my lunch, which consisted of an apple bruised with rot and a slab of white meat I decided not to touch. Thirst scraped my throat dry. I could have killed for a coffee.

My hunger was so distracting, I failed to notice the subtle changes in the æther. Suddenly the door unlocked and creaked open, and a dark-haired child appeared.

“Oh.” Mylène blinked as if I had startled her. “You’re a person.”

There was no way Frère or Ménard would have allowed their daughter to visit me in my cell. When I probed the æther, I realized the Vigiles had left their posts.

“Last I checked.” I offered a smile. “I don’t think you’re supposed to be here.”

“I know. I sneak up sometimes, even though I’m not allowed.” Mylène spoke in fluting English. “I heard Maman say there was a bad thing in the attic, but there’s just you. Areyouthe aboma . . . abunash . . . aba . . . ” She blew out a frustrated breath. ‘I don’t remember how to say it.”

“Abomination,” I said, pronouncing it the French way. “Is that it?”

She gasped. “Yes!”

“Do you know what that word means?” I spoke gently. “It’s not a very nice thing to call someone.”

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