Page 87 of The Mask Falling

“I can’t stay, Cade.” I motioned to my swollen cheek, my lip. “Frère will kill me for what I did to her.”

A muscle in his jaw rolled out. “Yes.” He turned away. “I can’t help you tonight, Paige. Get some rest. Tomorrow, if you still want to escape, we’ll work it out.”

“Wait,” I said. He stopped. “President Gonçalves. Do you know if she issued a surrender?”

“Not yet. Guess she’s holed up in a bunker somewhere.”

I could almost see her now. Caught like prey in some underground room. Ears pricked for heavy boots at the door. One hand on a gun, either to shoot the invaders or herself. Either that, or it was a pen she held, and she was poised to sign her name to the surrender.

Even if she signed, her life might still be forfeit. Only if they were in a forgiving mood would they allow her to stay on as Grand Inquisitor.

“I’m sorry,” Cade murmured. “I know I can’t ever understand, Paige, but I’m sorry.”

With a gentle squeeze of my shoulder, he left me to the silence in the attic, and the bitter sound of the festivities outside. I sank back onto the daybed and stared at the ceiling.

Deep in the night, my eyes snapped open, and I breathed in, pain knifing into my chest.

I knew exactly how I was going to find Sheol II.

12

Moth in the Wall

The celebrations went on all night. Fireworks. Parades. Never-ending anthems and cheering on Rue du Faubourg. Half the citadel seemed to have gathered at the gates of the Hôtel Garuche to rejoice. The voices outside soared to fever pitch, shearing my nerves thin.

At some point, I must have drifted off. When I woke, golden light shone through the window and tinseled the dust in the air. There was a blanket tucked around my shoulders and two small pills on the table, along with a cup of tea. Cade had also left me his radio.

It was silent outside. The citadel had reveled itself to exhaustion.

At ten, it came back to life. Red hot-air balloons took flight over the citadel. An hour later, the aerobatic division of the Inquisitorial Air Force performed a display. Their smoke trails crisscrossed the blue sky. Wrapped in the blanket, I washed the painkillers down and tuned the radio to the news. I listened as the presenter announced a national holiday. Except for those in vital services, all denizens could leave work to celebrate. Frank Weaver called upon Daniela Gonçalves, who was still in hiding, to issue her unconditional surrender.

Gonçalves must be in a private hell. Her surrender would end the bombardment (“Scion is merciful, President Gonçalves, take heart”). It would also end all formal resistance.

In her fortified room, Gonçalves would be asking how she could justify her actions to whichever god or code she held dear. This choice would cement her place in history. It would decide whether she was remembered as a traitor or a martyr, a coward or a hero. The longer she postponed, the more of her people would die. Even though Scion had the capital, air strikes on other cities would not cease until the surrender.

At noon, I heard Ménard live on the radio. He stressed the crucial role of French soldiers in taking Lisbon—they had formed the bulk of the invasion force—and commended the Grand Commander of France for his swift and decisive actions on the frontline. Lavish celebrations were planned in the event of an official surrender, including a masquerade at the Grande Salle de Paris, with guests chosen by lottery from all around France.

It chilled me that the conflict had escalated this quickly, after such a short period of resistance. When they had set their sights on Ireland, they had been forced to wear it down over several years, in a long war of attrition.

Europe stands on the verge of war.The continent is a tinderbox, hungry for a spark.

The spark was inching closer to the tinder. Soon it might burn hot enough to set the world alight.

By one, there was more breaking news. The Second Inquisitorial Division would now split. Half its forces would remain in Portugal to oversee the transition to Scion, while the rest would continue the campaign. The meaning was clear. Without so much as a pause for breath, Scion was going for Spain.

I would make a final attempt to find information on Sheol II. I knew who might have the location, and suspected he would be willing to sell it. Afterward, whether or not I succeeded, I would leave by whatever means necessary and get my intelligence to Domino.

Cade arrived at two with pastries and coffee. He pulled the door shut behind him, laid the tray on the table, then beckoned me close.

“Unsurprisingly, Ménard has canceled our discussion. He has press conferences and meetings for the rest of the day, and he’s made a reservation for dinner in Le Marais.” Cade spoke under his breath. “Take the opportunity and go.”

“How?”

“The night staff arrive at eight. Possess a Vigile. Open your door.”

“Then what?”

“Turn right out of your room and keep going until you see a portrait of Jacquemine Lang,” he said. “Behind it, you’ll find the hidden opening the kids use to get into the attic. It leads to a sealed-off staircase, which will take you down to the Winter Garden.”

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