Page 209 of The Bone Season

Julian took all of this in his stride. ‘Are you sure you want to do this, Paige?’

‘I’m sure.’

The three Magdalen residents stood by as Jos scrambled on to the table and joined the hug. I released my first easy breath in weeks. Liss was right. Maybe we did have a chance.

On the first day of July, I got up at sunset. I left the yellow tunic in the cabinet and put on my undershirt and combat trousers. I laced up my boots, as I had too many times before. I trimmed my hair back into its bob.

Arcturus Mesarthim waited underneath the stars. I met him on the grass of the Great Quad.

‘I’m ready,’ I said.

He nodded. I nodded back.

THE BICENTENARY

1 September 2059

In the lost city, summer died like a weak fledgling. Late in August, autumn killed it.

Almost overnight, the leaves turned red as my aura, gold as the eyes of our merciless gods. A week later, they were falling in heaps. The Cherwell iced over. I woke to frost on the windows of Magdalen.

Before I knew it, it was the day of the Bicentenary.

Two centuries since Britain was placed on a silver platter and handed to Nashira Sargas. Two centuries since the inquisition into clairvoyance began. Two centuries since the first Bone Season.

Tonight was the celebration of all of it.

A woman watched me from a gilded mirror. Her cheeks were hollow, her jaw set. It still took me by surprise that this hard, cold face was mine. Though Warden had fed me as much as he could, food supplies had dwindled in the days leading up to the Bicentenary.

Nashira had not invited me to another feast.

I smoothed down the front of my dress, which had cap sleeves and a tight waist. The pleated skirt fell almost to my knees, worn over sheer black tights. A pair of small gold hoops hung from my ears.

After Warden appealed my demotion, Nashira had reversed it, supposedly as a mark of goodwill. More likely, the red dress was meant to conceal the blood she was going to spill for my gift. Scion emissaries would be used to violence, but too much of it could unsettle them – perhaps even put them off their negotiations for new places to imprison us. Then again, those might now be in question.

A month ago, Warden had told me the nature of the Great Territorial Act, which had been due to be signed at the Bicentenary. It was an agreement to establish another penal colony near Paris.

Fortunately, Michael – an intrepid spy, able to eavesdrop on both Rephs and humans – had discovered a hitch in these plans. Benoît Ménard, the Grand Inquisitor of France, could no longer attend the Bicentenary due to illness. He had been the guest of honour.

It was too much to hope that his absence would stop Sheol II. Ménard might have sent a representative. If not, it was only a matter of time. Regardless of what happened tonight, the Rephs would keep establishing these prisons. If they had the most powerful voyants locked up, there would be no way for the rest of humankind to fight. Scion, the Bone Seasons – they were built to shackle and silence the people most able to resist the Rephs’ rule.

Whether or not anyone was there to sign the Great Territorial Act, the Bicentenary was still on. The emissaries had arrived on the train at noon, along with squadrons of armed Vigiles. All day, the Overseer had been entertaining the visitors at the Residence of Queens.

Now I sensed them moving towards the Guildhall. Warden would be escorting me there soon. I needed to stop killing time.

Then again, I might not have much time left at all.

I sat to adjust my shoes yet again. They were uncomfortable, with a buckle and a narrow heel, red brocade to match the dress – clearly meant to hobble me, in case I had a mind to run.

My hair shone, curling to my shoulders. The Overseer had insisted on me wearing makeup: powder, blush, eyeliner. I was to look well and presentable for the emissaries. Most of all, I was to look happy.

Nashira had never formally told me I was going to die. No doubt she meant to take me unawares.

In the gloom, I wound the gramophone and moved the needle. Soft, echoing voices filled the parlour. I checked the name of the record. ‘I’ll Be Home’ – a song I had never heard before now. It was calming.

If everything went to plan, Iwouldbe home by morning. No matter what happened tonight, I would never return to the Founders Tower.

The thought opened an unexpected hollow in my chest. Over two months, Warden and I had spent almost every night and day in this parlour. Even after Gail repaired the roof, I had rarely chosen to sleep in the attic. Every day had worn down my old fear of him.

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