Page 135 of The Bone Season

The fifth and six members of our group were found in 2057, over a year after I joined. It happened during a vicious heatwave, rare in the Scion Citadel of London. One morning in August, a local courier reported two new voyants to Jaxon. Neither of them had declared themselves.

Jaxon dispatched me to deal with it. By then, he had already made me his mollisher. At only seventeen years old, I was a future mime-queen.

I worked myself to the bone for the honour. Jaxon was mellow and charming when pleased, but quick to anger, with a cruel streak – a man as mercurial as the Thames. He was soft on Nick, given his demanding job in Scion – it helped that Nick was generous with his earnings – but Eliza and I were expected to give our whole selves to the underworld.

By and large, I was happy to oblige. I had blossomed in the syndicate, as I never had at school. Jaxon paid me well, and I had my own room at the den. My father had asked me to visit several times, but I kept putting him off. I was tired of pretending to be amaurotic.

As mollisher, one of my duties was to inform new arrivals of their duty to pay the syndicate tax. It had been difficult at first – one seer had already pleaded for leniency – but I soon hardened myself. Jaxon was like a rough stone on the hands, callusing all he touched.

Led by the courier, I found the newcomers in a coffeehouse on Gower Street with a group who were clearly not from Scion. Confirming my suspicions, I tailed them to the Anchotel by Euston Station, where visitors from the free world stayed.

A false alarm. Jaxon sent the hapless courier away with a clip on the ear and a warning not to waste his precious time again.

Nobody expected tourists to respect syndicate law, but the pair had intrigued me. One of them was probably a sensor – relatively common in London – but the other had an aura I had never sensed before.

Jaxon overheard me telling Nick about it. He sauntered in with a glass of absinthe, leaning against the doorway.

‘This might be worth a little more investigation,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Why would two young voyants risk their lives to visit Scion?’

‘They might not know,’ Nick said. ‘Paige didn’t.’

‘Perhaps we could enlighten them.’ Jaxon had that ambitious gleam in his eye. ‘Paige has done her part, Dr Nygård. Your turn now.’

Nick looked sceptical, but nodded.

He soon had some information for us. It pertained to the Grand Conference.

Every five years, the University of Scion London held an event to educate outsiders, inspiring them to embrace the anchor. Eager tourists, politicians, celebrities and investors were invited from all over the free world. They travelled by private charter and basked in luxury for a week. Some of them would continue on the Grand Tour to Paris, Stockholm and Athens.

Scion was seducing them. It wanted them to return to their countries and campaign for conversion, reducing the need for expensive invasions.

At present, the Grand Conference was in full swing. Jaxon despised it. For an entire week, his section was flooded with Vigiles, whose presence disrupted syndicate business. Worse still, there were tour guides on every corner. Scion paid them to keep the visitors on approved paths, avoiding prisons and execution grounds.

On the third day of this, I got up to find Jaxon standing by a window.

‘I am offended by the number of witless amaurotics in my eyeline,’ he said icily. ‘When will they flop back to their own banal lives?’

I joined him. Three laughing men had just emerged from the oxygen bar on the other side of the street. They were easy to clock as tourists – their clothes were bright and loose, unusual in London.

‘I could give them all a headache,’ I offered.

‘Oh, the temptation.’ A dark chuckle escaped him. ‘No. Don’t waste that extraordinary gift on people so unpalatably ordinary, Paige.’

Nick sent a message at midday. The mysterious pair were attending the Grand Conference on a programme funded by a university in Boston.

So far, neither of them had been detained. Then again, I doubted Scion would risk arresting a pair of outsiders, even if they were unnatural.

‘Their names are Nadine Arnett and Ezekiel Sáenz,’ Nick told us over supper. ‘Nadine is the student, and Ezekiel is her guest on the programme.’

Jaxon twirled a chip on his fork. ‘I trust you have more than that, Dr Nygård.’

‘As if I would dare to rest on my laurels.’ Nick cut a sliver of fish. ‘I managed to brush past them while they were on a walking tour – close enough to feel their auras. Paige was right. Nadine is a whisperer.’

Jaxon gave me a nod. Whisperers were a kind of sensor. They could hear the voices of spirits and channel their tiny vibrations into instruments.

‘A pretty gift,’ Jaxon mused, ‘but by no means … groundbreaking.’

‘Come on, Jaxon.’ Eliza gave him a knowing smile. ‘I wasn’t groundbreaking, either.’

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