Page 161 of The Bone Season

Carl had been jittery for the journey, bouncing his knee and fiddling with his air rifle, but he must have fallen asleep on the motorway, as I had. Before he dozed off, he had let slip that 30 used to be called Amelia. As I had guessed, she was a cleromancer, with a particular gift for dice. It took me a while to remember the exact word:astragalomancer. I was getting rusty.

When Carl stirred, I looked at him. His hair needed a wash, and his nails were bitten to the quick, but there were no bruises. Terebell must be treating him well.

‘You can take the blindfold off,’ I said.

He did, blinking. Seeing me, he hesitated, then leaned towards me.

‘Don’t try to escape.’

He whispered it.

‘They won’t let you go. He won’t.’ He glanced at Warden. ‘Oxford is the best place for us. Why would you want to come back to London?’

‘Because we don’t belong there.’

‘It’s the one place wedobelong. We don’t have to hide there, Paige.’

‘You’re not an idiot, Carl. You know it’s a prison.’

‘And this is SciLo,’ he said, his voice hoarse. ‘The Rephs let us live. They give us a chance to prove ourselves. All they give us here is death.’ When I didn’t reply, he scowled. ‘Don’t think I won’t try to stop you running. I won’t let you drag the rest of us down.’

‘No talking,’ the driver interrupted.

Carl slouched back into his seat. I rested my temple against the window, bathed in blue light.

Thirteen years ago, I had thought like Carl. This citadel had been my prison, crushing me in its iron fist. You had to apply for permission to leave. You had to work hard to avoid being caught. You had to fit into the boxes it drew for you: normal, natural, biddable.

It was only when Nick found me again that I had seen its other side. Jaxon had opened the doors tohisLondon – an ancient and unseemly beast, abounding with chaos and secrets, all waiting to be unlocked. Scion had pinned it beneath the anchor, but London could not be contained. Entering the underworld had brought me back to life.

And yet I had seen voyants suffer on these streets. I had seen them cold and hungry, spurned by their own kind. The Unnatural Assembly only rewarded those who were useful, and served without question. The rest were thrown out to rot, like the performers in the Rookery.

London and Oxford – two sides of a coin, darkly mirroring each other.

Carl continued to sulk on my right. I shook myself.

I couldn’t let him get to me. In London, I was mollisher of I-4. I had a name, a purpose, a place. It was worlds away from the cruelty of the Rookery.

Soon we were in Marylebone, where Nick officially lived. I dared not look up as we passed the luxury apartment block on Thayer Street.

Warden gazed at the citadel. No doubt he had been here before. It chilled me that Rephs had been on the streets, and no one had ever noticed.

Except for me, tracking that strange dreamscape in I-4. Even then, the Rephs must have been looking for Jaxon. I couldn’t understand the fixation. To them, he was just one criminal among many.

The driver turned down Bulstrode Street. He was a robust man in wire-framed spectacles and a suit. An earpiece flashed every so often. No doubt Scion paid him well for his silence. It was morbidly fascinating to see its inner workings from this angle. For two centuries, they had guarded the secret, protecting and feeding the forge of the anchor.

In Soho, Warden motioned for the driver to stop on Warwick Street. The man left the car. I sat in tense silence, my heart in my throat. This was my turf. Jaxon owned these streets. Every courier and thief here reported to him. I knew most of them by name.

When the driver returned, he carried a large paper bag. Warden passed it to me. Inside were two hot cartons from Brekkabox, the most popular food chain in the citadel, which served breakfast all day and night.

‘For strength,’ Warden said. ‘You may need it.’

Carl reached straight into the bag and took his share. I opened it again to find a breakfast wrap, a pot of porridge, and a disappointing lack of coffee.

Trafalgar Square was about half a mile away. I took advantage of the stop to probe the æther, my scalp prickling. Thousands of dreamscapes pressed against mine, giving me an immediate headache. I tuned my perception, but it was too hard to focus.

Our car pulled into the courtyard of a building on Suffolk Place, just off Haymarket, namesake of the Underlord. He ruled this part of the citadel personally.

A night Vigile received us with a salute. Warden got out first, opening the door for me and Carl. He was being too courteous towards humans in public.

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