Page 196 of The Bone Season

A huge bouncer guarded the door. He nodded me through without checking my card.

It was dark and hot inside, the music almost deafening. The space was packed with sweating bodies. According to Nadine, it was a converted bell foundry. A bar ran the length of one wall, serving oxygen and mecks from different ends; to its right was a dance floor, where lights flashed through dry ice. I sensed a seer, a physical medium.

For whatever absurd reason, Nick being in love was hurting like a punch to the gut. I would make it a clean break, and not allow myself to stop and feel.

I forged into the crowd. When I reached the bar, I sat on a stool, glimpsing my dim and distorted reflection in a mirror. This bar was a mixed bag of voyants and amaurotics. Even now, I had no idea what I was doing among them.

The waitron – a seer – raised his bushy eyebrows. I had a bad feeling I had seen him before. If this establishment paid tax to the Wicked Lady, it was best I didn’t stay for long, and vital that I didn’t associate with any voyants here. They would have me hurled off her turf.

‘Evening,’ he said. ‘Can I get you something?’

‘Blood mecks,’ I said.

‘Coming up.’

I risked a look around, already out of my depth. Eliza could drift into any club in the citadel and waltz out with a ride for the night. I had no idea how she did it, except that she drew admirers, the way her dreamscape attracted spirits. I clearly lacked her magnetism.

Nobody was looking my way. It was hard to catch a single eye in this darkness, let alone signal to a stranger.

There was a group of amaurotics at the other end of the bar. I was just about to give up and leave when one of them approached me. Nineteen or twenty, he was clean-shaven and a little sunburned. A mess of dark hair flopped on to his brow.

‘Hey,’ he called over the music. ‘Are you here by yourself ?’

I nodded.

‘Reuben Evans,’ he said. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘I’ve ordered, thanks.’

‘Mind if I sit?’

I shook my head. He took the stool next to mine.

‘I haven’t seen you before, and I come here a lot,’ he said. ‘Are you from around here?’

‘No,’ I said, calling up my English accent out of habit. ‘I live in Piccadilly. I take it you’re local.’

‘I’m from Cardiff, but I’m at the University.’ Now I could hear the mellow accent. ‘My digs are over in Shadwell. What brings you here?’

The Welsh had felt the sting of the Molly Riots. Scion had outlawed Cymraeg, along with the other Celtic languages, enforcing the blanket use of English. Reuben must come from significant privilege, to not bother to hide the way he spoke. Scion parents, perhaps.

‘A friend recommended this place,’ I said.

‘It’s good.’

It had been years since I had socialised outside the syndicate. I was coming to the swift realisation that I had forgotten how to make small talk.

The waitron handed me a glass of blood mecks, edged with honey. In winter, it was the most popular of the alcohol substitutes, made with cherries, black grapes and plums. Reuben gestured for the same.

‘So,’ I said, clearing my throat, ‘what are you studying?’

‘History of Scion Art. I’m in my second year,’ he said. ‘I want to be a curator at the Imperial Gallery.’

‘That’s interesting.’

‘I assure you, I am a very interesting person,’ Reuben said, with a dashing grin. ‘Sadly, all my friends are studying Inquisitorial Law, the most tedious subject. Rosie there wants to be a Vigile, of all things.’

‘That’s tough work.’

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