Page 217 of The Bone Season

‘As Overseer, I am honoured to help the humans of this city adjust to their new life, and to develop new and useful skills. The Bone Seasons enable us to mould young unnaturals into model denizens before they can do any harm, preventing the need for execution.’

I had seen hundreds of hangings in my time. Even after the introduction of nitrogen aspyxiation, Scion liked to send us warnings from the Lychgate.

‘We truly regret that the Grand Inquisitor of France is unable to join us tonight, and trust he will recover soon,’ the Overseer said. ‘In the meantime, his Grand Raconteur, Aloïs Mynatt, has come in his stead. We are all delighted to announce that Sheol II is already under construction in the Scion Republic of France, with unnaturals to be harvested from Paris and Marseille. Glory to the anchor! Vive la France!’

Aloïs Mynatt raised a glass as the hall erupted with cheers. My stomach curdled.

I had assumed negotiations for a second colony had only just started. Even if I burned this place down, another one was already rising.

‘As the blood-sovereigns have said, tonight is both a celebration of our future and a grave acknowledgement of our past,’ the Overseer said. ‘Our repentant unnaturals have worked very hard to entertain you this evening. Their performance will remind us of the dark days before the Rephaim arrived – the days of the Bloody King.’

I watched as the performers walked out in a line. More of them filled the gallery, standing among the emissaries.

Liss had told me about this. They were going to re-enact the life story of the Bloody King. She had been cast as one of his five victims, Elizabeth Stride. She walked out with a seer named Lotte, cast as Kate Eddowes.

Most of the actors were masked and wore authentic Victorian costumes. Standing among them, the Overseer threw off his cloak to reveal the regalia of a monarch, complete with furs and jewels. The crowd jeered. He would be playing the Prince of Wales, the future Bloody King.

‘Now, we are proud to present our masque,The Fall of the Bloody King.’

What an original title.

Cathal Bell led the applause, naturally. The performers efficiently circled the stage, moving scenery and props. It was all so well oiled; I could only watch.

The first act seemed to take place in a bedchamber. Affecting a pompous English accent, Cyril introduced himself to us as Lord Frederick Ponsonby, Baron Sysonby, devoted secretary to Queen Victoria.

‘Your Highness,’ he said to the Overseer, ‘shall we take a turn outside?’

‘Do you have your short jacket, Ponsonby?’

‘Only a tailcoat, Your Highness.’

‘I thought everyone must know,’ the Overseer declared, ‘that a short jacket is always worn with a silk hat at a private view in the morning. And those trousers are quite the ugliest pair I have ever seen.’

Hissing ensued. I had no idea if any of this was real, or made any sense to the audience. Cyril turned to us, anguish in his eyes.

‘It was after a long awakening of afflictions – for example, with my tailcoat, and my poor trousers,’ he said (to sympathetic laughter), ‘that the prince first grew dissatisfied with his privileged life. He drank and he whored, he feasted and gambled, but none of it sated his appetites. On that very afternoon, he asked me to accompany him on an excursion.’

The next setting was a park. A fairground organ piped out ‘Daisy Bell’ – a reference that won a few knowing chuckles. That song was said to have been inspired by Lady Frances Greville, Countess of Warwick. Edward the Caresser had been notorious for his many affairs.

Ponsonby was clearly our narrator for the evening. Cyril shot us desperate looks as the two of them took a slow turn around the stage.

‘I say, I don’t mind praying to the Eternal Father,’ the Overseer boomed, lighting a cigar, ‘but was ever any man in England cursed with an Eternal Mother, Ponsonby?’

‘Oh, my friends, human suffering has never surpassed that of my queen, watching her son tread the path towards evil,’ Cyril said, as an aside. ‘She knew, as did the good Prince Albert. How did I ever miss the signs?’

I kept watching, morbidly fascinated by this web of truth and fiction.

‘I knew that you were thoughtless and weak,’ a contortionist (playing the aforementioned Prince Albert) despaired in one scene, ‘but I could not think you depraved.’

‘Your words have no meaning to one who now sees as clearly as I do,’ the Overseer said, laughing. ‘Come, test your courage against my depravity!’

A climactic duel followed, delighting the audience. This part had definitely never happened.

Prince Albert fell into bed and died. After a fraught silence, the widowed Queen Victoria appeared, played by one of the tightrope artists.

‘That boy. Oh, that boy,’ she said bitterly. ‘I never can, or shall, look at him without a shudder. His listlessness and want of attention are great, and cause me much anxiety. In truth, he is unnatural to me.’

Alone in the candlelight, she was a bastion of goodness, the last unsullied monarch. As the emissaries applauded, I caught sight of the clock and looked for Michael, finding him close to the stage, entranced by the spectacle.

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