Page 224 of The Bone Season

‘My thanks to you all,’ the Overseer called. ‘I trust that you enjoyed our masque,The Fall of the Bloody King. Now, I give you … the Suzerain!’

Nashira stood in the candlelight to be applauded, surrounded by stage blood.

‘My congratulations to the Overseer. His skills as a writer and thespian have shone tonight,’ she said. ‘Alas, the end of the masque also heralds the end of our celebration. At midnight, our train will return you to London – but before you are escorted to the station, I wish to show you the future, as our performers have shown you the past.’

‘Your mouth was to be sealed,’ Alsafi said to me. ‘I will leave you free to speak.’

He left my side, and then so did Terebell. Warden was in the gallery – I sensed him. The memory of the kiss burned through me again. I grasped the pendant.

‘The Overseer and his performers have proven that rehabilitation is possible, with the Bone Seasons. Their talents beautify our city,’ Nashira said. ‘Sadly, not all clairvoyants’ abilities can be moulded for good.’

The hall fell deathly silent.

‘This year, a woman was sent to this city from London. As a child, she was accustomed to sedition, for she hails from the Irish province of Munster, known for its wanton violence during the Molly Riots.’

Cathal Bell must be sweating again. A few of the emissaries muttered.

‘After receiving a home in London, as well as a private education, this woman chose to repay Scion by devoting her life to crime,’ Nashira said. ‘Early in March, she murdered two of her fellow clairvoyants – both serving Underguards, loyal to Scion. It was a cold-blooded and cruel affair. Neither of her victims died quickly. She was transported here at once, in the hope that she could be redeemed. I believed we could improve her, teach her to control herself.

‘It pains me to admit that our endeavour to reform her has failed. She has answered our compassion with insolence and brutality. There is no option left for her but to face the judgement of the Grand Inquisitor.’

Thuban brought my death to the stage. I recognised the great sword he carried. A blade of steel, coated with gold. A black hilt with a cross guard.

The Wrath of the Inquisitor. Scion almost never used it. The last time I remembered was about six years ago, when a voyant had been found to be working in the Westminster Archon. The streets had been full of people that day, drawn to the sight of a new kind of bloodshed.

I was the daughter of a defector. That was why. Scion had sent me to one of their best schools, and I had repaid them with defiance.

‘Fortunately,’ Nashira said, ‘we have educated this woman just enough for her to understand the danger she poses. Tonight, she willingly passes her unnaturalness to me, so I might harness and destroy it. Dear friends, we are merciful, but not foolish. I wish to prove this to you now.’

So it was to be decapitation. The head was the part of the body we associated with the dreamscape. She was removing the house of my spirit.

This was it. With clammy hands, I reached up to my hair, tucking the stray curls back into the chignon, and took a shaking breath.

‘Come forward, 40.’

I obeyed.

There was a hush as I emerged, my heels loud on the stage. I walked as if they were all beneath me, ignoring the anchorites’ murmurs and hisses. All I had to do was live. By morning, I could be in London.

When I was close to Nashira, I stopped, folding my hands placidly in front of me. I made sure to keep my lips together, as if Alsafi had sealed them.

From here, I could see the bell jar, and what it now contained – a flower in bloom, as clear as if it had been spun from ice or glass, its petals touched by a curious, iridescent glow. It had a small presence in the æther.

The amaranth, a flower that grows only in the Netherworld. Its history extends to the time before we came here. Now it is a forbidden symbol of rebellion. A rejection of the legitimacy of the Sargas.

Nashira was clearly aware of it, but for now, she had eyes only for me, her most pressing concern. The amaranth looked as if it could shatter. It wept small drops from the ends of its petals.

‘You face the Wrath of the Inquisitor,’ she said. ‘Kneel and be at rest, 40.’

I should do as she said, to keep her off her guard. But Warden had never knelt when they were beating him. I stared her down.

And then a voice came from the gallery. I couldn’t see Jos, but I recognised the voice of a polyglot, sweet enough to call every spirit:

In fair Dublin City, where the girls are so pretty,

‘Twas there I first met with sweet Molly Malone

She drove a wheelbarrow thro’ streets broad and narrow,

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