Too soon, he stopped. The echo faded from the vaults.
‘Paige,’ he said. ‘You were gone for some time.’
‘I fell asleep in the Rookery.’
I joined him on the bench. There was just enough room for us to sit together without touching, but his aura brushed mine.
‘One of the red-jackets saw Michael when he was in the House. David, the oracle.’ Even though we were alone, I spoke under my breath. ‘You were betrayed once before. What should we do?’
Warden was perfectly still, save his eyes, which flickered. I watched his face.
‘Did he make demands in exchange for his silence?’ he asked.
‘No. He even offered to help us.’
‘You believe he knows of our plan, then.’
‘He certainly suspects we’re plotting something up here. You, me and Michael.’
Warden seemed to withdraw into his thoughts for a while. His eyes were darker than their wont.
‘This could destroy everything,’ I said. I needed to impress the urgency of this on him. ‘If he breathes one word to the wrong Rephaite, we’re both fucked.’
‘He would tell his keeper first. Pleione is one of us.’
‘He goes to those damned feasts with Nashira.’
I wondered if he would advise me to dispose of David. In a place like this, murder would be easy. A cut throat. A body hauled into the woods to be devoured by the Emim.
Easy to do. Not so easy to live with. No matter how much I mistrusted David, a cold-blooded murder would cling to me. I would have to know that it had been the only way.
‘Nashira will not believe whispers of rebellion without proof this time. Too much rests on the Bicentenary,’ Warden finally said. ‘Does he have evidence that Michael was there?’
‘I don’t see how he could. It’s not like there are any cameras here.’
‘Then we may be safe. And she would suspect foul play if one of the red-jackets were to go missing.’
‘I thought the same. Will we call his bluff, then?’
‘If you agree.’
‘I do.’
A small nod. His gloved hand moved in and out of a fist.
‘I saw the vial,’ I said. He looked back at me. ‘You must be in pain.’
‘Do not trouble yourself on my account. I can find distraction enough in our plans. And in music.’
‘You won’t have this organ after the rebellion. Or your gramophone.’ I skimmed my fingertips over the keys. ‘I’ve seen a few pianos in derelict churches in London. I doubt they can hold a tune any more, but you could always claim one. Try to repair it.’
‘Yes.’
‘And there’s music at the black market. Real music, not the soulless dross Scion pumps out. I could show you,’ I said, after a pause. ‘Should our paths ever cross again.’
‘I am sure you would prefer that not to happen.’ His voice was a dark wine, rich and warming. ‘To be rid of me.’
‘I don’t hate you, Warden,’ I said quietly. ‘I did, for a long time.’ I breathed out through my nose. ‘You should have told me earlier that you were a prisoner here, too.’
‘I know. I think neither of us is trusting by nature, Paige.’
‘What reason has the world given us to trust anyone?’
Silence fell like a curtain between us, heavy and velvet. The chapel was so still. I tried to imagine it as it must have been in the monarch days – as a place of reflection, of sanctuary.
‘Tomorrow, we must continue your training in the woods, out of sight,’ Warden said. ‘To ensure Nashira underestimates your skill.’ When I made no reply, he watched the absent-minded trajectory of my fingers across the keys. ‘Do you play an instrument?’
‘No. Whenever I tried to sign up for lessons at school, somehow there was never any space left.’ I permitted myself a faint, wry smile. ‘I do like to sing. Always have.’
‘I heard you in a memory. You are gifted.’
The compliment caught me off-guard.
‘Well,’ I said, clearing my throat, ‘my old Schoolmistress didn’t think much of my abilities on that front. Said my accent muddled the songs, whatever that meant.’
‘She was a fool.’
Our gazes met again. The glow in his eyes was barely there, yet suddenly it was all I could see.
Warden looked away first. He rose from the bench and used a ruby-encrusted snuffer to put out the candles.
‘We should return to the Founders Tower,’ he said. ‘Now the night-bell has rung.’
He strode towards the stairs and was gone. I sat in the gloom for a little longer, wondering at the unfamiliar ache in my stomach, thinking of a story my grandfather had once told me.
That if travellers looked to the marshes at night, sometimes they might glimpse a far-off glow, beautiful and strange. It should always be ignored, for the light would lure the careless away from the safe path. It was called tine ghealáin, but it had another name.
Fool’s fire.
Chapter 3
Storm
SCION CITADEL OF PARIS
6 JANUARY 2060
Trying to get a handle on your sanity, once it starts to slide, is a balancing act. Give a little to the broken parts of you, to keep them quiet and satisfied. Give a little more to the repairs.
With that in mind, I knew it past time for me to get out of bed. I had stayed there for almost a week to feed my broken parts. Today, I would move forward. I would wash and clothe and feed myself, if only to prove that I still could.
Heavy rain hammered the window. Though it was almost noon, the room was as dark as if dusk had fallen.
And Warden was gone.
I craned my neck to see behind me, throat aching. Since the cannula incident, he had stayed with me around the clock while I sweated and trembled my way through the worst of the withdrawal. Several times I had woken to see him in a chair by my bedside, perusing a book, keeping watch out of the corner of his eye. Now there was no sign of him.
I hadn’t meant what I’d said to him. The drug had been racking me, the hunger contorting my insides, and I had lashed out at the only person I could.
Warden was patient by nature, but he was under no obligation to stay and stomach me. Now his dreamscape was gone. For the first time since my imprisonment, I was alone.
Shivers rolled through me. The room was suddenly too small, the shutters hemming me in.
To calm myself – distract myself – I took in my immediate surroundings. All was tidy. The pillow I had thrown was now supporting me, and the bedclothes smelled crisp and sweet. I did not. I felt as if I was coated in candlewax, the wax being my week-old sweat.
I was going to have to face the shower. Even if it washed away the last of my sanity. I disconnected myself from the drip and took a deep breath, only for pain to spike in my chest. I coughed my throat raw.
That was all I needed. A fucking cough. Resisting the urge to lie back down and sleep for a year, I sat up.
Getting out of bed was slow-going. One foot to the floor, then the other, legs trembling. One hand on the bedpost, where a long cardigan waited. When I was up, a grey wave of dizziness almost slapped me right back down. I still had a tight headache.
Getting my arms into the cardigan was the next challenge. My shoulders were rusted, my fingers stiff. It took several tries to force them all the way down to the cuffs, longer to post the buttons through the holes.
At least I was upright. That was progress. Trying not to breathe too deeply, I hobbled across the corridor, into the bathroom. There, for the first time in days, I saw my reflection.
It was better than I had expected. Still grim, of course – I looked gaunt and tired, my eyes bloodshot, my skin dull as old newspaper – but the bruising around my eye and cheekbone was now a mottled olive, and my lip had almost healed. When I lifted my nightshirt, however, I saw that my stomach was still black and blue.
The showerhead glinted in the sullen light. I looked away. Standing under that thing would drag me back
to the abyss, and I doubted I’d fare better in a bath – but I had to re-learn how to do this. I couldn’t let Scion have stolen my ability to wash.
I took a facecloth from the rail, approached the sink, and turned the tap. Hot water shot out, making me start. Shivering, I held the cloth under it until it was soaked. Steam puffed from the sink.
‘It isn’t near your face,’ I said under my breath. ‘Look, you’re fine. You’re fine, Paige.’
Water dripped from my wrist to the floor. I fumbled a bottle of body wash from the cabinet – lavender cream, quel luxe – then undressed and sat on the bath.
Keeping the cannula dry slowed me down, though not half as much as the fear did. Every brush of the cloth made me stiffen. Every time I had to soak it again, I froze at the sound of trickling water. The nearer I got to my face, the worse I shook. I found it helped – just a little – if I tilted my chin down. Smaller chance of inhaling stray droplets.
Before now, I had never realised that tap water had a smell. It was faint and insidious, like creeping damp, and it threatened to unhinge me.
My throat closed. I swallowed past the lump and forced myself to keep cleaning – gently, careful with myself. I found a hard-bristled brush and scoured away the horseshoes of grime under my nails. Drained, I stood up and swaddled myself in a warm towel.
Another search of the cabinet rewarded me with an expensive-looking facial cleanser. I dabbed at my brow and cheeks and neck. Next, I scrubbed my teeth until they squeaked.
Now for the worst part.
‘Right,’ I muttered to my reflection. ‘Time to make your hair look less like a rats’ bacchanalia.’
A steel pitcher stood under the cabinet. I filled it with hot water and took it with me to the bath.
Now for the golden question: head forward or back. Back seemed the logical option – my sodden hair would be off my face – but then, that was how I had been on the waterboard, staring up at the source of the agony. If my hand shook once, I would splash myself.
Forward, then?
I tried to think. When I was about five, there had been an outbreak of nits at my school. My grandmother had spent days teasing them out of my curls, cursing under her breath. It had been a lean month – most months had been lean – and she hadn’t been able to afford the medicated shampoo the nurse had recommended, so she had scrubbed my scalp with salt and vinegar before she attacked. I had smelled like a bag of chips for days.
She had got me to lean forward over the bath. Even now, I dimly remembered the discomfort, the incessant tug of the fine-toothed comb. But then the water would be all around me, streaming off my hair, the air would reek of it …
This was ridiculous. I couldn’t agonise over this decision all day. Head back. I was in control of the jug, not Suhail. I was in control of the water.
Except that my hand shook.
Water streamed over my brow. Blinded me. Spilled on to my lips, tasting of fear. The pitcher clanged off the floor. An instant later, I found myself crumpled next to it, dewdrops clinging to my lashes, a roar in my ears. Gooseflesh rippled all over me. Panting, I groped for the toilet and retched until I thought my stomach would uproot itself.
It was a long time before I could move. I was shaking too hard.
‘Okay.’ I wiped my mouth and got back on to the bath. ‘One more try. Then … food.’
This time, I kept my eyes wide open. And my hand was a little steadier.
It took almost as long as it had to clean the rest of me. When it was done, I scraped my damp curls into a bun and pulled my nightshirt and cardigan back on. Exhausted though I was, it had been worth the effort. It felt good to be clean.
Time to look around. And eat. I was light-headed, and my stomach felt almost concave.
I stepped back into the corridor and, for the first time, switched on the light. Aside from the door to my room, there were three others. One revealed a hot press, its shelves stacked with fresh towels and linen. Behind the second was a walk-in wardrobe. I dumped the nightshirt in a laundry basket and picked out a pair of thick tights, thicker socks, and a knitted dress that almost reached my knees. Anything to feel a little warmer.
The third door led to the parlour I remembered from the morning we arrived. It needed a lick of paint here and there, but it was clean and elegant, and I imagined it would be charming in the summer, with the windows thrown open and the wooden shutters folded back to let in a warm breeze. As I took it in, I kept one hand on the wall to steady myself.
That was when I heard music.
I froze, listening. The song was unfamiliar, but I recognised the sad voice. With my heart in my throat, I reached for the æther. For his dreamscape.
A pair of sliding doors stood open on the other side of the parlour. I padded between them to find a cosy kitchen, and Warden at the breakfast bar, sorting through the contents of a box. As always, he wore a long-sleeved dark shirt, black trousers and boots.
He was here. Slowly, I released my breath.
‘Hi,’ I said.
Warden looked up from his collection. His eyes were a bright, arresting blue.
‘Paige.’ He rose. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Could be worse.’ I tried to smile. ‘You don’t have to stand when I enter a room, you know. I’m not the Queen of England.’
‘You are the Underqueen of London.’
His formality was disconcerting. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘Underqueen-in-Exile now. I can’t do much ruling from here.’ I stepped across the threshold. ‘Besides, you’re my friend, not my … subject.’
‘As you wish.’
There was a long silence, split by a thunderclap.
I was used to the occasional lull in conversation with Warden. We could talk or sit together in silence, and it never felt uncomfortable. This did. The tension was thick as snow between us.
Then again, this was uncharted territory. We had been enemies, and then we had been something else. The space between was strange to both of us.
‘Your hair,’ he finally said. ‘I take it you were able to use the shower.’
‘Not quite. I’m working up to it.’ I held myself to conserve warmth. ‘You left.’
‘To feed.’
‘So I see.’ I smiled again. ‘Do people not go running for help when a seven-foot stranger starts draining their aura?’
‘Usually I can feed without their noticing.’ Warden returned to his seat. ‘I was cautious today. If the Sargas hear of a rogue Rephaite in Paris, they will come for us both.’
I recognised this tone. He had been reserved and curt like this when I met him again after the Bone Season. He became more Rephaite-like when he wanted to protect himself. Or me.
Part of me must have expected us to be as comfortable together as we had been in London. Even if I had broken off the … liaison, or whatever it had been, I had never been less than certain that we would remain close friends. I had come to lean on his counsel and company as much as I did on Nick and Maria.
Perhaps he thought that I should have fought harder for our relationship. That if I had ever cared about him, I would have wanted to keep him by my side even when I was Underqueen. The thought weighted my stomach. The cause had to come first. We had agreed.
Unless this was because of what I had said to him during the withdrawal.
‘I could kill a coffee,’ I said, if only to break the painful silence. ‘Is there any here?’
‘Yes,’ Warden said, ‘but perhaps you should reconsider the wisdom of drinking it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I suspect your withdrawal has been worsened by your additional cravings for caffeine.’
‘This from the man who must drink about a barrel of red wine every single day,’ I said drily.
‘I am aware of my own dependences,’ was his even reply. ‘I am merely showcasing an opportunity to cast yours aside. If you do not wish to become re-addicted to—’
‘Warden, please don’t dissuade me from the solitary mote of joy I have le
ft in my tragedy of a life. I’m being hunted by a tyrant, my entire family is missing or dead, and I’m fresh out of the torture chamber. Please, just let me enjoy my coffee.’
‘Second cupboard on the left.’
‘Thank you.’
It was the real deal, not the tart dishwater I had used to keep my wits in London. I took my sweet time measuring out the grounds and boiling a kettle over the stove. It had been almost a year since I’d had time to indulge in something as decadent as making a proper cup of coffee.
Warden watched me. When I filled the press, a rich tan foam rose to the top. It smelled heavenly. Only when I was finished did it occur to me that I might have trouble drinking it.
The normality of the routine had distracted me. I blew on the coffee before I took a cautious sip. It smoked up all my senses in that familiar way.
No plummet into memory. No choking. Swallowing was hard, but the taste and scent distinguished it from water in my mind, enough for me to keep it down. I breathed it in and took another sip.
Thunder crashed outside, and lightning flashed. The shattering din of the rain unnerved me. While I kept an eye on the storm, Warden started to unpack the food and put it away. I joined him.
‘Who delivered the box?’ I asked.
‘A courier from our new employers.’
‘Have they—’ I stifled a cough, ‘have they been in contact at all otherwise?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Scarlett Burnish implied that they would not issue us orders until you have convalesced for a month.’ I heard the fridge shut. ‘I have made a meal for you. If you are ready.’
I turned. ‘Did you say you made something?’
‘Correct.’
‘Warden, you didn’t have to do that. You’re not here to serve me.’
‘No,’ he agreed, ‘but I am here to help you recover. To recover, you need sustenance.’
Steam billowed from the slow cooker as he opened it. He ladled some of its contents into a bowl and set it in front of me, along with a spoon and three slices of golden-crusted bread.
The Dawn Chorus Page 5
