The Mask Falling

by Samantha Shannon

  I didn’t think I’d ever even met anyone pregnant. No one purposely had children in the syndicate. Kids cost hard-earned money. Still, I had prepared for this. I could handle a little passenger.

  When I was confident that I could stand, I did. Even though I was still connected to my own body through the silver cord, and Arcturus through the golden one, I was virtually cut off from the æther in this amaurotic host. Her flesh numbed me to half the world.

  A chandelier glistened above me. This must be the east wing, which housed the private apartments of the Inquisitorial family. Frère and her personal stylist discussed outfits in the evenings, and the stylist would set one or two aside for the next day. I opened the right armoire and found a floor-length dress with a high collar and a low neckline, made of blood-red chiffon.

  A golden clock ticked on the mantelpiece. Almost quarter to seven. Above it was a mirror with a giltwood frame. I approached it and scrutinized my host, trying to perfect her expression and keep her dark eyes attentive. Her nose sloped up a little at the end, and her hair fell in waves. Like Ducos, she had the kind of perfect skin, almost poreless in its clarity, that could only be achieved through high-priced cosmetic polishing.

  A flicker low down in my stomach. When I gave the bump a tentative nudge, it nudged back.

  “Shh.” I gave it the lightest pat. “I’ll give Maman back soon, I promise. Don’t tell anyone.”

  Another kick.

  There was a little time left to compose myself. I walked to the nearest window and looked down at the private terrace. I fluttered my fingers, rolled my shoulders, cracked my neck. Arcturus had been right. After possessing a Rephaite, this was effortless.

  At the stroke of seven, a smart rat-a-tat came at the door. I wet my lips before I spoke.

  “Entrez.”

  The door opened to admit a pale woman in delicate wire-rimmed spectacles. Her oxblood hair was sliced into a bob. This was Alexandra Kotzia, the personal secretary. Her father was a close friend of the Inquisitorial family—I suspected collaboration with Scion before the invasion of Greece—and at twenty-four, she had moved from the Scion Citadel of Patras to join their household staff. She had since married Charlotte-Marie Deschamps, a popular journalist.

  If I could remember all that in a heartbeat, I could remember everything else I needed in this place.

  “Luce.” Kotzia held a white data pad, to match her bleach-white teeth. “Good morning.”

  “Aleka,” I said, using her nickname.

  “I’m sorry to leap on you right away, but Auclair called on urgent business last night.” She spoke in rapid French. “I scheduled a meeting at half past seven, before your breakfast with the Société Française pour la Préservation Culturelle at eight. I did try to reschedule it, since you have more pressing engagements, but they really are insistent. It’s about the state of the public gardens.”

  Well, at least somebody was thinking about the state of the public gardens.

  “After that, you have lunch with Madelle Vérany, a meeting with the Minister for Industry at three, a phone call with the Chief of Vigilance at half past five, your obstetrician will visit at six, and then you have some time to spend with the children.” Kotzia glanced up. “And the Grand Inquisitor has asked if you would like to join him for supper at nine.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Of course.” I tried to tug up the pitch of my voice. “Where is the meeting with—”

  The Minister of Internal Security. Surname: Auclair. Arcturus in the parlor, testing me. First name?

  “— Gabrielle?”

  “Your office, as always.”

  “Of course.” I kneaded my forehead. She seemed oblivious, but there was no harm in guarding against future suspicion. “I have a migraine. Would you fetch me something for it, Aleka?”

  “Luce,” she said, all concern. “Please, go back to bed and rest. Let me speak to Minister Auclair and postpone the meeting.”

  “Is she already here?”

  Kotzia looked apologetic. “Yes.”

  This was a spanner in the works. Canceling would be the easiest option, but it would be out of character. I doubted anything kept Frère from her work.

  “No need to postpone.” After a pause, I said, “But I wonder if you could move our meeting to the Bureau Cramoisi so I can stay close to the apartments.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  I gave her a tiny nod, as if even the smallest movement hurt. As she clicked out on white kitten heels, I remembered the floor plan. The Bureau Cramoisi was very close to the Salon Doré. Two rooms away.

  Frère needed a shower before she met anyone important. Mingled with sweat, I could have sworn I smelled two distinct fragrances on her skin. Ménard must have spent the night with her and risen early. In interviews, he claimed to work long past midnight and start again at five.

  The bathroom was all dark marble and gold leaf. I stapled my gaze to the ceiling while I undressed, and while I showered behind a glass screen. Jets bathed my host in cool water and covered her in scented foam. Frère might never have been waterboarded, but my fear snowed her with gooseflesh.

  Her loyal assistant had once been a free-worlder. I had learned all I knew of the Balkan Incursion from Maria, who had been a resistance fighter in Bulgaria. She had never gone into detail about what had happened in Greece, the first country to ever face invasion by Scion, but clearly some its denizens had escaped the taint of rebellion. Kotzia had only been three or four during the occupation—she must have little memory, if any, of a world before the anchor.

  New jets rinsed my host clean and blew her dry. I stepped out of the shower. It was lucky I was accustomed to pain: Frère was riddled with it. Her thighs cramped. Her back was sore. She was breathless, almost as much as I was in my own body. Pregnancy was clearly no picnic. I enveloped her in a towel, brushed her perfect teeth—her gums hurt and bled—and took her back to the bedroom, where I found the silver watch she always wore. Next, I put on the red dress, feeling like the Queen of France. For a Scion official, Frère dressed remarkably like a monarch.

  An elderly attendant soon arrived with sweet Greek coffee and some tablets. I took all of them. While I fed my host sips of the coffee, I combed her thick hair until it shone.

  Two key opportunities had already presented themselves. First, a chance to size up the Salon Doré. Second, the dinner with Ménard, which I needed to prioritize.

  The logistics would be very delicate. I would have to put Frère back to bed under the pretext of her migraine. Since she had been asleep when I possessed her, she would have the impression of waking up for the first time—except she would have lost about an hour. I would have to hope that nobody asked her about her discussion with Auclair, since she would have no memory of it.

  I almost left the room before I remembered how much Frère liked to adorn herself. I added pearl earrings and a dab of lipstick. Finally, I spritzed her with the first perfume I saw.

  Dealing with Kotzia had been relatively easy. Meeting one-on-one with a minister was my next test.

  The east wing was connected to the main building by an antechamber. As I crossed it, a portrait of Irène Tourneur, the celebrated First Inquisitor of France, seemed to judge me from on high.

  I was now a mere two walls away from the study that might hold everything I needed.

  On a marble-topped desk, a lamp gave off a tawny glow. Gabrielle Auclair, Minister of Internal Security, was waiting in a wing chair, her dark curls scraped into a ponytail. Seeing me, she tucked her phone into her suit jacket and stood. Freckles sprinkled her brown face.

  “Luce.”

  “Gabrielle.” I kissed her on both cheeks. “Have you been offered something to drink?”

  I hoped Frère was usually this gracious. She had spoken cordially enough with Scarlett Burnish.

  “Yes,” Auclair said. “Coffee is on the way.” She smiled at my stomach. “How are you both?”

  “The little one is very well.” I touched my temple. “I wish I c
ould say the same, but I’ve woken with quite the migraine.”

  “Oh, Luce—you mustn’t worry. I had one or two with Nora.” Auclair squeezed my elbow. “Why don’t I come back later?”

  “I have a full schedule today.” I went to the chair on the other side of the desk. “And I understand this is urgent.”

  Auclair returned to her seat. Sweat pricked my scalp as I clasped my dainty new hands in front of me.

  “Luce,” Auclair said, “you told me to keep careful watch for the fugitive, Paige Mahoney.”

  So Auclair knew my execution had been staged. It made sense. If anyone needed to know the secret of my survival, it was the Minister of Internal Security.

  “Mahoney.” I dredged my own name with scorn. “And?”

  “I ordered my teams to take note of anyone who seems to be avoiding the cameras. There are no small number, but none matched Mahoney.” Auclair pushed her data pad across the desk. “Until this was captured near the Pont des Arts. Ten days ago.”

  Shit.

  The data pad showed an image of me on the morning I had ventured out with Arcturus. It had been taken at a distance, and my face, obscured by my hair and lenses, was tilted away from the camera.

  “Ten days,” I finally said. “Why was this not brought to my attention earlier?”

  “There was no recognition alert. Accuracy decreases when the face isn’t captured head-on, and as you can see, this individual has covered their facial landmarks,” Auclair explained. “An operative spotted it last night by chance, while reviewing footage in relation to a reported assault. I arranged to see you at once.”

  The attendant entered with the coffee, and Auclair stopped. I kept hold of my composure by a thread until he left.

  “All estimable biometrics tally with the data we have on Mahoney,” Auclair said. “I consider this a strong potential match.” She breathed out. “You saw her in the Archon. Is it her, Luce?”

  I pretended to take my time studying the photograph.

  “Impossible to tell,” I said at last. “But nobody is safe if she has brought her violence here.” I handed back the data pad. “Find this person, whoever they are. I will have two additional squadrons of night Vigiles posted to the area. Our resources are at your disposal.”

  “Glory to the anchor.” Auclair hesitated. “Will you alert the Archon?”

  I waited a moment, considering my response.

  “I suppose I must,” I said.

  I had struck the right chord. Auclair shook her head in disgust. “Unbelievable that they let a terrorist slip between their fingers. They’ve created the greatest security risk in decades, and now they expect us to clean it up for them. As if we don’t have enough to do.” With a sigh, she slid the data pad into her handbag. “I’ll call you with any developments.”

  She kissed my cheeks before she marched out, leaving her coffee untouched. The moment the door shut behind her, I combed through the desk drawers and an antique cabinet. There was nothing inside them but stacks of letterhead paper and some history books.

  I turned to face the two sets of doors to my left, which led to the next office. Beyond that office lay the Salon Doré. In this amaurotic body, I couldn’t sense whether or not Ménard was there.

  He would be. Most of his day must be comprised of meetings. I could still get a brief look at the entrance. With all the confidence I could muster, I opened the nearest door and stepped through.

  The Salon Blanc was spotlessly white, from its carpet to its ornate ceiling to the lilies perfuming the air. Against my will, I remembered the white room where I had been beaten, and my heart thumped harder.

  Six people in suits sat around a table, clearly gathered for a meeting, their heads bent over a collage of paperwork. My appearance made them all look up.

  “Luce. Good morning.” The nearest removed his gold-rimmed spectacles. “Can we help you?”

  Name: Jakob Coquelin. Position: Second Minister of the Exchequer. I could almost hear Arcturus again. Known to Frère as—

  “Jaquot,” I said, with an apologetic smile, “is the Grand Inquisitor in his study?”

  As I spoke, I looked past him, to a pair of gilded white doors. One armed Vigile stood beside a fingerprint scanner.

  “Indeed,” came the reply. “I believe he is on the phone to Chief Tjäder. Shall I give him a message?”

  “No, it’s all right. I’ll try again later.”

  I retreated back into the Bureau Cramoisi and shut the doors behind me.

  That confirmed it. Getting in to the Salon Doré would be almost impossible. As Ducos had anticipated, Ménard would be ensconced in there all day, dissecting reports, meeting his advisors and ministers, making calls. His soldiers were helping to drive the invasion of the Iberian Peninsula, and he would be in constant contact with his commanders there.

  No, my energy was best spent on the meal in the evening. All I had to do now was tuck Frère back into bed.

  “Luce?” Kotzia popped her head in. “The representatives from the Société Française pour la Préservation Culturelle are ready for you downstairs.”

  “My migraine is worse,” I said. “A little more sleep will help, I think. Can you entertain the representatives for a while?”

  “Of course.” She came straight to my side. “We’ll serve coffee. I’ll return to wake you in half an hour. Is that all right?”

  “Yes. Thank you, Aleka.”

  Kotzia took me back to the bedroom and drew the curtains. Once she was gone, I removed the earrings, wiped off the lipstick, changed into a nightgown like the one I had woken up in—the original had been whisked away—and roughed up my hair. I returned the red dress to where I had found it.

  Once I left her, Frère would stir at once, with a genuine headache and no memory of what had just happened. Kotzia would take her down to the coffee morning, which she already knew about. Hopefully Kotzia would be in too much of a hurry to mention anything that had just occurred.

  One last touch. I opened the back of the golden clock and set the time to half past six. When Kotzia returned to wake her, Frère would think it was seven, exactly when her day should begin. An attendant would correct the clock during the day. It would be as if I had never been here.

  When my host was tucked back into bed, I released her spirit and returned to the æther. From here, everything rested on Frère.

  8

  Into the Fire

  A room with pale blue walls. A hairline crack in the ceiling above me. Something was clamped onto my left forefinger, hard enough that I felt my pulse there. Eléonore Cordier patted my cheek.

  “Flora?” she said. I managed to nod. “Welcome back. Can you tell me where you are?”

  “Rue de Surène.” My tongue felt like rubber. “Scion Citadel of Paris.”

  “And the month?”

  “February.”

  “Perfect.” Cordier shone a small flashlight into my eyes, then snapped her fingers in front of them. I blinked. “Your reflexes are working. So far, so good. Did anyone suspect?”

  “Not that I could tell.”

  “Great.” She took the clamp off my finger. “Ducos might actually crack a smile when she hears.”

  “Where is Ducos?”

  “I put her on lunch duty. Espionage is hungry work.” When I tried to sit up, Cordier stopped me with a slight laugh. “Cool your heels, Lazarus. You just rose from the dead.”

  “I’ve done it before.” My thoughts ran thick. “Who the hell is Lazarus?”

  “Long story.” She powered down the ventilator. “You know, Flora, I’ve heard all kinds of interesting rumors about what clairvoyants can do, but seeing is believing. You could be anyone. Go anywhere. If I were you, I’d be all over the world, inhabiting the rich and famous.”

  “It’s not as easy as it sounds. And I take no joy in treating people like puppets. Even people like Frère.”

  “Of course.” She glanced at my face and smiled. “Just kidding.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” I rub
bed the bridge of my nose. “The half pint of coffee clearly wasn’t enough.”

  “I’m surprised you’re awake at all, after what you just went through. My nerves were down to nothing.” Cordier unclipped a small case and took out some equipment. “Scion must be terribly afraid of this ability of yours. Are there many anormales who can do the same?”

  That word felt different when an amaurotic said it. Then again, I supposed she might not know the right one. “I’m the only dreamwalker,” I said, too tired to explain. “As far as I know.”

  “That must get lonely.”

  “I’ve never known anything different. No one knows exactly what it is to be you, either, do they?”

  “True.” Cordier wrapped a cuff around my upper arm. “Just taking your blood pressure, if I may.” She activated the monitor. “Flora, is your cough productive?”

  It took me a moment to work out what she meant. “A little.”

  “All right.” The cuff began to constrict. “And you’ve had this cough for how long?”

  “Couple of weeks.” It was only half a lie. “I’m fine to carry on.”

  “I’d still like to rule out anything serious,” Cordier said, somehow gentle and firm at once. The cuff squeezed my arm tight. “I came straight here from my last assignment, so I don’t have everything I need, but I’ll give you a thorough checkup once you’re finished with Frère.”

  A dull throb filled my arm. I stared at the wall and flexed my fingers in and out of a fist.

  An intelligent creature would have ended the pain by now. It would have answered my questions. The bite of iron at my wrists, screwed tight. A dull, filthy beast must be chained. But all it has to do is speak . . .

  “There we are.” The cuff loosened with a sigh. I opened my eyes to see Cordier check the reading. “You should get some rest until Ducos gets back. Your blood pressure is a little low.”

  With blurred vision, I looked at the faint, matching marks on my wrists. “I need some air.”

  Cordier looked up in surprise. “What?”