I was already off the bed, my only thought to get outside. Then red-hot pain stabbed into my temple, and I caught the back of the couch, too dizzy to take another step. Cordier carted me straight back to bed before I could protest. She was stronger than she looked.
“I am ordering you to rest now, Flora.” Then, softer: “I’ll give you something for the pain.”
A quick prick in my arm followed. It dulled the headache enough to let me slip into a fitful doze. Now and again, I stirred and glimpsed a silhouette by the window, but by the time I woke for good, Cordier was gone.
Rain freckled the apartment windows. I cautiously sat up. While the last of my headache dwindled, I wrote down everything I had heard in the mansion. Everything that might be of use.
Most of it pertained to the invasion. Frère was meeting with the Minister for Industry, who was in charge of ordnance, and lunching with Françoise Vérany, spouse to the Grand Commander of France. Ménard was—as expected—wholly focused on the invasion.
Ducos turned up at noon, looking as tired as I felt. She had brought a meal in a cardboard box.
“Where’s Cordier?” she asked.
“No idea.”
A muscle started in her cheek. “Eat.” She set the box down in front of me. “Tell me about this morning.”
“I couldn’t get into the study. Too many people.” I paused, then decided to use what Arcturus had told me. “I met with the Minister of Internal Security. She referred to a document from Weaver that Ménard was reluctant to sign. He eventually did, and Frère took it with her to England for New Year, but I got the impression he was still opposed to it.”
“Do you know what the document was?”
“Not yet, but Frère is eating with Ménard tonight. I thought that would be the best time to get to the root of it.”
Ducos breathed out through her nose. “That sounds . . . a promising avenue of inquiry. Is anyone suspicious?”
“Not as far as I can tell,” I said. “But they do suspect I’m in Paris.”
“How?”
I told her about my image being captured. Her lips thinned until they were almost nonexistent.
“Now, perhaps, you understand the importance of the dissimulator,” she said. “Fortunate that they didn’t identify you categorically.”
She motioned for me to eat. I opened the box to find a salad of diced tomato, cucumber, onion, and bell pepper, all covered with crumbled white cheese, accompanied by a slice of fresh bread. “Ducos,” I said, once I had eaten some of it, “do you know anything about me?”
She sat in the nearest chair. “I know everything I need to know about you, Flora.”
“Not Flora. Me.”
Her stance changed.
“You were born in Ireland,” she said eventually. “You exhibit a rare form of extrasensory perception. You were the commander of an insurgent militia in London. You sabotaged Senshield. And now you seem determined to sabotage my sanity by asking needless questions.”
“I still am the commander of that insurgent militia.”
“No. You are an intelligence officer. There is no time or place for divided loyalties behind enemy lines.”
“What if they didn’t need to be divided?”
She flung me an exasperated look. “What?”
“What if your organization could work alongside mine?” I kept my voice low and steady. “Domino wants to set fires across Scion. My people can do that. Would your superiors consider funding a militia?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.” Ducos regarded me. “We have not known each other for very long, Flora. Carry out your assignment. Demonstrate that you can follow orders to the letter. Then, perhaps, we can discuss this in more detail.” Her gaze was unyielding. “Eat. Rest.”
Perhaps it was because I was exhausted; perhaps I was finally learning diplomacy. Either way, I decided to leave it.
My appetite had been waning for days. Once I had eaten as much of the salad as I could, I lay on the couch. Ducos took a thin file from her briefcase and settled down to study it.
While I waited for sleep to claim me, I reached for the golden cord. A muted vibration rewarded my effort. In all our training, we had never mastered the art of mental conversation.
I could feel him on the other side. He was fine. Holding that knowledge close, I slept.
****
At half past eight, I looked through brown eyes once more. I saw a white marble floor, a painted ceiling lit by chandeliers, and a girl with sable locks and a small, upturned nose. Her black silk frock had puffed sleeves and a lace collar. This was Mylène. Middle child in the Inquisitorial family.
My fingers moved. I blinked discs of light away. Frère was sitting with her back against a wall, barefoot and wearing flounced cherry silk. Matching shoes were tucked into the corner.
This vast chamber was the Salle des Fêtes, where Frère and Ménard hosted dances and dinners. Their children had turned this corner into a playroom. Jean-Michel, who was only four, leaned into my side. His hair was the brown of dark chocolate, falling in curls around his face. Alexandra Kotzia sat in a chair in the corner, bent over some paperwork.
Mylène was absorbed in her data pad. “Onésime, t’es trop doué. C’est pas juste,” she said crossly. “Laisse moi gagner pour changer.”
“Si je te laisse gagner, c’est pas gagner pour de vrai. Papa ne sera pas d’accord.”
“Tu m’embêtes.”
It took a moment for my hearing to adjust, and for their voices to sound less than a mile away. This time, I had seized control of Frère while she was wide awake.
“Maman.” Jean-Michel rested his head against my stomach. “When will the baby come?”
He spoke in English. “Soon,” I said, mirroring him.
Jean-Michel looked up at me, brow crumpled in thought. “If your head still hurts when she comes out, will she have a headache, too?”
I had to smile at that. “No, mon trésor. I don’t think so.”
Frère had been left with enough of a headache for me to keep up that charade, then. Good.
“Maman will be all right soon, Jean-Mi,” said another voice. “Papa will make her feel better.”
An older boy was leaning against another pillar, one eye on his data pad, dressed as if for a formal dinner. Onésime. He took more after their father than his siblings. I had known I would have to deceive the children, but it felt wrong to involve them more than necessary.
“Of course he will.” I gave Jean-Michel a brief pat on the head. He yawned. “Speaking of Papa, I think it’s time I got ready for supper. And time that Jean-Mi was asleep.”
Kotzia was up faster than a jack-in-the-box. “Come, then, children,” she said. “You can have milk and cookies before bed.”
“Cookies!” Mylène sprang up, fist clenched in triumph. “Yes!”
“Calme toi, petite sotte,” muttered Onésime, with a flick of his forefinger. “And . . . you lose.”
Mylène stared back at her data pad and stuck her lip out. “Cheat.”
As Kotzia picked up the drowsy Jean-Michel, I glimpsed the toy in his hand. A doll with its head twisted off.
“The Grand Inquisitor will see you in the Salon Vert,” Kotzia told me in French as we proceeded upstairs. “He may be a little late. He is on a call with Chief Tjäder.”
“Very well.”
Birgitta Tjäder commanded Scion’s invasion force. What was the Butcher of Strasbourg whispering to the Magpie?
Focus, Paige.
After Kotzia had handed the children to another member of staff, she returned to do my hair, securing it with a ruby-studded comb. She passed me an ivory shirt with an overlay of bobbin lace, then helped me into a crimson evening gown, unbuttoned to the waist to show off the lacework of the shirt, with sleeves that cut off at the elbow.
“Will you need anything else?” Kotzia said, once I was ready.
“No, thank you, Aleka. Give my regards to Charlotte-Marie.”
She looked mildly
surprised. “I will. Thank you.” A proud smile. “She has a front-page piece tomorrow, about our moral obligation to the people of Portugal. It’s very good.”
“I look forward to it. Every word furthers the cause.”
Her smile widened. When she was gone, I gave myself a final appraisal in the mirror. I looked the part.
All I had to do now was convince a tyrant.
The Salon Vert, true to its name, had mint-green walls and curtains. A table set for two was covered by cloth of a deeper green, and a fire roared in the hearth, its light reflected by gold adornments on the walls. So far, there was no sign of Ménard. I took a seat.
“Madelle.” An attendant looked into the room. “Good evening. Something to drink?”
“Rose mecks, please, Émilien,” I said. It was what Luce was usually seen drinking at engagements.
“Of course.”
I waited, hands clammy, every muscle tense. The attendant brought my drink and a basket of bread. The clock ticked.
At ten past nine, Georges Benoît Ménard, Grand Inquisitor of the Republic of Scion France, emerged from his study. As usual, he wore a black suit and a red tie. Nothing too flashy.
His face creased into a smile when he saw me. How strange that someone feared for his cruelty could almost look kind.
“Luce.”
I was about to say his name, but stopped in favor of a warm smile of my own. Ménard used his middle name officially, but I had no idea what Frère called him in private.
Ménard walked around the table. As he embraced me, I stole a glance toward the Salon Doré. He had left the door just slightly ajar. A moment later, I was looking at his face, and he touched his mouth to mine. To hers.
His lips were smooth and soft. His skin smelled of soap, his breath of lemon. He smelled clean.
“You are beautiful. As always.” Ménard placed one hand on my stomach. A plain gold spousal ring shone on one finger. “Is all well with the little fish?”
He spoke French, like all his staff. I was starting to wonder if it was a small act of defiance against England.
“Kicking away,” I said, locking my hand over his. “Impatient to meet us.”
His brow darkened. “You never told me she had started kicking.”
“I felt the first one this morning,” I said smoothly. Hard as it was to hold his penetrating gaze, I kept going. “I came to tell you earlier, but Jaquot said you were on the phone.”
Ménard smiled back at me. “I think this one will be Inquisitor. If Mylène doesn’t get there first.” He placed a kiss on my temple. “Onésime joined me for breakfast this morning. He still seems very worried.”
A memory. The Archon. Frère had said that her elder son always thought a new baby would take her away from him.
“Of course he is.” I let out a light, Frère-esque laugh. “Yet he was the first to love Mylène and Jean-Michel.”
“I reminded him of that. But perhaps you should talk to him again, too.”
“Of course.”
He took off his dinner jacket and folded up the sleeves of his crisp shirt before he sat. His olive skin looked golden in the firelight. There were shadows under his eyes that aged him by ten years.
“It will have to be a quick supper. I’m expecting another call. And you must be tired,” he said. “Aleka said you had a migraine earlier. The pressure of this charade is affecting you.”
Charade. The blood froze in my stolen veins.
“I wish I could deny it,” I said carefully. “But when the anchor calls—”
“—we all must answer.” Ménard reached across the table to hold my fingers. “Well said, as always. But this is not your burden, Luce. Perhaps you should see the consultant tomorrow.”
I kept an iron grip on my composure. By this, he was referring to something I had yet to understand.
“Your burdens are mine. And there’s no need,” I said. “Migraines are common in pregnancy.”
“You never complained of them with the other children.”
“Well. Each time is bound to be different.” I willed my hand to remain dry. “Gabrielle was telling me that she had them with Nora.”
“Auclair.” Ménard nodded. “How is she?”
“She brought disturbing news.” I looked deep into his eyes. “She believes Paige Mahoney may be here, in Paris.”
“Mahoney.” His hand tightened, just a little, around mine. “How sure is she?”
“The suspect’s face was obscured, but the biometrics matched.”
His nostrils flared a little. I hoped that if he had any suspicions, this would allay them. A fugitive would surely conceal her own detection, not inform him of it.
“I stationed additional Vigiles in the area,” I went on. “In case she is correct.”
After a moment, Ménard released my fingers. “Good.”
Two attendants arrived then with the meal. For Ménard, a whole buttered crab on ice and a glass of pressed lemon, unsweetened. For me, a bowl of stew I thought was bouillabaisse—a dish from Marseille—and a well-done beef steak, served with mushrooms and laced with dark sauce.
Of course it had to be beef, one of the few things I avoided eating. My stomach braced itself.
“I will call Gabrielle for an update tomorrow.” I picked up my cutlery. “Is there anything more you need her to do in preparation?”
As Minister of Internal Security, Auclair would know all about the agreement to establish Sheol II here.
“Preparation.” Ménard was focused on prying the crab open. “For what?”
“For the—” The shell cracked. “Saison d’Os.”
Shit.
I had just made a grave misstep. Bone Season came from a corruption of the French bonne. I had drilled what I presumed was the official Scion translation—La Bonne Saison—into my skull, only to botch it.
Incredibly, Ménard didn’t even look up.
“No. Auclair has everything in hand.” He snapped a claw off. “Be assured, the site is well-protected.”
A bead of perspiration rolled down my nape. I had to cover my error. I creased my brow, put down my fork, and circled my temple with one finger, as if the pain was rising.
“Luce.” Ménard lowered the knife. “Should I call someone?”
“No need.” I met his gaze head-on. “Benoît, the colony in England was sordid. A breeding ground for sedition and disease.”
Straight away, another possible slip-up. I had used his middle name. He regarded me mildly.
“We must keep a closer watch on Sheol II than Weaver did on its predecessor,” I pressed on. “If there is another rebellion and the prisoners escape into our citadels, there will be chaos in France. Just as there has been chaos in England.”
His attention was back on his crab. “I have no interest in how the Rephaim choose to maintain the rotting places they inhabit.”
He said that word, Réphaïm, as if it were a poison. That was puzzling. And interesting. I should stop.
I couldn’t.
“They are in our country,” I said. “On our doorstep.”
“As I said, the site is well protected. We are not fools or marionettes, like Weaver. There will be no repeats of what happened on his watch.” Ménard picked white flakes of meat from the crab. “The Suzerain will have to purge her own house if there is another uprising.”
He peeled the finger-like lungs from the crab and placed them on a dish. I was about to retrieve my fork when I thought better of it. The steak would turn my stomach, which I might not be able to hide. As for the bouillabaisse, the smell of it was making my mouth water, and not in a good way. I could imagine the slime on those fillets, the cottony wetness of the eel.
“Luce.” Ménard had been spooning the mustard from the crab, but stopped. “Are you not hungry?”
I forced a weary smile. “I must admit the migraine has left me feeling a little delicate.”
“Ah, mon cœur.”
I slid the plate of steak aside, out of eyeshot. Ménard wa
tched it move across the tablecloth, then started to eat again.
“Benoît,” I said, after a brief silence, “we should visit Sheol II ourselves. Just once, to show our support.”
At this, he raised his dark gaze to mine once more. Tell me, you bastard. Tell me where it is.
“I do not think that would be a good idea.” He dabbed his mouth with linen. “Let us not speak of this tonight. You know how I detest the subject.”
I clenched my fist under the table.
“Of course,” I said. “What did Chief Tjäder have to say?”
Ménard considered me for a beat too long.
“She and I are in agreement,” he said. “It will take time to arrange the counterstrike, given the . . . situation in Sweden. But we have her loyalty.”
I sensed this subject was very important, but I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. Perhaps this was exactly what Domino wanted Nick to discover. He and I could be working to complete the same picture.
Two attendants returned to clear away the plates while a third set down a cheeseboard and cut a blue-veined wedge for Ménard. I shook my head when she offered it to me.
“So,” Ménard said, when we were alone once more, “what are we going to call our little fish?”
I raised my glass to my lips again to buy myself some time. In spite of myself, my hand gave the slightest tremor.
Surely they would have discussed baby names by now. Luce was almost five months into her pregnancy. Then again, running a tyrannical republic must be at least moderately time-consuming.
Ménard kept looking at me, his face now utterly expressionless. A wrong answer would shatter the façade, which would stop me returning. Even I had a line when it came to taking risks. With a tiny sound of discomfort, I let my head fall and pressed my knuckles to my brow.
“Luce.” Ménard stood. “Come. You should lie down.”
“Sorry.” I affected a strained laugh. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all day, and now this.”
“You are exhausted.” He slid an arm around my waist as I got up. “Aleka will rearrange your schedule so you can rest in the morning.”
“There’s no need, Benoît, really.”
“I know. When the anchor calls, we all must answer,” he said gently. “But it can wait for half a day.”
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