The Mask Falling

by Samantha Shannon

  Small, instinctive sounds passed my lips as he carried me to the edge of a precipice. I cleaved to him, afraid to let go, every limb fighting the call to surrender. Surrender had no place in war.

  But this was no war. Not here, in this room.

  He never rushed. As my hips surged and my hand twisted into the sheets, I thought of the bird in the music box, and the golden key that wound it. He coaxed me closer and closer to the brink, and there he held me until the bird came to life and took wing.

  ****

  We lay still and soft-limbed after that. As much as I wanted to draw him into me, it was enough, for now, to be in his arms. To look up and always find him close enough to kiss.

  We both had our dark rooms. Now we had this one, too.

  My back was against his chest, my head supported by his arm. A calloused hand smoothed up my waist. I felt heavy enough to sink through the bed, yet my senses were as light as air.

  His voice broke a long stillness. “You would tell me if I hurt you.”

  I looked at him over my shoulder. “You didn’t think those were sounds of discomfort, did you?”

  “Humor me.” He held my gaze. “Last time you were intimate with someone else, it caused you pain. You told him it did not matter. Urged him to continue.”

  The memory pierced me for the first time in months. The hollowness and fear of it.

  “I wasn’t thinking straight that night,” I said, almost too softly to hear. “I don’t think I . . . feel that way unless there’s already a connection. Like ours.” I covered the hand on my waist with one of mine. “And it was different with an amaurotic. As if he couldn’t reach all of me.”

  “Even so.” He lowered his lips back to mine for a lingering moment. “We may both have auras, but you are not a Rephaite. If I do anything to disquiet you, I would like to know.”

  “Mm. So long as you’ll tell me if I do anything to disquiet you.”

  “You have my word.”

  A siren called outside the cracked-open window, and a slurred voice shouted in French. I couldn’t tense at those sounds, as I often did. Not with him gently exploring my hair, as if he was contemplating how to untangle it.

  “I have resented my gift,” he said, “for it does not let me forget.” He drew my hair to one side of my neck and kissed the atlas of my nape. “I could not forget the room where I was scarred.” I hooked my fingertips between his knuckles. “Yet neither can I forget this room.”

  He stroked down my abdomen. I half closed my eyes as he circled my navel—the tiny hollow that marked me as human as surely as his eyes marked him as Rephaite. All the while, I willed him not to stop.

  We fell silent for a while, immersed in the possibilities of touch. He kissed my jaw, my shoulder. I tilted my head back. As my hand strayed along his side, I felt the very tips of the scars.

  “Will you let me see them?” I asked him softly. When he looked away, I held his face. “It’s all right if not. I just . . . don’t want you to feel as if you have to hide them, either.”

  After a small eternity, he turned onto his side, so I could see the broad span of his back. I sat up slowly to look.

  There were more than I had wanted to imagine. His back was an iron trellis of scars. The larger ones were raised welts, as thick as my little finger, while the smaller ones were hairline threads across his shoulders, like cracks in glass, that spoke of slow, meticulous cruelty. How he had restrained himself from shooting Jaxon, or kept up his façade of loyalty to Nashira after she had inflicted this on him, I could only guess.

  He was still as I traced each scar. They were smooth as wax. It took him some time to relax into my exploration, but when he did, he was as heavy as if he was sleeping. When I had touched each one, I slung my arm around his waist and embraced him from behind.

  “You will not be comfortable there for long,” he said.

  The scars did feel strange against my bare skin, but I pressed my cheek to them. “Hush. I’m asleep.”

  “Hm.”

  ****

  We both drifted off for a while. When I stirred, we were bathed in moonlight, and we had somehow traded positions, my back to his chest again. The crook of his right arm cupped my elbow. I held his left hand between both of mine, fingers intertwined. His face was tucked into my neck.

  If you do not come back within the sennight, I will find another way to escape this place. I breathed in hard when I remembered, tightening my chest. I will hunt you, Paige Mahoney.

  When I coughed, Arcturus opened his eyes. His scarred fingers skimmed my arm.

  “I broke my word to Kornephoros,” I murmured. “It’s been more than a week.”

  “If he comes for you, we will deal with him.”

  There would be consequences foreverything that had happened. What remained to be seen was just how many.

  “You feared that caring for me would distract you from the revolution. It can be otherwise.” His voice was almost too low to hear. “We will end the gray market. We will unite the syndicates. All will be well.”

  With a nod, I turned to face him, and he traced down to the base of my spine. I rested my head on his chest.

  “I know,” I whispered. “I believe you.”

  ****

  The sky held a gray inkling of dawn when I woke a second time. Arcturus was silent beside me, his palm over the dressing on my back, as if he had meant to protect it. He had not slept once while I lay fevered. Now he had withdrawn into a deep slumber, turning him into a statue.

  I curled an arm around his neck and tucked my head under his chin. He was still here. Both of us were still here. A long beat passed before I snapped upright with a jolt, realizing what had woken me.

  Two familiar dreamscapes were heading straight for the apartment. Ducos and Stéphane. With a low curse, I disentangled myself from Arcturus and dived out of bed. Ducos would likely not care if she thought I was sleeping with my associate, but I was taking no chances.

  “By all means, you carry on sleeping, you big clot,” I hissed. “I’ll handle the pissed-off spies by myself.”

  Without stopping to wait for a reply, I threw on my underwear and half ran to the wardrobe, where I grabbed the first shirt and trousers I saw. The blouse was barely done up—buttons in all the wrong holes, naturally—by the time Ducos came sweeping into the parlor.

  “Ducos.” I cleared my throat, conscious of my unruly hair. “Didn’t think you’d be here until Sunday.”

  “Steph has been keeping an eye on the building. They saw a light on when they drove past last night.” Ducos placed both hands on my shoulders, the gesture almost maternal. “Are you injured?”

  There was a sharpness in her gaze that set my nerves on edge. She seemed worried and suspicious in equal measure. It was not an expression I had seen her wear before.

  “I had an infected wound. Took me a few days to recover and get back here. Otherwise I’m fine,” I said. “We got to the city through the carrières, in the end. There was a flood. Dirty water.”

  “I had no idea the carrières extended as far as Versailles.” Ducos moved past me. “How did you find your way?”

  “I had some help from locals. They didn’t know about the assignment.”

  “Locals.”

  “Yes. They’re clairvoyants.”

  Ducos sank onto the couch with a long exhalation. Her cheeks held a touch of high color from the cold. Stéphane walked in, wearing a pair of tinted spectacles and a leather jacket.

  “Flora,” they said. “Good to see you alive.”

  I nodded. “Stéphane.”

  “Well?” Ducos asked me, gaze intent. “Is the Grand Overseer dead?”

  Our eyes met. I swallowed, and for the first time, I wondered if I should be afraid of her.

  “I had no time.” I took the micro-camera from the mantelpiece. “But it’s likely he died in the fire. In the palace.”

  When Ducos slowly held out a hand, I placed the camera into it. Stéphane removed their spectacles, eyebrows rai
sed.

  “I had heard there was a significant fire to the west of Paris,” Ducos said. “But not that it was the Château de Versailles. A building that has stood for some four centuries, that has seen the rise and fall of sovereigns and republics.” Pause. “How did that happen, Flora?”

  There was a dangerous silence.

  “I set it,” I said.

  To my right, Stéphane let out a long breath. “You are insane,” they breathed. “This will enrage England.”

  “That’s why I did it.”

  For several moments, Ducos was speechless.

  “Explain yourself.” There was a hairline crack in her veneer. “Tell me why you did not carry out the assignment I gave you. Why you chose, instead, to commit first-degree arson.”

  “The city was heavily guarded. Even with my gift, it was impossible for me to reach the Grand Overseer.” The lie came smooth as buttermilk. “I reasoned that destroying the colony was the next best thing. That Domino could pin the blame on Ménard, creating even more friction between France and England. That place was the source of all their tension, and now—”

  “—it is in ashes. Like our plans,” Ducos barked. “I did not tell you to improvise, Flora. You are expected to heed your orders, not question them, nor tailor them to suit your own scruples.”

  “You didn’t mind me tailoring the plan when I was taken into the Hôtel Garuche. You must have known I would adapt to my circumstances again,” I said. “Retreating would have scuttled a priceless opportunity. Did you really want me to back out after a two-day crawl through hell?”

  “Yes.” Without raising her voice, Ducos managed to express the depth of her anger and disappointment. “You should have retreated, returned here, and informed me that you could not reasonably complete your assignment. That would have been the proper course of action for a sane individual. Instead, you decided to demolish our plans, plans that have taken months of blood and sweat and risk to lay.” She rose. “I stressed the delicate nature of your role in Domino. I explained the unpredictability and danger of the situation in Europe.”

  “You did,” I said. “Ducos—”

  “That target was not chosen at random! He was chosen because his death would sow tension without shattering the relationship between England and France. By setting fire to the colony—the root of their disagreement—you may have pushed the two countries into all-out war. The Suzerain could do anything in retaliation.”

  “So be it,” I snapped. “If Scion is at war with itself, it isn’t at war with your benefactors. Command can dole out my punishment. Until then, am I still a member of Mannequin?”

  Ducos looked as if she had half a mind to hit me. Stéphane puffed out their cheeks.

  “I have no time for this now,” Ducos finally said. “Albéric—the agent who takes care of the safe houses—has dropped off the radar. We have no idea where he is, or why he isn’t responding to any attempts to contact him. As a precaution, we would like to move you and your auxiliary to a different part of the citadel. I have eight people to relocate by tonight.”

  “I will collect you at ten,” Stéphane said to me. “Pack some clothes and food. If that’s not too dull an order,” they added under their breath.

  I tried not to feel the loss too deeply. Wanderer that I was, I should have known better than to try to grow roots.

  “Until I send my report and receive a response, you remain one of my agents, and you will be treated as such,” Ducos said. “You see, to me, and to Stéphane, the rules of this sub-network are not flexible. Or optional.” She turned her back on me. “Stay put until we return. If you even think about stepping outside this apartment—”

  With a last shake of her head, she strode out in a waft of dark hair and a swing of scarf. Stéphane hung back.

  “How badly have I fucked up?” I asked them quietly. They answered with a tiny shrug.

  “I would not want to be you right now.” They put their spectacles back on. “Enjoy your last day in Rue Gît-le-Cœur. A week from now, you might not have a roof over your head. Or any memories in it.”

  22

  Lady of Paris

  FEBRUARY 21, 2060

  The horizon was as red as if the fire still burned. I watched the sunrise from the roof. Fog breathed into every nook and alcove of Paris, laced over the dark crests of the river, blanched the sky to the pink of salmon. I was sure the air was still spiced with the tang of smoke.

  Beautiful though it was—this ancient, haunted citadel—there was a disquieting stillness to the morning. The sky was blood mixed into milk. The people down below were shadows, rendered faint and faceless by the mist. I trapped my breath and blew pale flags of cloud into my palms.

  This was the coldest winter I could remember. Even on the farm, where all of us had been runny-nosed and the cowshed had been warmer than the house, I had sometimes found wild primroses or a sunburst of coltsfoot in February. Here, the air withheld even the rumor of a thaw.

  We were leaving this apartment, where I had started to heal after the hardest trial of my life. Another lost home to add to my list.

  Steam gusted from my mug of coffee. My lips were sweetly tender. I traced them, lost in thought.

  I hoped Ducos was wrong. There would be repercussions for the loss of the colony—grave ones—but if Nashira was so enraged that she executed Ménard and Frère, a significant threat to her reign would disappear.

  By nine, Arcturus had still not risen. Days without sleep must have drained him. I slid back through the hatch, suddenly self-conscious. By night, it had been so easy to let go of my inhibitions. In the cold light of day, it might be different. I might remember all the risks again.

  Only one way to find out. I brushed my hair back, took a deep breath, and opened my bedroom door.

  Golden light spilled into the room. He was still in bed, on his side, exactly as I had left him. As soon as his features came into relief, my nerves evaporated. I wanted him as strongly as before.

  The feeling vanished as I sat on the bed at his side. He was stone-cold to the touch.

  “Arcturus.”

  His eyes cracked open.

  “Is it the scars?” I asked. When he managed a nod, I placed a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Tell me what to do.”

  “You cannot ease it.” He could barely speak. “Not without amaranth.”

  “Did you not bring any with you?”

  “Our stores were low. The others needed it.”

  “You needed it as well, you bull-headed idiot.”

  Now I was this close to him, I sensed pain. Agony barked from his rigid jaw, the tendons of hand and neck, his tortured muscles. Nashira was seizing her vengeance for the loss of another colony.

  “All right.” I was afraid to touch him too much. “Do you think you can move to the parlor?”

  After a minute, he eased into a sitting position and draped an arm around my shoulders. Between us, we got him down the corridor, into the parlor, and onto the couch. I fitted a cushion under his head and held a glass of wine to his lips. Even swallowing took him effort.

  “You’re all right,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “It will fade.”

  He moved onto his side with a nod. I got some covers from the bedroom and slipped under them with him, as if I could lend him my warmth. He rested his cheek on my chest, and I propped my chin on the top of his head, wishing I could draw some of his pain out through the cord.

  For a long time, my breath was the only sound. At last, Arcturus lifted his head to look at me.

  “Paige,” he said, “I know this is new to you.” His hand moved across my stomach, to my hip. “I meant what I said. It was an overture. What comes next, we will write together.”

  “I know.”

  We looked at one another for a while. I brushed his hair back.

  “Will we just play it by ear, then?” I asked softly. “Or do you know what you want from this?”

  “I want you with me.” He set his forehead against mine. “That is
all I know.”

  I had said those same words to him once. I took his face between my hands and breathed him in.

  “Ducos and Stéphane came this morning, before you woke,” I eventually said. “We have to leave this place tonight.” I sighed. “And I don’t think we have a future with Domino.”

  Arcturus held my waist as I told him what had happened. Every so often, his muscles tightened, and I held him close.

  “If Domino severs the connection, I imagine Le Vieux Orphelin will allow us to take shelter in Passy.” He returned his head to my chest. “We should see what is happening abroad.”

  It had been a while since I had checked the news. I reached across to the coffee table for the remote.

  “—Weaver has sanctioned the execution by firing squad of Esteban de Borbón, who will be the last King of Spain,” Scarlett Burnish was saying, her control as ironclad as ever. I sat up. “Esteban took his family into the Bascilia de San Francisco el Grande, telling them that God would keep them safe. Instead, he shot and killed his wife, Queen Antonia. He shot and killed their heir, seven-year-old Luciana. He shot and killed his father-in-law, barrister Torben van Buskirk, who died attempting to protect his granddaughter.”

  The blood drained from my face.

  “These crimes, reminiscent of those of the Bloody King, serve as judicious proof that monarchs, like unnaturals, have no place in the civilized world,” Burnish said, eyes glacial. “The anchor will rise over Madrid.”

  “They killed them all,” I murmured.

  Not for one moment did I believe King Esteban had committed those murders. Scion had killed his family in that church. When he was executed, he would remind the world of why it should turn to the anchor, away from crowns and gods.

  Arcturus interlocked our fingers. He knew there was nothing to say. From the sound of it, Spain was all but defeated. Now King Esteban was in custody and accused of murder, the Prime Minister would have little choice but to surrender.

  In two and a half months, the anchor had taken the whole of the Iberian Peninsula.

  It was an hour before the pain eased enough for Arcturus to slip back to sleep. I stole away to make breakfast. I ate two rounds of honey on toast before I began to pack.