The Mask Falling

by Samantha Shannon

“I think he did. With a new face.”

  “The man who saved you.”

  “I think he gave me white aster.” I touched my temple. “But he made sure to tie up the final loose end of the gray market.” With the wreath still in my hand, I looked back at Alfred. “It’s over.”

  I should let him bleed out. Deny him the threnody. Leave him to scream in the æther forever. A peddler of flesh deserved no better than this agonising death, this grave.

  Except Jaxon had killed him for me, as a gift. And I did not want anyone to die like this in my name. Not even him.

  I prepared to do it with my spirit. It would be clean and dignified. Then a broad hand came down on my shoulder, and I raised my head to see Ankou, who held out his sickle.

  “An Ànkou, in Breton myth, is the reaper of souls,” Le Vieux Orphelin said. “This soul should be yours, Underqueen. Let him begin his own Empire of Death.”

  The blade was a dark grin of steel. Ankou gave me a grim nod, his mouth a line. Slowly, I took the sickle.

  Alfred no longer seemed able to speak. Blood seeped between his knuckles where he held his guts in. His gaze darted to the sickle, then my face.

  He had harvested us for the season of bones. Even he knew this was justice.

  If I’d had the silver pill, I might have given it to him—but I would not use my gift to take his life. That was one mercy I was not prepared to offer this time. Paige Mahoney had shown mercy too often for her own good. Black Moth was someone else. Someone to fear.

  I placed her mask back over my face.

  “Alfred Hayhurst Rackham,” I said softly, “be gone into the æther. All is settled. All debts are paid.” I rested the blade of the sickle on his throat. “You need not dwell among the living now.”

  ****

  The smell of blood clung to my clothes as I climbed the ladder back to the surface. Once everyone was through, Le Vieux Orphelin closed the manhole behind us, leaving the Rag and Bone Man to rot in his reeking tomb.

  In a hundred years, someone might find his skeleton and the rusted sickle and wonder what had befallen him, this nameless corpse at the bottom of the citadel, this man with an iron mask beside him. Until then, he would be forgotten.

  I could think of no more fitting end.

  25

  The Winged Victory

  I lay on an unfamiliar bed, iron-cold and silent. Outside, the sun had dipped below the rooftops. I slept in the day now, and rose at night, as I had in the colony. Darkness made everything softer.

  Rue Vernet was quiet this evening. I stared at the wall, my arm half-numb under my head.

  Tomorrow night, I would join the perdues on the Île des Cygnes—one of the natural islands of the Seine—to await the arrival of Le Latronpuche and La Reine des Thunes. Léandre had forged them a summons from the Rag and Bone Man, sealed with a wax stamp we had taken from the corpse, which showed the skeletal hand. Mélusine had ensured it was delivered.

  Unbeknownst to them, Le Vieux Orphelin would be waiting, with the patrones gathered as witnesses, to accuse them of all their crimes. If the syndicate accepted the evidence and ousted Le Latronpuche and La Reine des Thunes, I would step from the shadows and announce the alliance between the syndicates of London and Paris. I would show the world I was alive.

  Except that I didn’t feel alive. Not fully. Part of me had been swallowed into that hall of stained-glass windows, entombed there like a queen of old.

  The part of me that could never have drawn a blade across a human throat. The part of me that would have flinched.

  Now I felt nothing. Just as I had felt nothing when I washed the blood off my hands and face and neck. It had been a mercy kill, yet there had been no mercy in my hand. Only resolve.

  Distantly, I knew I needed to get up. Wash, eat, pull myself together. The most I had moved since noon was to turn from my side to my back to my other side.

  When I slept, it was in jolts. Often I stirred, thinking there was an arm around my waist, somebody there. Then I would remember, and the sharpness of it would pierce me again. For the first time in weeks, I craved the drug they had forced into me in the Archon, the one I had sweated out in the safe house. Anything to eclipse the harsh light of reality.

  It was almost dark by the time I got up and faltered down the corridor, to the kitchen. I needed to turn on the heat. I could do that. Once I had found the right switch, I took a jug of lemon barley from the fridge, poured a little into a glass, and drank until I coughed.

  Just before the fridge thumped shut, I glimpsed a coffee press on the counter. And suddenly I was on the other side of the Seine, and there was Arcturus, in the amber sunlight, handing me a steaming mug. Though my lips clamped together, they trembled. I wanted to shatter the coffee press. I wanted to buckle. That memory was a lie. All of it had been part of his act.

  I had wondered what the æther had been trying to tell me when Liss read my cards. If Arcturus Mesarthim was meant to be my lover or my downfall. Now I knew. He was the Devil.

  My breath shook. Heat suddenly leaked down my cheeks; I brushed them roughly with my sleeve. Every time I thought I had turned myself to ice, something opened the cracks again.

  Since I had run from him, the golden cord had been so still that I could no longer feel it. A small mercy. If I couldn’t feel him, perhaps he could no longer feel me. Or find me. I would still have to abandon this place soon, just in case. I could never stay in one hideout for long. I would have to be rootless for the rest of my life.

  I looked hard at the ceiling. When I could draw a steady breath, I returned to the room and the rumpled bed. I had to sleep, had to think clearly for tomorrow. As I turned onto my back, I remembered another bed. The warmth of him beside me, around me.

  It was the only thing I didn’t understand. Why he had allowed himself to fall so far into flesh-treachery. He must have reasoned that the more I opened my heart to him, the deeper he could drive the knife.

  He had been right. Even now I knew the truth, the memory of that night made me ache for his touch again. He was a poltergeist, haunting me from wherever he was now, and his phantom hands still held me close, held me prisoner. I slid into a drowse, my cheek pressed into a cushion.

  It was a long time before I heard the door. A figure entered my den and switched on a lamp.

  “Flora.”

  My eyelids scraped apart. Ducos was sitting on the bed, one eyebrow arched.

  “You had better not be drunk again.” She gave me a sharp tap on the cheek. “What is the matter with you?”

  “Fine,” I rasped.

  “Yes, you look it.” Before I could object, she hoisted me into a sitting position. Knotted curls fell over my brow. “You need a shower. And a comb. And a clean shirt. When was the last time you ate?”

  “Not sure.” The skin under my eyes was raw. “What day is it?”

  “Tuesday. The twenty-fourth.” She felt my cheeks, my forehead. “Out with it, then.”

  She needed to know. “My auxiliary,” I said. “He went to Scion. You and Stéphane should find new aliases.”

  “Are you saying he has double-crossed you?”

  I managed a small nod. “I don’t know how much he might have told them.”

  Ducos kept her cool, but I could almost hear the gearwheels of her mind at work.

  “I did not expect this.” She took something from the floor. “I found this behind the safe house in Rue Gît-le-Cœur. I assumed your auxiliary or Cordier had thrown it outside to keep it from Scion.”

  My backpack. With leaden arms, I reached for it, then carefully undid the zip. Inside was everything I owned, including the ledger.

  “He can’t have,” I said, too softly for her to hear.

  Ducos moved to sit in a nearby chair. A belt rode high on her waist, and her trousers were turned up to show off heeled leather boots. I had never felt like more of a mess.

  “You had feelings for him,” she said. I was silent. “It happens. In this line of work, we walk on the edge of a knife. I
f he softened that edge for you, you should not blame yourself. We have all trusted the wrong people at one point or another. Cordier, in particular, always looked for someone to dull the blade.” She breathed out. “She is gone. There was blood near the safe house, so we must presume her dead or captured. As for Stéphane, I have sent them to sub-network Figurine. This may be the end of Mannequin.”

  Out came her silver case. She picked one of her trim cigarettes from it.

  “I wondered who betrayed us,” she said. “Perhaps it was your auxiliary, after all. Or someone else.” She lit the cigarette with a snap. “For now, I will hold the fort alone. My work is important, and I have not spent thirteen years in Scion to give up now. We can rebuild.”

  “Alone.” I managed a tired smile. “I’m out, then.”

  “Yes,” she said flatly. “You burned down a seventeenth-century palace. You are out.”

  “Oh, that. I almost forgot.”

  “Command agreed with my conclusion that you are not well-suited to the role of intelligence officer. You are too personally invested in the fight against Scion. Consequently, your access to our safe houses, identification documents, dissimulators, and other provisions have all been revoked, effective tomorrow. I trust you have somewhere else to go.”

  “Yes.”

  The numbness absorbed her words. I might have cared, if things had been different. Now it was just another loss.

  “Command also agreed with me,” Ducos said, softer, “that the Mime Order has great potential. As do you.” She blew smoke through pursed lips. “You cannot do my job, Paige. It is not your calling. But you can be a valued associate of an intelligence network. We have contacts who are not intelligence officers, people who could provide Domino with vital assistance in the years to come. I convinced my superiors that you could be one of them.”

  I watched her, not quite daring to believe it.

  “You will not be dosed with white aster,” she went on, “and if you can provide me with proof that your organization is ready to fight, you will receive financial support. You will still be attached to the Domino Program. We can work together.” She looked me in the eye. “This is the best outcome.”

  We had another source of coin outside the syndicate. We could be more than just a rabble of thieves.

  We could still beat Scion.

  “I know a way to prove our organization is more than ready,” I said. “Meet us on the Île des Cygnes tomorrow, just before midnight.”

  “Given your track record, I will come armed.” Ducos rested her cigarette on the nightstand and dug back into her coat. “I am going to break the rules and give you something. Because I like you, Paige, in spite of the headaches you have given me.”

  She held out a sealed tube. I took the dissimulator.

  “Do not lose it,” she said, “because that is the last one you will ever get.”

  “Ducos,” I said, “thank you. Foreverything.”

  “Don’t thank me. Just . . . shower.”

  She took the dossier from my backpack, then retrieved her cigarette and left without a backward glance. I sat where I was for a long time, holding my stippled arms.

  Somehow, I did as she asked. I rose and stepped into the bathroom, where I confronted my own face in the mirror. Ashen and blotchy, eyes bloodshot, hair clumped in knots, the dye faded. My mask leaned against the mirror. Slowly, I drew a thumb across its features, hard and inert, cold to the touch. I turned away from its empty stare and pulled off my nightshirt.

  I shivered under the shower for a while. When I emerged, I dried off and returned to the bedroom, my hair dripping. I tucked it into a woolen hat before slinging on a coat and boots, picking up the backpack, and unlocking the doors to the balcony. I got one heel onto the balustrade and used it to reach a ledge above, and from there, I clambered onto the roof.

  The illuminated Arc de Triomphe sent a fire-like glow into the sky. Traffic beeped and roared. I sat down and opened the backpack, taking out the only objects I had left to my name. The leather-bound ledger, my inheritance from my father, and the songbird box, exquisite and delicate. It was a miracle it had survived being thrown from a window.

  My fingers curled around it. Before I could second-guess myself, I held it over the edge of the roof.

  All I had to do was loosen my grip. The music box would shatter on the pavement below, the song inside forever silenced. There would be nothing left—nothing concrete—of his connection to me.

  “Slán,” I whispered.

  My ribs seemed to constrict. Instead of loosening, my fingers tightened. My weakness struck again. Even if this box was part of the lie he had spun for me, it was the most beautiful thing I had ever owned. With an unsteady intake of breath, I pressed it to my heart.

  It was him. All I had left of the person I thought he had been, the person I had believed would be at my side for years to come. It was a castle in the sky. Breathing in stabs of white fog, I shoved it all the way to the bottom of my backpack and crammed the ledger on top of it. Smashing it would be a waste. I could at least find an antiques dealer to take it off my hands.

  All that remained was the gift from my father. I took the penknife from the front pocket of my backpack and dug its blade under the lid. When it broke, I allowed myself to wait for a moment—only one—before I cracked it open and tilted the lid up. Its hinges were stiff.

  Inside, cushioned by dark velvet, lay a folded leaf of paper. With care, I opened it. The handwriting was familiar.

  It just wasn’t my father’s.

  I was curious to see if dear, dull Daddy left you anything in his will. And, lo and behold, he did. Sitting pretty in the Bank of England.

  I’ll be waiting for you, darling. Come and see, Pale Dreamer.

  Come and see.

  Wind stripped flurries of snow from the rooftop. I sat there, staring at the words, until the paper came apart between my hands and the two pieces fluttered into the night.

  When I returned indoors, I went straight back to the bathroom. I took the ceramic face and held it up to my own. And I watched Paige Mahoney—all her fears, all her sorrow, all her rage, and all her weakness—disappear behind dark wings. Instead, someone else stared back.

  Black Moth.

  ****

  The Île des Cygnes lay right in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower. Separated from the quay by a thin collar of water, the tiny island was home to nothing but storehouses awaiting demolition. A bridge had once tethered it to the riverbank, then a foot tunnel, which had been closed to the public for years. Fortunately, Le Vieux Orphelin had a key to the entrance.

  The Eiffel Tower glowed like something newly forged. As I walked, I didn’t let myself recall how I had felt when I had last seen it. Someone else had felt that anticipation and newness and resolve—the woman underneath the mask.

  The perdues were waiting at the rusted gate to the tunnel. We pulled it shut behind us and strode between graffiti-coated walls, Ankou lighting our way with a signal lantern. Léandre met us on the other side.

  “Le Vieux Orphelin is already here. So are the patrones,” he said. We followed him up a slight incline. “Underqueen, for the time being, stay out of sight. You are our trump card.”

  “Did you meet my contact?” I asked him.

  “Yes. I made sure no one cut her throat.”

  He led us through a thicket, into a stone-paved area surrounded by dilapidated buildings, where a figure waited. While the face was new, the dreamscape belonged to Ducos.

  She tensed at our approach, one hand in her pocket. “It’s me,” I said to her, stepping forward while the others walked on. “Glad you made it.”

  “The feeling is mutual. I was beginning to wonder if you had decided to stay in bed.” Ducos relaxed a little. “I am no longer your supervisor, so I know you are not obliged to answer this question, but why on earth have you chosen to wear a mask representing a notorious fugitive?”

  “Just a touch of theatre.” I nodded to the nearest derelict. “There are a
lot of anormales in there. Don’t draw attention to yourself.”

  “Must I remind you that not drawing attention to myself is the essence of my occupation?”

  “No amount of training is going to make you look clairvoyant to people who really are.”

  “And what happens if they notice?” she asked, impassive. “A mob hangs me from a lamppost?” She considered the nearest derelict. “Or something bloodier, perhaps. That building used to be an abattoir.”

  A bleeding grin around a neck. A flood of metallic darkness over my fingers, soaking my clothes.

  “Just keep your head down,” I said.

  Léandre waited for us to catch up. He led us through the doors of the largest building, where Le Vieux Orphelin waited in the gloom, hands clasped behind his back. He was dressed in a crimson-and-gold doublet, cinched with a silver belt, and dark trousers tucked into boots.

  “This must be your amaurotic companion.” Le Vieux Orphelin inclined his head. “Madelle.”

  Ducos eyed him, taking in the mask, the clothes. “Yes,” was her only reply.

  Le Vieux Orphelin walked on, beckoning me alone to his side. I smelled dust and abandonment.

  “Were you able to recover the ledger?” he asked. I handed it over. “Thank you, Paige. This is a priceless gift.”

  “Only if he revealed his real name to anyone,” I reminded him. “But I might be able to help with that, if it comes to it.”

  He slowed his pace to turn the pages. When he saw his own name—his real name—his hold on the ledger tightened. “Let us hope the patrones listen.” He shut it. “I will call you forward at a timely moment.”

  “We need to be quick.” I closed my eyes before I spoke. “Arct— Warden can trace me in the æther. He hasn’t come after me so far, but I think it’s only a matter of time. I can risk staying for about half an hour, ideally less, before I need to get moving again. To throw him off the scent.”

  “Trace you?” The gold mask turned in my direction. “How is such a connection possible?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  Le Vieux Orphelin withdrew into a short-lived silence. “I will be concise,” he said. “As soon as the alliance is ratified, Léandre will take you back to Passy, if you would be willing to spend a night with us. I would like to return to the subject of Georges Benoît Ménard.”