The Bone Season

by Samantha Shannon

  “You’re with Jaxon Hall, right?” His voice carried an unfamiliar accent. He used his free hand to wipe the sweat from his brow, giving me a glimpse of a vertical scar.

  “Yes, but don’t say his name again. The SVD could be anywhere.” Nick smiled. “And you must be Nadine.”

  He was looking at the whisperer. She had her brother’s eyes and restless features, but that was where the similarities ended. Her hair was dyed red, cut as if with a ruler. Scion citadels tended to use the fashion and slang of the decade they were established; everyone in SciLo wore neutral threads, Victorian style—but Nadine’s yellow shirt, jeans, and stilettos screamed “tourist” and “different.” “Last I checked,” she said.

  Nick narrowed his eyes a little at Zeke. I was struggling to classify his aura, too. Seeing it, Nadine moved closer to her brother.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Sorry,” Nick said. He glanced over their heads, watching the University, before he looked at each of them in turn. “We have to be quick. I take it you’ve both thought about this, because once you walk away from this building, there’s no going back.”

  Zeke looked at his sister. She looked at her shoes, arms crossed. “We’re sure,” he said. “We’ve made our choice.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  At the end of the street, the four of us piled into a buck cab. Nadine dug around in her bag and took out a pair of headphones. Without another word, she snapped them on and closed her eyes. Her lips seemed to be trembling.

  “Monmouth Street, please,” Nick said to the driver.

  The cab trundled off. Fortunately for us, buck cabs were unlicensed. They made plenty of push off the backs of their clairvoyant clientele.

  The place on Monmouth Street was where Jax lived: a three-story maisonette above a small boutique. I often stayed overnight, telling my father I was staying with friends. It wasn’t exactly a lie. For months I’d learned the ropes of clairvoyant society: the structure of the gangs, the names of their leaders, the etiquette and enmity between the sections. Now Jaxon was testing my gift. Teaching me how to be one of them.

  A few weeks after starting my new job, I’d been able to consciously crack my spirit out of place. I’d immediately stopped breathing. That was when Jax and Eliza had panicked, thinking they’d killed me. Nick, always the medic, had revived me with a syringe of adrenaline to the heart, and even though my chest had hurt for a week, I was proud as anything. The four of us had gone to Chateline’s to celebrate, and Jax had ordered life support for next time.

  I fit in with these people. They understood the strangeness of my world, a world I was only just beginning to discover. We’d created a little world in Seven Dials, a world of crime and color. Now there was a stranger in our midst. Possibly two, if Nadine ended up being interesting.

  I felt for their dreamscapes. Nadine’s was nothing unusual, but Zeke’s—well, his was interesting. A dark, heavy presence in the æther.

  “So, Zeke,” Nick said, “where are you from?”

  Zeke looked up.

  “I was born in Mexico,” he said, “but I live with Nadine now.”

  He gave no further explanation. I glanced over my shoulder. “Have you been to a Scion citadel before?”

  “No. I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea.”

  “But you came.”

  “We just wanted to get away for a while. Nadine’s college was offering places on the conference. I was curious about Scion.” He looked down at his hands. “I’m glad we decided to come. We’ve felt different for years, but—well, Mr. Hall told us why.”

  Nick looked intrigued. “What’s the official stance on clairvoyance in the States?”

  “They’re calling it ESP—extrasensory perception. All they say is that it’s a recognized illness under Scion law, and that the CDC is investigating it. They don’t want to commit to any stance on it. I don’t think they ever will.”

  I wanted to ask about their families, but something told me to save it for later. “Jaxon’s so pleased you’re joining us.” Nick offered a smile. “I hope you’ll like it here.”

  “You’ll get used to it,” I said. “I hated it when I arrived. It got better when Jaxon hired me. The syndicate will take care of you.”

  Zeke looked up. “You’re not English?”

  “Irish.”

  “I didn’t think many Irish people escaped the Molly Riots.”

  “I managed.”

  “It was such a tragedy. Irish music is beautiful,” he added. “Do you know the rioters’ song?”

  “The one about Molly?”

  “No, the other one. The one they sang at the end of the riots, when they mourned the dead.”

  “You mean ‘An Ember Morning.’ ”

  “Yes, that’s it.” He paused, then said: “Would you sing some of it?”

  Nick and I laughed at the same time. Zeke went red to the tips of his ears. “Sorry—that was weird,” he said. “I’d just love to hear it sung properly. If it doesn’t bother you too much. I used to like listening to Nadine, but—well, she doesn’t play anymore.”

  Nick caught my eye. A whisperer that didn’t play music. Jaxon would not be happy he said gently. I realized Zeke was still looking at me, waiting for an answer.

  I didn’t know if I could sing the song. Irish music was forbidden in Scion, especially Irish rebel music. I’d had a strong Irish lilt as a child, but out of fear of the spreading hibernophobia in Scion, I’d dropped it when we moved away. Even at eight years old, I could sense the strange looks people gave me when I pronounced something too oddly for their liking. I used to stand in front of the mirror for hours, copying newsreaders, until I’d cultivated a crisp English public school accent. I was still fairly unpopular—I was called “Molly Mahoney” for years—but eventually a small group of girls took me in, probably because my father sponsored the school dance.

  Perhaps I owed it to my cousin to remember. I looked out of the window and heard myself recite the song.

  My love, it was an ember morning

  When October was a-dawning.

  Fire cried on the honey meadow.

  Come, ghost of the vale,

  I am standing in the ashes, where you roam.

  Erin waits to bring you home.

  My heart, I saw a flame upon the sky

  When October’s bitter morn was nigh.

  Smoke choked the honey meadow.

  Hark, spirit of the south,

  I am waiting near the cloven tree,

  Now Ireland’s heart is broken by the sea.

  There were more verses, but I stopped abruptly. I remembered my grandmother singing it for Finn during the memorial service, the one we’d held in secret in the Vale. Just six of us. No body to bury. That was when my father announced his conscription, leaving my grandparents to face Scion’s military occupation of the south. Zeke looked grave.

  By the time we reached Monmouth Street the cab was too hot to bear. I pressed some notes into the driver’s hand. He handed one back to me. After a moment, Nick squeezed my hand.

  “For the pretty song,” he said. “Bless you, love.”

  “Thanks.”

  But I left it on the seat. I wouldn’t accept money for a memory.

  I helped Nick unload the suitcases. Nadine stepped out of the cab and pulled off her headphones. She gave the building a withering look. Her bag caught my eye, from a New York designer. That would have to go. American items sold like hotcakes in the Garden. I’d expected her to have an instrument case, but there was nothing. Maybe she wasn’t a whisperer. There were at least three other strains of sensor she could be.

  I used my keys to open the red door, which bore a gold plaque reading THE LENORMAND AGENCY. To the outside world, we were a respectable arts agency. Inside, we were not so honest.

  At the top of the stairs was Jax, dressed to impress: silk waistcoat, stiff white collar, shiny pocket watch, and glowing cigar. He had a small glass cup of coffee in his hand. I tried and failed to work o
ut how cigar and coffee could make a compatible pair.

  “Zeke, Nadine. Good to see you again.”

  Zeke shook his hand. “And you, Mr. Hall.”

  “Welcome to Seven Dials. I am, as you know, mime-lord of this territory. And you are now members of my elite coterie.” Jax was looking at Zeke’s face, but I knew his focus was on reading his aura. “I presume you left Gower Street in a surreptitious fashion.”

  “No one saw us.” Zeke tensed. “Is that a—spirit, over there?”

  Jax glanced behind him. “Yes, that’s Pieter Claesz, Dutch vanitas painter. One of our more prolific muses. Died in 1660. Pieter, come and meet our new friends.”

  “Zeke can do the honors. I’m tired.” Nadine wasn’t looking at Pieter, who’d ignored the order. She wasn’t sighted. “I want my own room. I don’t share my space,” she said, looking hard at Jax. “Just so that’s settled.”

  I waited to see how Jax would react. He didn’t have the most expressive face, but his nostrils flared. Not a good sign.

  “You will have what you are given,” he said.

  Nadine bristled. Sensing a confrontation, Nick put an arm around her shoulders. “Of course you’ll have your own room,” he said, giving me a weary look over her head. We’d have to put Zeke on a couch. “Eliza’s just sorting it. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Yes, you can.” She raised her eyebrows at Jax. “I see some Europeans know how to treat a lady.”

  Jaxon looked as if she’d slapped him. Nick led her off to the kitchenette.

  “I am not,” he said, with gritted teeth, “European.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “I’ll make sure nobody disturbs you.”

  “Thank you, Paige.” He drew himself up. “Come through to my office, Zeke. We’ll talk.”

  Zeke went up the next flight of stairs, still staring at Pieter, who was drifting opposite his newest painting. Before I could speak, Jaxon took me by the arm.

  “His dreamscape,” he said softly. “What does it feel like?”

  “Dark,” I said, “and—”

  “Excellent. Say no more.”

  He almost ran up the stairs, his cigar lodged in the corner of his mouth. I was left with three suitcases and a dead artist for company, and as much as I liked Pieter, he wasn’t a man of many words.

  I checked the clock. Half eleven. Eliza would be back in a few minutes. I made some fresh coffee and went to sit in the living room, where a John William Waterhouse canvas took pride of place: a dark-haired woman in a flowing red dress, gazing into a crystal ball. Jax had paid a lot of money to a trader for three blacklisted Waterhouse paintings. There was a painting of Edward VII, too, decked in his regalia. I opened the window and settled down to read the new pamphlet Jaxon was working on, On the Machinations of the Itinerant Dead. So far it had told me about four kinds of spirit: guardian angel, ghost, muse, and psychopomp. I had yet to read about poltergeists.

  Eliza wandered in at twelve, away with the spirits as usual. She handed me a carton of noodles from Lisle Street. “Hey. Don’t suppose you persuaded Pieter to paint Violin and Glass Ball again?”

  Eliza Renton was Jax’s trance medium, four years my senior. Her area of expertise was mime-art. Born within striking distance of Bow Bells, she’d worked in an underground theater in the Cut until she was nineteen, when she responded to Jaxon’s pamphlet and got hired. She’d been his main source of income ever since. She had clear olive skin and apple-green eyes, and she kept her golden hair in sugar curls. She was never short of admirers—even spirits loved her—but Jax had a “no commitment” policy, and she stuck to it.

  “Not yet. I think he’s got artist’s block.” I put the pamphlet to one side. “Met the newcomers?”

  “Just met Nadine. Barely got a ‘hello.’ ” Eliza flopped down next to me. “Are we sure she’s a hisser?”

  I cracked open the steaming noodles. “I didn’t see any instruments, but maybe. Have you seen Zeke?”

  “I peeked into the office. His aura’s a kind of dark orange.”

  “So he’s a fury.”

  “He doesn’t look like a fury. Doesn’t seem like he’d say boo to a ghost.” She balanced her prawn crackers on her knee. “Well, if Pieter’s being pig-headed I officially have a window in my schedule. You want to try and drift again?”

  “Not until Jax gets the life support.”

  “Sure. I think the ventilator is supposed to arrive on Tuesday. We’ll take it easy until then.” She handed me a sketchbook and a pencil. “I meant to ask—could you draw your dreamscape?”

  I took them. “Draw it?”

  “Yeah. Not the flowers or anything—just the basic shape from a bird’s-eye view. We’re trying to work out the layout of the human dreamscape, but it’s tough when none of us can leave our sunlit zones. We think there are at least three zones, but we need you to split up the picture so we can see if our theories work on it. Can you do that?”

  A sense of purpose filled me to the brim. I was proving to be really useful within the group. “Of course,” I said.

  Eliza switched on the TV. I set to work on my sketch, drawing a circumpunct surrounded by three rings.

  The background music for ScionEye floated from the TV set. Scarlett Burnish was reading the midday news. Eliza pointed at the screen, chewing her crackers. “Do you think she’s actually older than Weaver, but she’s had so much surgery she physically can’t develop wrinkles?”

  “She smiles too much for that.” I continued to sketch. Now I had something that looked more like a bull’s-eye, with five sections. “So we’ve established that this”—I tapped the center of the circle—“is the sunlit zone.”

  “Right. The sunlit zone is where spirits have to remain for a healthy mind. The silver cord is like a safety net. It stops most voyants from leaving that zone.”

  “But not me.”

  “Exactly. That’s your personal quirk. Say the majority of us have an inch of string between our body and our spirit,” she said, measuring with her fingers. “You have a mile. You can walk to the outer ring of your dreamscape, which means you can sense the æther for much farther than we can. You can also sense dreamscapes. We only sense spirits and aura, and not from very far away. I can’t sense Jaxon and the others now.”

  I could. “But I have a limit.”

  “That’s why we have to be careful. We don’t know your limits yet. You might be able to leave your body, or you might not. We’ll have to see.”

  I nodded. Jaxon had talked me through his dreamwalker theory several times, but Eliza was a much better teacher. “What would happen if you tried to leave your sunlit zone? Theoretically.”

  “Well, we think that the second zone is where amaurotic ‘nightmares’ take place. The cord sometimes lets you get that far if you’re stressed or nervous. Beyond that, you start feeling a massive pull back to the center. If you walked beyond the twilight zone, you’d start to go insane.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “I really am a freak, aren’t I?”

  “No, no, Paige. Don’t you dare think like that. None of us are freaks. You’re a miracle. A jumper.” She took the sketchbook from my hands. “I’ll have Jax check this out once he’s finished. He’ll love it. Are you staying with your dad tonight? Weren’t you going to stay with him on Fridays?”

  “I’ve got to work. Didion thinks he’s found William Terriss.”

  “Oh, fuck. Say no more.” She turned to face me. “Hey, you know what they say about the syndicate. Once you get in, you never get out. Sure you’re still happy with that?”

  “Never been happier.”

  Eliza gave me a smile. It was a strange smile, almost wistful. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll be upstairs. Need to pacify Pieter.” With a jangle of bracelets, she sidled from the room. I started to shade the rings on my sketch, making each one darker than the last.

  I was still working a few hours later, when Jax came down from the second floor. It was getting close to sunset. I’d have to head out and m
eet Didion soon; but I wanted to transfer my sketch to the computer. Jax looked almost feverish.

  “Jax?”

  “Unreadable,” he breathed. “O, my lovely, lovely Paige. Our dear Mr. Sáenz is an unreadable.”

  21

  A Burnt Ship

  I will never forget Warden’s face when he saw me in the red tunic. It was the first time I ever saw fear in his eyes.

  It only lasted a split second. But I did see it, just for a moment, a trace of insecurity, softer than a candle flame. He watched me as I headed for my room.

  “Paige.”

  I stopped.

  “How was your inaugural feast?”

  “Enlightening.” I traced the red anchor on the gilet. “You were right. She did ask me some questions about you.”

  There was a brief, tense silence. Every muscle in his face was rigid. “And you answered them.” His voice was cold now, colder than I’d ever heard it before. “What did you tell her? I must know.”

  He wouldn’t beg. Warden was proud. His jaw was clenched tight, his lips pressed together in a hard line. I wondered what was racing through his mind. Who to warn, where to run. What to do next.

  How long could I make him suffer?

  “She did say something that caught my attention.” I sat down on the daybed. “That the blood-consort is forbidden from engaging with the Emim.”

  “He is. Strictly forbidden.” His fingers drummed the arm of the chair. “You told her about the wounds.”

  “I didn’t tell her anything.”

  His expression changed. After a moment, he poured his amaranth from the decanter into a glass. “Then I owe you my life,” he said.

  “You drink a lot of amaranth,” I said. “Is it for the scars?”

  His gaze flicked up. “Scars.”

  “Yes, the scars.”

  “I drink amaranth for my own reasons.”

  “What reasons?”

  “Health reasons. I told you. Old wounds.” He put the glass back on the table. “You chose not to tell Nashira that I have been disobedient. I am intrigued as to why.”

  “Betraying people isn’t really my style.” I didn’t miss his evasion. Scars and old wounds were the same thing.