September the first, 2059. Two hundred years since a storm of strange lights crossed the sky. Two hundred years since Lord Palmerston sealed his deal with the Rephaim. Two hundred years since the inquisition into clairvoyance began. And, most important, two hundred years since the establishment of Sheol I, and the great tradition of the Bone Season.
A girl stood in front of me, watching me from the gilded mirror. Her cheeks were hollow, her jaw set tight. It still took me by surprise that this hard, cold face was mine.
My body was sheathed in a white dress, with elbow-length sleeves and a square neckline. The elasticized fabric cleaved to what little figure I had left. Though Warden had fed me as much as he could, there wasn’t always food to give, and he risked raising suspicions if he gave it. The rest of the time, I’d been on skilly and toke with the harlies.
Nashira had not invited me to another feast.
I smoothed down my dress. I’d been given a special reprieve from yellow in order to attend the ceremony. Nashira had said it was a mark of goodwill. I knew better. I was going prepared. Tucked under the neckline was the pendant Warden had given me. It had lain untouched for weeks, but it might come in useful tonight. There was a small knife concealed in one of my white ankle boots. I could hardly walk in the things, but the Rephaim wanted us to look strong—not beaten and weak. We were expected to stand tall tonight.
The chamber was silent, lit by a candle. Warden had gone with the other Rephaim to welcome the emissaries. He’d left me a note, propped on the gramophone. I sat at his desk and ran my fingers over the ink.
The time is set. Find me in the Guildhall.
I threw it into the embers of the fire. In the gloom, I wound the gramophone and moved the needle over the record. This would be the last time I ever heard it play. No matter what happened tonight, I would never return to the Founder’s Tower.
Soft, echoing voices filled the chamber. I checked the name of the record. “I’ll Be Home.” Yes, I would. If everything went to plan, I would be home by morning. I’d had enough of seeing the harlies in poverty, and of having to call them “harlies.” I’d had enough of watching Liss eat grease and stale bread because she had nothing else to live on. I’d had enough of the red-jackets and the Emim. I’d had enough of being called 40. I’d had enough of the whole damn place, and everybody in it. I couldn’t last another night.
Paper hissed on the rug. I knelt by the door and picked up the note that had been pushed under it.
Warden’s notes had given me an idea. I’d encouraged Julian to organize a group of couriers, like the one Jax had in the citadel, and keep people in the residences in the loop by sending notes with the amaurotics.
Orpheus did it. All ready.
Lucky
I allowed myself a smile. Felix. I’d made him use a false name for his deliveries. Orpheus was Michael.
It hadn’t been difficult to persuade Duckett to lend us his particular expertise. Having threatened to expose his little drug den to Nashira (“Oh no, please, have a heart for a poor old man!”), Julian and I had forced him to make up a surprise for the red-jackets. Something that would make them slow to react when we acted against the Rephaim. With some foot-dragging, he’d made it (“You’ll never get away with this, you’ll be chopped up like the first lot!”). Powdered purple aster cut with sleeping pills. Perfect.
I’d used a handful of his own white aster to erase his memory as soon as it was done. I didn’t like cowards.
We’d slipped the concoction to Michael. He’d been happy to spike the wine the red-jackets had been given during their pre-Bicentenary feast. If all went well, none of them would be fit to defend themselves.
I looked out of the window. The emissaries had arrived at eight, dressed in their best, escorted by armed Vigiles. These Scion men and women had come to bear witness to a new agreement, the Great Territorial Act. It permitted the Rephaim to establish a control city in Paris, the first one outside England. Sheol II.
Scion would no longer be an empire in embryo. It would be born. It would live.
This was just the beginning. If the Rephaim had all the voyants locked up in penal colonies, there would be no way for the rest of mankind to fight them off. The æther was our only weapon. If nobody could use it, we were sitting ducks. All of us.
But I didn’t care about that tonight. I cared about getting back to Seven Dials. To the corrupt syndicate. To my gang. To Nick. At that moment, it was all I wanted in the world.
The gramophone played on. I sat down at the writing table, looking through the window at the moon. It wasn’t full, but halved. There were no stars.
Liss, Julian, and I had spent the last few weeks spreading seeds of discord through the city, using the safe house as our den. Suhail and the Overseer couldn’t hear us there. Liss was fully recovered from her trauma and, with a new determination to survive, she’d been active in rallying the harlies. She’d still been nervous, but one night she’d cracked. “I can’t live like this anymore,” she’d said. “And I can’t stop you rebelling. Let’s just do it.”
So we did.
Most of the jackets and performers had agreed to help us. Those that had seen Warden heal Liss were more confident. Certain of some Reph support. Over the weeks we’d pooled our supplies and hidden them at designated checkpoints. A few harlies had pickpocketed the whitewashed Duckett, depriving him of matches and Sterno cans. A pair of brave white-jackets had tried to venture into the House, but security had tightened since Kraz had been found dead. No one could get close. Instead we’d had to scavenge. We didn’t have many guns between us, but we didn’t need guns to kill.
Only Julian, Liss, and I knew where the train was. We hadn’t mentioned it to anyone else. Too risky. All the others knew was that there would be a way out. A flare would be used to mark the spot.
I swung my legs off the bed. Through the bathroom door I could see the mirror. I looked like a bisque doll, but I could have looked worse. I could have looked like Ivy. Last time I’d seen her, she was walking behind Thuban with another human, so dirty and thin I’d barely recognized her. But she hadn’t been crying. Just walking. Silent. I’d been surprised she was alive after what had happened in the House.
Warden hadn’t let me get that way. He’d grown more and more reticent as September approached. I supposed it was fear. Fear that this rebellion would fail, like the last one. Sometimes it was more than fear. It occurred to me that he was angry. Angry that he was going to lose me. Lose the fight against Nashira.
I shook the thought away. Warden just wanted to protect my gift, like everybody else.
There was no point in prolonging it. I had to face the Guildhall. I stood and wound the gramophone again. It comforted me, somehow, that the music was still playing—whatever happened outside, a song would fill the empty chamber for a while. I closed the door of the tower behind me.
The night porter had just started her shift. Her hair was threaded into a shining chignon, and she wore rosy lipstick. “XX-40,” she said. “You’re expected at the Guildhall in ten minutes.”
“Yes, thank you. I know.” Like I hadn’t been told time and time again by the Overseer.
“I’ve been asked to remind you of your instructions this evening. You’re not permitted to speak with the ambassadors or the Scion sponsors, unless you’re accompanied by a Rephaite chaperone. The entertainment begins at eleven. You’ll be on the stage after the play.”
“On the stage?”
“Oh, um—” She looked back at her ledger. “Nothing. Sorry. That message was for someone else.”
I tried to look, but she shielded it. “Really?”
“Evening.”
I looked up. David. He wore a suit and a red tie, and he was clean-shaven. My stomach clenched. David did not look drugged. Michael must have done it, he must have done it.
“I’ve been sent to take you to the Guildhall.” He extended an arm. “The blood-sovereign wants you there now.”
“I don’t need an escort.”
“They think you do.”
He didn’t slur his words. He hadn’t so much as touched Duckett’s mixture. I brushed past him, ignoring his proffered arm, and headed down the street. This was not a good start.
A path of lanterns had been lit through the city. The Guildhall was situated close to the House, named after the NVD’s headquarters in London. The voyants invited to the Bicentenary were those that had reached their pink or red tunics, or particularly talented harlies. Nashira had advertised it as a reward for their good behavior. They would be allowed to eat and dance with other humans. In return, they had to make it clear not only that they liked spending time with their keepers, but also that they were very grateful for their “rehabilitation.” That they liked being hidden away from society in a filthy penal colony. That they liked having limbs ripped off by the Emim.
Most of them wouldn’t have to pretend. Carl was happy. All the red-jackets were happy. They’d found a place in this colony, but I never would. I was getting the hell out of here.
“Good trick,” David said. “With the wine.”
I didn’t dare look at him.
“Your boy put in a bit too much. I know regal when I smell it. But don’t worry—it worked on most of them. Far be it from me to spoil the surprise.”
Two harlies came rushing down the street. Both looked out of breath. They carried rolls of fabric. They slipped into the street between the old church and the Residence of the Suzerain. That was the route they’d take to burn the Room. They must be putting matches there. Matches and paraffin.
Julian had suggested setting fire to the buildings in the center of the city. Turned out he was a damn good tactician. The harlies would cause the distraction, leaving other streets free for us to go north, to the meadow. They would do it in the early hours, when the emissaries would be growing tired. “They won’t go home much later than two,” he’d said. “If we do it at midnight, we’ll have a solid time to get the ball rolling. We’ll be in control. And better early than late.” I’d had no complaints. Everything was going to plan—but the clever red-jacket beside me had the power to destroy it all.
“Who have you told?” I asked David.
“Let me give you some food for thought,” he said, ignoring the question. “Do you think Scion likes being ordered around by the Rephaim?”
“Of course not.”
“But you believe Nashira when she says they’re under her control. Do you not think one person in the history of Scion would have thought about fighting them?”
“What are you getting at?”
“Just answer the question.”
“They wouldn’t. They’re too afraid of the Emim.”
“Maybe you’re right. Or maybe there’s still a grain of sense left in the Archon.”
“What does that mean?” When he didn’t answer, I stopped in front of him. “What the hell does the Archon have to do with anything?”
“Everything.” He pushed past me. “You get on with your prison break, street princess. Don’t worry your head about me.”
He was out of sight before I could answer, past the Victorian entrance hall and into the crowd. My spine tingled. I didn’t need a rogue red-jacket around, especially not someone as cryptic as David. He might claim to hate the Rephaim, but he didn’t seem to like me, either. He could tell Nashira about the wine. She’d smell a rat at once. Lots and lots of rats.
Thousands of candles had been lit inside the Guildhall. As soon as I crossed the threshold, Michael and a white-jacket hurried me up a flight of stairs, leaving David to seek out the other bone-grubbers. Michael’s assignment from the Rephs was to make sure nobody looked bruised or scruffy—a perfect pretext for one last gathering. When we reached the gallery, I turned to face them.
“Ready?”
“And waiting,” the white-jacket said. Charles, a cryomancer owned by Terebell. He nodded down at the hall, where the Rephaim mingled with the emissaries. “The bone-grubbers are starting to bite the dust. The Rephs won’t notice until it’s too late.”
“Good.” I took a deep, steadying breath. “Well done, Michael.”
Michael wore a simple gray suit. He smiled.
“You got my bag?”
He pointed. My backpack, packed with medicine, sat under the gallery benches. I couldn’t take it now, but the harlies knew it was here if they needed it. It was one of many stashes of supplies.
“Paige,” Charles said, “what time will the flare go up?”
“I’m still waiting to hear. I’ll set one off as soon as we find a path.”
Charles nodded. I looked down at the hall again.
So many people were about to risk their lives. Liss, who’d been so afraid. Julian, who’d done so much to help me. The harlies. The white-jackets.
And Warden. I understood now what it meant for him to trust me. If I betrayed him, like the last human, he wouldn’t just be scarred—he’d be slaughtered. This was his last chance.
But we had to act now, while there was still a flicker of compassion among the Rephaim. If the scarred ones perished, that hope would be lost.
The door to the gallery crashed open. Suhail loomed in the doorway. He grabbed Charles by the tunic and hauled him back to the stairs. “The blood-sovereign does not like to be kept waiting, runt,” he said to me. “You are forbidden from the gallery. Get downstairs.”
As quickly as he’d come, he left. Michael glanced at the door. “It’s time,” I said. I squeezed his hand. “Good luck. Remember, keep low and look for the flare.”
Michael nodded.
“Live,” was all he said.
I kept my head down as I crossed the ground floor of the Guildhall. Nobody noticed me come in.
The Scion system was used by nine European countries, including England. Unlike England, however, the rest of them had nowhere to send their clairvoyants. Still, all nine governments had sent emissaries. Even Dublin, the youngest and most controversial Scion city, had sent a delegate: Cathal Bell, an old friend of my father. He was a nervous, indecisive man, crumpled by the duties of his role. A thrill shot through my chest when I first saw him—maybe he could help us—but then I remembered: he hadn’t seen me since I was five or six years old. He wouldn’t recognize me, and I had no name here. Besides, Bell was weak. His party had lost Dublin.
The Guildhall looked spectacular. It had an ornate plasterwork ceiling, hung with chandeliers, and a vast stretch of open floor. The dark flickered with candlelight and Chopin. The delegates were afforded every courtesy. They were free to gorge themselves on all manner of delicious foods, or talk to one another over mecks. Their amaurosis was a privilege, a right. They were served food by the amaurotic slaves, including Michael, who had been made to look like willing participants in the rehabilitation program. The other amaurotics must have been too undernourished to appear.
High above some dancers was Liss, hanging from the silks, striking poses like an airborne ballerina. She was relying solely upon her own strength to keep from falling to her death.
I cast my eye around the room, trying to locate Weaver. He was nowhere in sight. Maybe he was late. Other countries would be excused for not sending their Inquisitors, but not England. I could see a few other recognizable Scion officials, including the Commander of Vigilance, Bernard Hock. He was a huge man with a bald head and overdeveloped neck muscles; very good at sniffing out voyants—in fact, I’d always suspected he was a sniffer. Even now, his nostrils were flared. I made a note to kill him if I could.
An amaurotic offered me a glass of white mecks. I refused it. I’d just spotted Cathal Bell.
Bell had a glass in his hand, and he kept straightening his tie. He was trying to make conversation with Radmilo Arežina, Deputy Minister of Migration for Serbia. I smiled to myself. Arežina had authorized Dani’s transfer to London foolishly. I walked toward them.
“Mr. Bell?”
Bell jerked, spilling his wine. “Yes?”
I looked at Arežina. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Minister, bu
t may I speak with Mr. Bell for a moment?”
Arežina looked me up and down. His upper lip arched.
“Excuse me, Mr. Bell,” he said. “I should return to my party.”
He moved off to the safety of his party. I was left facing Bell, who was dabbing the red stain from his jacket. “What do you want, unnatural?” He was stammering. “I was having a very important conversation.”
“Well, now you can have another one.” I took his glass and sipped from it. “Do you remember the Incursion, Mr. Bell?”
Bell stopped dead. “If you mean the Incursion of 2046, then yes. Of course I do.” His fingers shook. The knuckles were purpled, swollen with arthritis. “Why are you asking? Who are you?”
“My cousin was arrested that day. I want to know if he’s still alive.”
“You’re Irish?”
“Yes.”
He peered at me. “What’s your name?”
“My name doesn’t matter. My cousin’s does. Finn McCarthy. He was at Trinity College. Know him?”
“Yes.” The reply was immediate. “McCarthy was at Carrickfergus with the other student leaders. He was sentenced to hang.”
“And did he?”
“I—I wasn’t privy to the details, but—”
Something dark and violent rose inside me. I leaned close to him and breathed into his ear: “If my cousin was executed, Mr. Bell, I will hold you personally responsible. It was your government that lost Ireland. Your government that gave up.”
“Not me,” Bell gasped out. His nose was beginning to bleed. “Don’t hurt me—”
“Not you, Mr. Bell. Just your kind.”
“Unnatural,” he bit out. “Get away.” I melted into the crowd, leaving him to stanch his bloody nose.
I felt myself shaking. I snatched another glass of mecks and threw it back in one gulp. I had always thought Finn must be dead, but some small part of me had clung to his memory, to the idea that he might still be alive. Maybe he was, but I wouldn’t find out from Cathal Bell.
I caught sight of Nashira, standing below a podium. Beside her was Warden, engaged in conversation with a Greek emissary. After the right bell he’d received his first amaranth in months; a few drops had transformed him. He wore black and gold, with jacinth at his throat, and his eyes were bright as lamps. I recognized the people closest to Nashira: her elite guard. One of them spotted me—Amelia’s replacement—and from the movement of her lips, I guessed she’d informed her boss.