My supper appeared to be a thick stew of chicken and vegetables. I dipped the spoon in, cautious. It looked edible.
‘Is all well, Paige?’
‘Of course.’ I smiled. ‘Where did you learn to cook?’
‘There was a recipe book in the colony, which I once perused.’
‘Planning to throw a dinner party at some point, were you?’
‘You underestimate how little I had to do for two centuries, kept as I was like a bird in a cage.’ Pause. ‘I was … not sure of your tastes.’
‘I don’t like to eat beef or veal if I can help it,’ I said. ‘Other than that, I’ll try anything.’
‘Noted.’
To buy myself time for a closer look, I immersed my spoon in the stew again. Nothing rang alarm bells, but I had to wonder if Warden, who had presumably never eaten a morsel of food in his life, knew enough about cooking to avoid inadvertently poisoning me. Chicken was a bold place to start.
Still, the stew was piping hot, and he was waiting. I braced myself, took a big spoonful, and chewed.
‘Wow,’ I said, with feeling, ‘it’s … delicious. Thank you, Warden.’
Oh, no. His eyes were glowing. The soft glow I had come to associate with contentment.
I had to tell him. That his stew was perfect in every way – the chicken tender, the vegetables cooked to perfection – except for the fact that it had no flavour at all. His recipe book must not have mentioned seasoning. There was no salt or pepper. No herbs or spices. Nothing. The parsnip somehow tasted the same as the chicken, and the chicken the same as the onion. It seemed impossible that a stew could be so devoid of taste. Surely this was an unprecedented feat.
… I couldn’t do it. Let someone else crush him. Resolved to finish it even if it meant I received bland stews for the rest of eternity, I gave him a thumbs-up and ate some more. It would fill my stomach and warm me up, at least, and it was sweet of him to have tried.
‘So,’ I said, ‘you and me. Living together.’ I gave the stew a stir. ‘How are we feeling about that?’
Warden narrowed his eyes. ‘In what regard?’
‘We haven’t been alone together for a while. Not since Magdalen.’ Not for longer than a night. ‘Look, if – if you don’t want this after all, if you’d rather go back to London to be with the Ranthen, you shouldn’t feel obliged to stay with me. I’ll be all right.’
A tremor stole in my voice. The thought of being alone here was unsettling, but I had to make the offer.
‘I chose to accompany you,’ Warden said. ‘You needed someone with you, and even Terebell agreed that I was the best candidate.’ Another pause. ‘If you wish for me to leave, however, I can summon one of your commanders.’
‘No.’
I made to touch his hand. It was unconscious – something I would have done in a heartbeat a few weeks ago – but I stopped just in time. His gaze darted from my hand to my face.
‘I don’t want you to go. That’s the last thing I want,’ I said frankly. ‘I just want to make sure you don’t feel beholden to me. I made you promise we’d stay together, but I meant what I said just now. You’re not my subject. If you ever want to leave, just say the word.’
‘I am with you out of loyalty and fondness, not a sense of obligation. You said I was your friend, and no matter what we are or have been to each other, you are also mine.’ He held my gaze. ‘I am here for as long as you want me with you, Paige Mahoney.’
I searched the features I knew by heart, and I found I believed him.
‘Warden,’ I said, ‘I’m so sorry for what I said to you. I wasn’t in my right mind.’
‘I want no apology, Paige. I know what it is to crave a drug.’
Of course he did. The drug he had always mixed into his wine, the only thing that ever drove him back to his decaying home.
Amaranth.
‘When the scars first awakened, I was a prisoner in my own sarx. It was as if the torture had never ended.’ Warden looked hard at the wall. ‘I saw my Ranthen-kith in the same agony and all but crawled before Nashira. Since I had conceived the rebellion, I was responsible for their suffering. I meant to ask my betrothed for mercy.’
I watched his face.
‘There was nothing I could do to persuade Nashira to banish the poltergeist,’ he said. ‘My power was a façade, after all. All I had to offer was obedience. And my dignity. In exchange for those, she agreed to provide small doses of amaranth. Of course, she made certain to withhold them from time to time.’
‘Your dignity.’ The realisation settled in me. ‘That was why you always had to kneel in front of her.’
‘Yes.’ His tone was even. ‘Do not think I have no sympathy. I know the hunger that eclipses the self. The shame and frustration of needing what your enemy chooses to provide.’
‘It wasn’t your fault, Warden.’
‘It was not your fault, either.’
Neither of us asked what it meant. It meant any of it. Any of what had happened to us.
Just then, my cough started back up. Warden went to the cupboard and returned with a spoonful of honey, which I barely managed to swallow. It soothed the inflammation enough for me to draw an easy breath again.
‘Quick thinking.’ Eyes watering, I pressed a hand to my chest. ‘You know your home remedies.’
‘Some.’ He looked at me. ‘You have been coughing in your sleep ever since we arrived.’
I nodded without answering.
The wind-blown rain and the quiver of the shutters was all that broke the hush for a time. Once I had finished the stew, I shuffled to the parlour and tried to get comfortable on the couch. No easy feat with so many aches and bruises. Enveloped in a blanket, I worked on my coffee and listened to the storm, eyes half-closed. Already I was tired again.
Beyond the window, Paris waited. I was a queen in London. Here I was no one. I might have a reputation, grown in whispers, but rumour was one thing. Respect was another.
My father had promised we would come here one day. Jaxon, too, had vowed to show me Paris. He had often waxed lyrical about the refined and cunning voyants of this citadel, who called themselves anormales, or anormaux. Theirs was an old and intricate syndicate. Though it had once enjoyed a genial relationship with London, the two communities had been all but estranged for over a century. Jaxon had told me only that a three-way love affair, a poisoned trifle and a cocker spaniel were involved.
The old Paige would have itched to be outside, discovering it all. The streets and rooftops were where I belonged. As it stood, all I wanted to do was huddle indoors and keep warm.
‘Paige.’
I flinched, slopping coffee down my front. Warden stood in the doorway.
‘Forgive me,’ he said.
‘It’s okay.’ Cheeks burning, I dabbed the mess with my sleeve. ‘I meant to ask. Have you checked if Burnish is still reading the news?’
‘She was this morning.’
‘Good.’
He lowered himself into the armchair. Lightning flickered again, brighter than before.
‘On the way to Dover,’ he said, ‘Burnish told me that Scion means to invade Portugal and Spain. Operation Madrigal. It will be announced to the public on the twelfth of January.’
My heart pounded. ‘There were Spanish emissaries in the Archon,’ I said. ‘Jaxon told me Weaver was trying to persuade them to convert bloodlessly, like Sweden.’
‘Spain has a popular monarchy. Under Scion, the royal family would, at best, be forced to abdicate.’
At worst, they would lose their heads.
‘We knew this was coming,’ I said. ‘We saw the preparations for war.’ I put my mug aside. ‘Abel Mayfield is remembered for defeating Ireland. Weaver has yet to live up to that legacy. Unusually brave of him to still go ahead now Vance is out of action.’
‘Nashira favoured Weaver because he was quiet, efficient and obedient,’ Warden said, ‘but he has failed to dismantle the Mime Order. Conquering the Iberian Peninsula would earn b
ack her favour.’
Rain washed down the windows. The sound of it drew my hand into a fist, tight enough for my nails to dent my palm.
‘Paige,’ Warden said quietly, ‘if you are willing to tell me, I would know what Scion did to you.’
My fingertips pressed into the mug until it hurt.
‘They tortured me,’ I said.
‘I assumed as much.’
‘What more is there to say?’ My voice was curt. ‘Why could you possibly need particulars?’
‘To better understand.’
‘You don’t need to understand.’ I looked away. ‘I don’t want to talk about it. Ever.’
Thunder crashed outside, closer. I could sense his gaze on my face.
‘I will let you rest,’ he finally said. ‘Call if you need anything, but do not strain your voice. Use the cord.’
‘Like the cord ever works when we need it.’
‘Try.’
He switched a lamp on before he left.
As I curled up on my side, jaw clenched in discomfort, I thought of Liss, and the sixth card in the reading she had done for me.
Eight of Swords. A blindfolded woman encircled by blades. If she was to escape her prison, she would have to bleed. Liss had told me that it represented my hopes and fears. The torture had to be part of it.
The woman on the card wore no crown. She held no sword of her own. She was not a warrior or a leader or a queen – only a captive, bound at the wrists, unable to see or feel an escape.
I feared its meaning. Whether or not the swords were gone, their memory might forever shape the bounds of my existence, reducing my world to the walls of this building. I might never have the courage to leave them again, as I had left my prison – and if I did, I would not be the same as before. I would be heavier. I looked down at my wrists, where the manacles had been.
And I stared into the grey beyond the window, haunted by the rain.
PENAL COLONY OF SHEOL I
22 AUGUST 2059
I had worked with Warden in the woods for more than two weeks. So far, nobody had discovered us. Even the Rephaim had forgotten how many dangers lurked in certain areas so they avoided them altogether.
All but Warden. Every night, he had taken me to a safe clearing and pushed me to the limit. Every night left me with a nosebleed and a headache from trying to break into his dreamscape.
You’re not trying to kill her, Liss had said. Just do something to show them she’s not all-powerful.
Tonight, I was determined to do that to Warden, to really rattle him. I would crack his dreamscape before sunrise. I would possess him. If I could do that to him, then I could do it to Nashira. I could survive this place.
Rain thrashed against the windows, and somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled. There had been rumours of a storm. I zipped my coat as I headed down the stairs to his chamber.
The first thing I saw was the glow of ectoplasm on the rug. Unsettled by the metallic smell of it, I followed the trail to the armchair, where Warden sat, calm as you please.
‘Again?’ I said flatly.
‘Again.’ He shifted. ‘Fear not. I have already taken blood.’
‘And aura,’ I observed.
Warden spared me a glance. His eyes were orange, like amber struck by sunlight.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I will soon heal.’
I walked to him to see the damage. His shirt was drenched and torn where the Emite had ripped into his back, right above his shoulder blade. I was surprised he was conscious.
‘Why the hell do you keep doing this?’ My tone was cool as I looked him dead in the eye. ‘Why keep endangering yourself?’
‘I asked you the same about your visit to the Rookery.’
‘This is different. You’re the only one forbidden to fight the Emim, yet you keep going out there.’
‘They will kill and consume even more humans if some Rephaim do not help from the shadows.’ He reached for the cup of wine beside him. ‘I was a warrior once. I stand a better chance of defeating them. No matter what the blood-sovereign decrees, this is my calling.’
‘Why not just send Rephs to defend the colony, then?’ I stood in front of him. ‘If you have a better chance than we do. Why not cut the soldier charade and just use humans to feed on?’
Warden held my gaze for so long that I should have felt self-conscious.
‘It is complicated,’ he said, ‘but there are reasons.’
‘Reasons you never see fit to tell me.’
He drank. ‘For further reasons.’
Like the fact that we could never fully trust each other in this place, where everyone was a potential enemy. He still had too much power over me. I still had too much power over him. We could never be friends or confidants here, in the pressure cooker of our own suspicions.
‘The humans sent to fight the Emim are mostly red-jackets,’ I said. ‘The fewer of them are there during the rebellion, the better.’
‘You do not mean that.’
‘I do.’ I smiled thinly. ‘But no ... I don’t wish them all dead. I’ve a softer way to make sure they won’t trouble us.’
‘I will not ask.’ Warden glanced at me. ‘There is no food. Forgive me. I will see to it that you have a meal by dawn.’
A nod was all I gave him.
I had asked him about getting more for the harlies, but he was powerless in the matter. The next consignment of food would arrive on the day of the Bicentenary. What little remained here was rationed among the red-jackets, with scraps tossed into the Rookery. Michael knew an amaurotic in the Residence of Suzerain who was sometimes able to slip him leftovers, which he shared with me. Not enough to make a difference to the harlies.
‘Let me stitch the wound.’ I took off my coat. ‘You’re bleeding all over the show.’
Warden studied my face. ‘You wish to help me.’
‘I won’t offer again.’
‘Are you skilled at needlework, Paige?’
‘It won’t be tidy,’ I said, ‘but given where the wound is, I doubt you’d do it any better.’
‘A sound point.’ He nodded to the cabinet. ‘There is a sewing box in there. And salt.’
It sat on the top shelf. Inside were all the instruments I needed and more: a heavy pair of scissors, a stitching awl, bodkins and thimbles, spools of thread, surgical needles in a velvet-lined case.
A crack sounded right above the tower, followed by a full-throated rumble that seemed to shake the foundations of the residence. I longed to breathe in the sweetness of a summer storm again. I opened the nearest window and savoured the feel of warm rain on my face.
‘That seems unwise,’ Warden stated.
‘I love thunderstorms.’
I waited to see if he would order me to close it. All he did was take another drink of wine.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’m sure you won’t get hit by lightning.’
The fire wavered as I moved the sewing box to the table. I almost asked Warden to take his shirt off before I remembered the scars he likely wanted to keep hidden. And the prohibition of flesh-treachery.
Warden leaned forward a little. I peeled a scrap of his shirt away. Beneath it was a deep and filthy gash, which leaked slow-pouring ectoplasm.
‘Gloves will make me too clumsy for this,’ I said, businesslike. ‘I’ll … try not to touch you.’
Warden gave the barest nod.
Ectoplasm behaved like molten glass. Left for too long, it would set. This was still fresh enough to wipe away with a cloth and salt water. I got on with that first, trying not to look too hard at the skin around the gash. I would show an ounce of respect for his privacy, even if he had destroyed mine by sifting through my memories. I would be better.
When the wound was as clean as I could get it, I set about drawing it shut. Though it looked like satin, his skin was tough to pierce; I had to exert a lot of force to get the needle through it, enough to make my arms tremble. It had to be hurting him, but he never made a sound.
<
br /> In an effort to keep my balance, I forgot myself. I pressed a hand to the middle of his back.
He tensed under my touch. At once, I remembered myself – but it was too late, it was already done. I could feel his strong heartbeat, the muscle coursing under his skin.
It wasn’t flesh-treachery. Yet he held himself now as if I had scalded him.
‘Does it really disgust you that much?’ I huffed a small laugh. ‘Even through your shirt?’
‘It is not disgust.’
‘What, then?’
No answer. I shook my head and pushed the needle into his skin a little harder than necessary.
Nick had taught me to do this. He believed everyone should know how to treat their own wounds. I settled into a rhythm, into a trance, soothed by the heaviness of the storm.
It was an extensive wound, but stitch by stitch, it was closing, smothering the glow of his blood. Now and again, lightning turned the room blue. Rain darkened the windowsill.
Warden endured my tender ministrations in silence. My stitches were askew, as usual, but pulled the skin together well enough.
‘You have a soft touch,’ he remarked. ‘For a criminal.’
‘Surprised?’ I drew the needle upward. ‘Criminals have the softest touches of all. Light-fingered pickpockets. Coiners and card-sharps. Even cutting a throat takes a certain finesse.’
‘You know this from experience.’
‘I’ve seen it done.’
‘Is it Jaxon Hall who revels in murder?’
‘No. Jax never gets blood on his hands,’ I said. ‘We do that for him.’
‘But you do not kill for him.’
It was a statement, not a question. ‘You know I’ve killed,’ I said. ‘Killing those two Underguards was what landed me here.’
‘Self-defence. Or accidental. I do not believe you have ever committed a cold-blooded murder.’
‘Stop making assumptions, or you’ll be my first.’ I moved another shred of his shirt. ‘It was the Underlord. In Flower and Dean Street. He murders voyants who piss him off and leaves the bodies there as warnings. I saw him do it to a courier.’ When I started on the next stitch, I was softer. ‘Even the Vigiles are afraid to cross Haymarket Hector.’
The Dawn Chorus Page 6