The Mask Falling

by Samantha Shannon

  “Thanks so much,” I said.

  “Just doing my job.” She took a folded piece of paper from her pocket and slid it across the table to Arcturus. “My current number, if you need anything. Ducos will visit soon.”

  She stepped into her shoes, picked up her bag and coat, and was gone. Arcturus looked intently at my face.

  “How do you feel?”

  I plucked up my courage and took the deepest breath I dared. There was still a stab of discomfort in my chest, but now it was as if the knife was wrapped in several layers of cloth.

  “Better.” My exhalation turned into a sigh of relief. “Not perfect, but better.”

  “Good.”

  “Which means,” I went on, “that I’m fine on my own for a bit. You have to find the perdues now, before someone else does.” I reached for my nightshirt. “You need aura, too.”

  “I will go on the condition that you rest while I am gone.”

  I assented with a heavy nod. The numbing agent was already wearing off, and I was becoming acutely conscious of the fact that my lung had been flushed with a seven-inch needle.

  In my room, I got back into bed. Arcturus brought a jug of water. “Cordier has left instructions for intravenous therapy,” he said, as he filled my glass. “If you wish to start at once.”

  “Might as well. Can’t wait to get shot of this cough.”

  For our first few days in the safe house, I had taken saline through a drip, unable to stomach water. Arcturus set everything up again, then sat on the edge of my bed. I watched as he gently attached my hand to the pouch of medicine.

  “You know Cordier was flirting with you,” I said, breaking a long silence.

  “I had not noticed.”

  “She’s . . . very beautiful.”

  “Doubtless.” He released my hand. “I will return soon. Use the cord if you need me.”

  He was gone before I could wish him luck. Or admit how selfishly relieved I was that throughout the time Eléonore Cordier had been with us, his gaze had been reserved for me.

  ****

  The apartment was too quiet. I drank as much as I could. Even though breathing was easier, my chest still ached, and my face was so hot I thought the pillow would catch fire. In the end, I slid into a drowse—but a vivid image swam toward me. Arcturus, intertwined with Cordier, her hair caught between his fingers. Then Kornephoros took her place in his arms, and I was chained in agony on the waterboard again, unable to move. Only to see. To watch.

  I jolted from the fever dream, weltered in sweat, each cheek an open flame. Almost at once, I tumbled into a much deeper sleep, the hallucination drowned by darkness.

  It was past midnight by the time I woke, sensing Arcturus. I released myself from the drip and went to meet him.

  His hair and coat were damp with melted snow. “Did you find Mélusine?” I asked him.

  The fever dream was scorched onto the front of my mind. I forced myself to look him in the face.

  “In the coffeehouse.” His eyes were pure yellow, no trace of the green tinge they had in their neutral state. “Those perdues who are not in hiding will meet us in Impasse Hautefeuille.”

  “When?”

  “Half past two.”

  “Good.” I turned away. “I’ll get ready.”

  Disturbed though it was, the nap had refreshed me. I went back to my room, where I took the cannula out of my hand. Once I had staunched the bleeding, I opened the nightstand and lifted out a velvet-lined box I had seen, but never used. Greasepaint and brushes glinted inside.

  Black Moth had slept for too long. Time to paint over the cracks in me and resurrect the queen.

  First, I needed to make a concerted effort with my hair. Leading a rebellion hadn’t left me with an abundance of free time to look after it, as I had when I was still in the gang. Back then, I had loved taking hour-long soaks in the tiny bathtub at the den, then lounging on my bed and working one buttery cream or another into my curls. Jaxon had usually banged his cane on our shared wall and told me to stop steaming up the windows with my faineance, whatever that meant.

  At present, my hair was a mess of split ends and stubborn knots. I sat on the edge of the bath, wet my curls in stages, then worked conditioner through to the ends. Once they had a good coating, I teased out the tangles with a wide-toothed comb. Though the wetness on my scalp and nape unnerved me, I found myself relaxing into the routine: the scent of the conditioner, the small victory of undoing a knot. Finally, I rinsed out the suds and found a diffuser to attach to the blow-dryer. My hair sprang.

  Back in my room, I took out some cosmetics and mixed a base to cover my bruises, leaving my scar from the scrimmage on show. Next, I dipped a brush in lampblack. From the first stroke, I could see my old self rising from the ashes, all the fear and damage left beneath. Once my eyes had wings, I painted my lips with a dark glaze that went on smooth as ink.

  In the wardrobe, I searched for armor, wishing I had Eliza to offer her opinion, or Nick to tell me how fierce I looked. On days and nights like this, I felt their absence keenly. I pulled on a blouse and trousers before I found a black coat, severely cut, which I belted at the waist. My hair had grown just long enough to sit on its roped shoulders. I laced on a pair of boots and slid a blade-like clip into my hair. The final touch was a scarf over my nose and mouth.

  Even with all this chain mail and greasepaint, I would have to work hard to convince the perdues that I was a strong ally, worthy of their respect. I could not show them the part of me that wanted to curl inward. The part of me that was forever trapped in the dark.

  Arcturus was waiting by the door, gloved and booted. We left without speaking. Ducos had ordered me not to go out, but I would have to risk it. There was no more time to waste.

  Impasse Hautefeuille was a dead-end alley, close to the safe house. When we arrived, the perdues—five of them—were already waiting under a lantern. It bathed them all in eerie blue. Instead of skulls, like the rest of their syndicate, they wore the most beautiful masks I had ever laid eyes on. They gave the effect of a shelf of dolls, turning as one to look at us.

  “Réphaïte,” one of them muttered.

  I stopped in front of them and drew my shoulders back. Arcturus stood just behind me.

  “I’m told you are the perdues,” I said. “The followers of Le Vieux Orphelin.”

  “Five of the thirteen.” Shadows filled the eyeholes of the nearest mask, which was decorated with painted wisteria and nettle leaves. “I am Renelde du Linceul. And I ask that you show us your face.”

  “Mélusine has already seen it.”

  “Yes.” Renelde slid a gloved hand into her pocket. “We would like to confirm her claim that she met the Underqueen in Montparnasse. Since the Underqueen was killed in December, I’m sure you understand our confusion.”

  I reached up to untie the scarf and let it fall away. There was a long silence as they all took the measure of me—of my facial landmarks, as Gabrielle Auclair would have said. Renelde reached up and removed her mask, revealing angular eyes, deep brown skin, and low cheekbones. Long, dark braids framed her face. She was about thirty, perhaps a touch younger.

  “Je ne leur fait pas confiance,” muttered the sensor beside her. His half mask was fashioned into a vulpine face, complete with ears and a black nose. “Il se pourrait qu’elle soit imposteur.”

  “The grands ducs thought I was an imposter, too,” I said.

  Renelde raised her eyebrows. “You speak French.”

  I nodded. The fox pressed his lips together. They were just visible in the shadow of the mask.

  “Madelle,” he said, “no offense intended, but you could be anyone. You must show us your gift, or—”

  “You do not want a dreamwalker to show you her gift, Malperdy,” Renelde cut in. “That”—she nodded to Arcturus—“is a Réphaïte. Which means that this woman is Paige Mahoney.” She gave me a brief smile. “Welcome to Paris, Underqueen. We were hoping you might pay us a visit.”

  “How d
id you survive the bullet?” came another voice. “We all saw.”

  “It was a rubber bullet,” I said. “You know about the Rephaim, then.”

  “Yes, the pamphlet was translated here.” Renelde eyed Arcturus. “Instant bestseller.”

  Another one of the perdues stepped forward. “Underqueen.” He went so far as to drop to one knee, making the bells in his three-pronged hat jingle. “An honor. I am Le Bateleur.”

  “Please, stand. There’s no need.” I held out a hand to him. “You’re one of the patrones.”

  “Yes.” He accepted my hand and stood. “I serve under Le Vieux Orphelin.” His voice was like gravel. “He has heard tell of you, and of your Mime Order, from the merchants who go between here and London. He wanted to strike an alliance with she who destroyed Senshield—to help you, should you ever come to Paris.”

  Someone who had heard of me and whose first response had not been to want me dead. What a treat.

  “Le Vieux Orphelin is missing,” I said.

  “Yes,” Renelde said. “Le Prince Creux, his compagnon d’armes, now holds his authority – I think you would call him a mollisher in London.” She fitted her mask back over her face. “We fear Le Vieux Orphelin is in the Bastille, along with Le Prince Creux’s sister, La Tarasque. She disappeared the same night.”

  “I don’t know about La Tarasque,” I said, “but Le Vieux Orphelin is definitely not in the Bastille.”

  They all looked at each other. “You know what became of Le Vieux Orphelin?” Le Bateleur said softly.

  “He was taken.” I folded my arms. “You have an interloper in your syndicate. A trafficker of anormales with a network of hunters at his command. He goes after those he deems valuable and sells them to Scion.” Mutters. “Le Latronpuche and La Reine des Thunes have been hand in glove with him since he arrived here. They confessed to it when I met them.”

  “The Man in the Iron Mask,” another of the perdues muttered. “The shadow in the slums. Is he the interloper?”

  “Yes. He called himself the Rag and Bone Man in London. He preyed on my syndicate, too,” I said. “He means to find and sell all of you to the Grand Inquisitor. Ménard is out for your blood.”

  “Fuck Ménard,” came a sharp retort.

  “Hush, Malperdy,” Le Bateleur said, just as sharply. “We have guests.” He turned back to me. “Did you bring us here only to warn us of this danger, Underqueen, or do you have a plan?”

  “Both. I believe that the other two grands ducs sold Le Vieux Orphelin, and that he was transported to a new high-security prison in Versailles. And I believe you know a way in.”

  There was a tense period in which they all traded looks again. Renelde planted her hands on her wide hips and took a breath.

  “Le Passage des Voleurs,” she said. “A tunnel in a very deep part of the carrières, which leads to a cemetery in Versailles. Some time ago, Le Vieux Orphelin and I found the entrance and ventured to the ruin at its end. Over several years, we mapped and explored every inch of Versailles, often visiting to plunder it.”

  I exchanged a fleeting glance with Arcturus. His instinct had been right on the money.

  “Does Scion know about this secret way?” I asked.

  “Not to our knowledge,” Renelde said. “We call the entrance to the tunnel Apollyon—a shaft that goes far deeper than most sensible anormales would descend. Fortunately, we are not sensible.” I could hear her smile. “That part of the mines is not for the faint-hearted.”

  “I’ve been called many things, but never faint-hearted.” I pocketed my hands. “Do Le Latronpuche and La Reine des Thunes know where it is?”

  Malperdy chuckled.

  “No, Underqueen, they do not,” Le Bateleur said. “Le Vieux Orphelin is a generous man, but he has never trusted Le Latronpuche.” His bells tinkled. “With good reason, it seems.”

  “They know he has a way in, of course,” Renelde added, “but not where it is. They allowed him to keep this secret on the understanding that he shared a third of the artifacts with them.”

  “Like the jewelery La Reine des Thunes wears,” I conjectured.

  “Yes. Worn by the Gray Queen herself. Le Vieux Orphelin gave them to his sister-in-chaos for her fortieth birthday.” She sniffed. “See how she repays him.”

  “I’ll be plain with you all,” I said. “I want to break into Versailles and bring its prisoners back to Paris. Some friends of mine are among them. Would any of you be willing to guide us through the tunnel?”

  Another silence.

  “Underqueen,” Le Bateleur said, “we would do anything to help Le Vieux Orphelin—his absence grieves us, as does the betrayal— but the journey could end in all our deaths, and that will not help him at all.”

  “The passage is too fragile now,” Renelde explained. “It is an ancient mining tunnel, vulnerable to collapse. Le Vieux Orphelin forbade us from using it again.”

  “It might be his only way out of captivity alive,” I said. “Ménard has learned of his imprisonment and wants him returned to Paris for execution. If we don’t get him out of there, he’s going straight to the guillotine.”

  Slowly, Renelde folded her arms.

  “What lies at the end of that tunnel now is more dangerous than you can imagine,” I said. “I’m willing. If you are.”

  Another look passed between them.

  “Excuse us a moment,” Le Bateleur said with a small bow, and the five of them turned their backs on us to confer. Renelde pulled out a burner phone. I hung back with Arcturus.

  “Do you think they will agree?” he asked me, too low for them to hear.

  “For a price.” I tapped my foot. “In the syndicate, you learn to smell desperation.”

  “You believe we appear desperate?”

  “Well, you have to be reasonably desperate to ask for help from somebody dressed as a fucking jester.”

  It was a while before the perdues returned to us. “Underqueen,” Le Bateleur said, “we must put this to Le Prince Creux. If he agrees to your proposal, a small team of the most experienced perdues will escort you to Apollyon and continue with you to Versailles. The journey will take two or three days.”

  Suddenly my stomach felt heavy. I remembered blood on the snow in London.

  “I want to make this very clear,” I said. “Anyone who comes with me—with us,” I added, with a look toward Arcturus, “will be putting their lives on the line. We’ll be breaking into a facility that Scion has very good reason to keep secret. There’s a chance none of us will come out of it alive.”

  “If there is any chance that we can rescue Le Vieux Orphelin, we must,” Renelde said. “You will need good fighters. Le Prince Creux will ensure you have them. I will join you.”

  “So will I,” Malperdy said.

  “But if you accept this alliance,” Le Bateleur said, “we must ask one more thing of you, Underqueen.”

  “Join us in hunting down the Man in the Iron Mask,” Malperdy clenched a freckled hand. “Make us this promise, and we will go with you to the depths of Apollyon. And beyond it.”

  “I will. Gladly,” I said. “I imagine you’ll need some time to prepare for the journey, but we don’t have much.”

  Renelde nodded. “Meet us three days from now.”

  “Good. We’ll see you on the ninth, then, at nightfall,” I said. “Tell us where to find you.”

  ****

  As soon as we were back in the safe house, I scrubbed off all the greasepaint, changed into leggings and an oversized sweater, then slumped at the kitchen table to consult the map of the citadel.

  I knew from the ledger that the Rag and Bone Man hunted close to Rue Montmartre. Not only was it near the Court of Miracles—a rich source of income for a voyant trafficker—but when I accessed the Scionet, it informed me that the first sewer in Paris had been constructed there. The original foundations might have survived. If so, there was no more perfect lair for him. He could drag his victims down through the manholes. When we returned with them,
those victims would serve him the justice he had evaded in London.

  Ducos would return soon with another task for me. I could stay and earn her approval, foster my relationship with Domino—or leave it behind altogether and disappear back into the underworld.

  I had been able to hold my two selves in balance for a time. The insurgent and the intelligence agent. The queen and the subject. Now I felt them pull in opposite directions, straining fragile seams. Black Moth could not coexist with Flora Blake. In the end, one would consume the other.

  I rolled the map up and stowed it away. Inexplicably, I found myself drawn to the parlor.

  Arcturus was watching a news report, stone-faced, one hand wrapped around a tumbler of wine. Neither of us said anything, but the silence was softer. I sat beside him and followed his gaze to the news of more celebrations across Scion.

  They would never show the truth. The violence and agony as soldiers marched into every settlement in Portugal. Religious houses destroyed, statues felled, whole libraries of books reduced to cinders in the biblioclasms. The unmaking of democracy.

  Something pulled my attention to the æther. Arcturus noticed how still I suddenly became.

  “Is it Ducos?” he asked.

  “No. Someone else.” I rose. “Someone we know.”

  ****

  I slung on a coat and boots and picked up an umbrella as I left. It would shield me from cameras as much as the rain.

  There was no reason she should be here, no reason at all—but while my gift had sometimes deceived me, it had never told me an outright lie. The dreamscape was farther away by the heartbeat. I shut the door of the safe house behind me and walked as fast as I physically could down the quay, following the Seine.

  When I reached her, she was leaning against a streetlamp, a hood drawn tight around her face, a scarf over her nose and mouth. Dark eyes looked out at me from under a knitted cap.

  “Paige,” Ivy said. “I hoped you’d find me.”

  16

  Loyalty