The Mask Falling

by Samantha Shannon

The last time I had seen Ivy Jacob, we had been in the deep-level crisis facility in London, where the syndicate had taken shelter from the soldiers of Scion. To convince the tosher king to let us hide in his underground domain, and to atone for unknowingly helping the gray market, she had joined his service and pledged herself to a life in the storm drains and sewers.

  I took her straight back to the safe house and bundled her inside. She was soaked to the skin.

  “Tell me no one’s on your tail,” I said to her as I shut the door.

  “Vigiles caught a whiff of my aura a while back. Don’t worry.” Ivy kicked off her boots. “I lost them.”

  “You’re a well-known fugitive. Coming here was off the cot.” I locked up and drew the chain across. “Why would you risk it?”

  “Glym and Eliza sent me,” she said. When I turned into the light, her eyes widened. “Paige, your face.”

  “Minor altercation with a tyrant.” I hung up my coat. “Did you plan to just wander about until I picked up on you?”

  “Pretty much. Worked a treat, though, didn’t it?”

  It had been a very long time since I had last seen Ivy smile. She was disheveled and sticky with sweat, but that smile lit her face all the way to her eyes. With a sigh, I embraced her.

  “Welcome to Paris,” I said.

  “Thanks.”

  Ivy pulled down her hood and took off her cap. Her dark hair was now long enough to cover the tips of her ears, almost as long as it had been before Thuban Sargas had shorn it all off in the colony. She was still hollow-eyed, but there was a new firmness about her—she stood tall in a way she never had in London.

  “Someone got me and Ro out of the Beneath,” she said. “I’m told it was on your orders.”

  “I wasn’t about to leave you to rot down there.” I motioned for her to follow me upstairs. “Didn’t the toshers have something to say about you leaving, though?”

  “Eliza and Wynn are thrashing it out with Styx. Some other much-hated voyant will take my place, but we all agreed it was best I left. You know, to stop anyone killing me for not serving my full sentence.”

  “Well, you’re safe now.”

  Her only crime had been to not question her mime-lord. I had done no worse as a mollisher.

  As I led her up to the landing, Ivy peeled off her gloves. “This place is nice,” she said. “And so warm.”

  “Central heating. It’s a wonder.”

  Arcturus was still in the parlor. The instant Ivy stepped in and saw him, she froze.

  “Ivy,” he said, after a pause. If her appearance had surprised him, he concealed it. “Welcome.”

  There was another silence before she replied. “Warden. Didn’t expect to see you here.” She took off her fleece-lined coat and left it on the nearest chair. “Paige, could you show me where the bathroom is?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  I led her down the corridor. As soon as we were out of sight, Ivy grasped my shoulder.

  “No one told me he was with you,” she whispered. “Did the Ranthen send him to watch you, or something?”

  “I needed someone with me. He volunteered,” I said. “I was in a bad way after . . . the Archon.”

  “Right. I forgot,” Ivy muttered. “Rephs are known for their caring sides.”

  She had just about stomached their presence in London, but she had never relished it, or gone near them. Each of us was fighting a private battle with our demons from the colony, and Ivy had more than most.

  “Can you live with him being here?” I asked in an undertone. “This is our only hideout.”

  “Yeah. I don’t expect you to kick him out,” she said, gaze averted. “Can I use the shower?”

  “Absolutely. Let me grab you a towel,” I said, heading for the hot press. “Help yourself to clothes and anything you need from the bathroom. There’s a spare toothbrush in the cabinet, I think.”

  “This place is like a hotel.” Ivy took in the clean walls, the plasterwork. “Who’s paying for it?”

  I considered before answering: “I can’t go into specifics, but it’s a sympathizer. In Scion.”

  Ivy folded her arms at that, as if she had a chill. “No wonder it’s so nice,” was all she said. She took the towel and facecloth I offered. “Thanks. You’ve been here with Warden the whole time?”

  “Ever since New Year.”

  “Okay. And how’s that been?”

  “More normal than you’d think. We play cards, watch films. He’s cooked for me. Tried to cook for me, anyway,” I added. Ivy rewarded me with a tiny smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle meals.”

  Ivy had known little more than cruelty and contempt at the hands of Rephaim. If she was going to be with us for a while, Arcturus needed to show her that some of them were capable of kindness. While she showered, I returned to the parlor.

  “Perhaps I should find somewhere else to stay for the night,” Arcturus said. “To set Ivy at ease.”

  “There’s nowhere to go,” I pointed out. “Just give her some space. Let her get used to you.” I took a tissue from my sleeve and coughed into it. “She can sleep in my room. I’ll take the couch.”

  “You have had enough trouble sleeping. Take my bed.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  “Yes.”

  In my room, I changed the bed linen and laid out a nightshirt. On second thoughts, I put it back and left the drawer open, so Ivy could choose something she felt comfortable in. I knew from Wynn Jacob, who loved Ivy like a mother, that she had scars from her torture.

  In the kitchen, Arcturus boiled the kettle and put a heat pad on charge while I prepared a hot meal. I had never been much of a cook—in the gang, we had usually eaten at cookshops, unless Nick graced us with something homemade—but I could cobble a plate of comfort food together. Mashed potatoes soaked in gravy, a heap of buttered peas, two oven-ready pies.

  A creak sounded in the corridor. I turned to see Ivy in long sports trousers and a sleeveless top, hair towel-dried into spikes, skin flushed from the shower. She shot Arcturus a wary look.

  “Better?” I asked.

  She blew out a breath. “You have no idea.”

  “Good. Now, how do you like your tea?”

  “Milk and four sugars, please,” she said. Her top exposed the mottled scarring on her right arm, where the Rag and Bone Man had burned off her tattoo. “Can’t believe I’m actually in Paris. And that I just had a hot shower. I’d forgotten what warm felt like.”

  I took a carton from the fridge. “I can’t imagine.”

  “Oh, I reckon you can. The waterboard couldn’t have been much cozier than the Beneath.”

  After a moment, I poured the milk. “You know about that, then.”

  “I didn’t see your so-called death, but Eliza told me about it.” She watched me stir the tea. “She and Glym made sure everyone knows who janxed Senshield,” she went on. “The syndicate loves you now.”

  “Really?” I said, skeptical.

  “Well, love might be too strong a word. The syndicate does not want to strangle you with your own intestines now.”

  “Oh, stop, I’m blushing.”

  Ivy grinned, giving me a glimpse of the gap between two of her bottom teeth. “Still can’t believe you actually handed yourself over to reach Senshield.” She accepted the mug of tea from me. “I don’t know whether you’re brave or stupid, Paige, but you get things done.”

  “I try my best.”

  “Seriously, though, are you all right?”

  There was understanding behind the question. She knew what it was to be tortured.

  “I’m . . . trying to be,” I concluded. “I imagine you’re doing the same.” When she nodded, I showed her through the open doors to the parlor. “Make yourself comfortable. You must be tired.”

  “Yeah.” She curled up in the armchair. “Sorry if I doze off. Haven’t slept since I got to France.”

  “Get some food in you first.” I sat on the couch. Arcturus stayed in the kitchen, wi
thin earshot, clearing up the chaos of saucepans and spoons I had left in my wake. “How did you get here?”

  “From Dover. Glym bribed an old friend of his to get me across in her fishing boat, which dropped me in Boulogne,” Ivy said. “Somebody else drove me to Paris.”

  She was fortunate to have survived the journey. “Why?”

  “Two reasons. The first is because we need help.”

  “Go on.”

  “You might already know that Scion has started a military operation to root out the Mime Order. Operation Albion,” she said. I nodded. “Even though Senshield is gone, there are more soldiers than ever, and it’s getting harder to move around. Spot checks. Random searches for numa and weapons. Brutal interrogations. London is still under martial law.”

  A sharp reminder that Scion was at war on two fronts. One with the free world, and one with its own unnaturals. “Is the syndicate still using the deep-level shelter?” I asked. It was where they had all hidden from Senshield.

  “Yeah. That’s been a big help,” Ivy said, “but a lot of people know about it, which makes it risky. As part of Operation Albion, Scion is handing out immunity from execution in exchange for information. They’ve also managed to plant a few spies in the Mime Order.”

  Her expression changed. My fingertips blanched on my mug. “Was there a betrayal?”

  “The Ferryman. His whole cell is either dead or imprisoned, sold out for a pardon.”

  I closed my eyes. Reorganizing the syndicate into insulated cells had been hard work, but at least none of the captured voyants would be able to betray many others. A small comfort.

  “He didn’t give up the shelter, at least,” Ivy said. Her mouth tightened. “Guess he had one shred of decency.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “We really need more allies. A new base for voyants who are in particular danger, or are most important to the cause. Eliza reckoned you might have already made contact with the Parisian syndicate, that they might be able to help us with sanctuary or supplies.”

  “I made contact with them as soon as I arrived.” I smothered a cough. “Unfortunately, the Rag and Bone Man got his claws into them first. There aren’t many here we can trust.”

  Her mouth clamped shut again.

  “That’s the other reason I came,” she finally said. “To warn the Parisian syndicate about the Rag and Bone Man. We found out he’d fled here.”

  Ivy had been his mollisher. She had unwittingly helped him choose voyants for the gray market, only for him to turn on her and sell her to the Rephaim. It was because of him that she had spent half a year at the mercy of a monster. He had also sanctioned the murder of the woman she loved. If not for her testimony, we would never have discovered his illicit trade.

  “His days are numbered,” I said, “but we have something else to do before we get rid of him.”

  The oven beeped. I craned myself up and returned to the kitchen, where Arcturus was loading the dishwasher, and served up our meal.

  While she ate, I told Ivy everything that had happened, from my infiltration of the Hôtel Garuche to the meeting with the perdues. I chose not to mention Domino, instead implying I had made those plans with Arcturus. Safer for Ivy not to know.

  For the most part, Ivy listened in heavy-eyed silence and chewed every mouthful of food as if it were her last. When I got to my reunion with Cade, her brow furrowed in thought.

  “I remember him,” she said. “He wasn’t as cruel as the other red-jackets. Never openly mocked me, anyway.” She pulled a face. “Frère, though. That’s poor taste on another level.”

  “I said as much to him.”

  I kept going. With every revelation, her face hardened a little more. When I stopped, she finished the dregs of her tea.

  “I don’t usually say this sort of thing, Paige,” she murmured, “but I feel like the æther made sure I arrived tonight for a reason.” She put the mug down. “I’m going with you to Sheol II.”

  As soon as I had seen her in the street, I had known this would happen. “It will be a very difficult journey,” I said. “And we don’t know who or what we’re going to find at the end.”

  “Thuban will be there.”

  It was the first time Arcturus had spoken in half an hour. I turned to look at him, as did Ivy.

  “How do you know?” I said.

  “Thuban lacks the qualities necessary in a diplomat, a politician, or a strategist. He is only capable of cruelty. There is nowhere else for him but Sheol II.” He spoke in soft tones, as if Ivy could be startled by too loud a sound. “I do not say this to frighten you, Ivy. Only to warn you.”

  “If he is there,” Ivy shot back, “then all the better. I want to do everything to him that he did to me.”

  “I urge you not to confront him.”

  “Why?” she asked bitterly. “Because I’m a sad victim who’ll never be any kind of threat to him?”

  “Because you are alive, and there is no greater vengeance you could take against Thuban.”

  Ivy stared at him. I had seen that look in my own eyes many times, in the fog of the mirror, when I rose from the bath and the darkness was close enough to touch.

  “He failed to break you. He failed to kill you,” Arcturus continued. “You bested him by surviving, and for Thuban, there could be no greater humiliation than losing to a human. He believed your life was brittle and worthless, and you proved him wrong. Every breath you take now strikes a harder blow than any weapon. Die at his hands, however, and he wins.”

  She swallowed, her mouth a wavering line. Her collarbones surged out with each inhalation.

  “He’s right,” I said quietly. “Thuban would make short work of either of us. Surviving is the best way to piss him off now.”

  “Whether or not I do anything about Thuban,” she said, “I’m still coming. I want to do my bit.”

  “If that’s what you want.” After a silence, I rose. “I suppose we’d better all get some rest, then—we’ve a long journey ahead of us. There’s a bedroom all made up for you, Ivy.”

  “I don’t want to put you out of your bed.” Ivy hesitated. “You don’t sound very well.”

  “Pneumonia. Just had some very attractive yellow slop sucked out of my lung, in fact.”

  “Lung fever?” Ivy looked stricken. “Paige, that’s really serious. People died from it in Jacob’s Island.”

  “I’m all right.” I showed her the dressing taped to my hand. “Taking my medicine.”

  “Okay.” She lowered her gaze. “There is . . . one more thing.”

  I nodded. Ivy retrieved her coat and pulled a parcel from one of its pockets.

  “I don’t know how Eliza got this—I guess from the same person who helped you escape from the Archon.” Not meeting my eyes, she held it out. “It’s what your dad left you in his will.”

  A roar filled my ears.

  “I’m really sorry, Paige,” Ivy said. “I didn’t know my real parents, but I know how I’d feel if I lost Vern or Wynn.”

  I took the parcel from her in silence. It was wrapped in waxy brown paper, tied with string. Ivy stepped out of the room, leaving me holding all that was left in the world of my father.

  ****

  The parcel lay innocuous on the pillow, offering no clues. I sat on the bed with it for a long time before I took a knife I had brought from the kitchen and held it to the string, which was knotted too tightly to unravel.

  I clenched my fingers around the knife, steadied the blade with my thumb, angled it. It sliced the string with a rasp like scissors through hair.

  The paper was secured with a wax seal. I snapped it off and folded back the paper, little by little, revealing what my father had left me: a box, about the length of a cigar, carved from applewood. I lifted it closer to my face. It smelled dimly of clove, and something else.

  It smelled like my grandmother. Like her perfume. I could never have described its notes, but I would have known it anywhere. My grandfather had given her a bottle o
n their anniversary each year, which she had rationed by the drop. It was the only luxury she ever allowed herself, and somehow, after so many years, its scent was preserved in the grain of the wood.

  She had touched this box. I remembered her strong hands, the broad square palms, calloused by decades of work. When I was three, one of the cows had crushed the tip of her ring finger, leaving her with a stub. I could see her in the kitchen, her firm grip on the stamp, pressing a honeybee into rounds of hand-churned butter. People trusted that stamp. Our farm had been renowned for cheese washed in honey, which always sold out at the market.

  I remembered her chestnut hair, always windswept. How stern and tired she had often looked. The sparkle in her eye, reserved for me and my grandfather. Every detail of her was impressed on my memory, as surely as that bee into our butter, unlocked by the whispered rumor of a scent.

  The box was sealed. There were markings on the lid—straight lines scored into the wood, the pattern strong and deliberate. Moving it caused a rustle, as if a winged insect was fluttering inside. A letter. It had to be. Without a key, there was only one way to reach it. I picked up the blade again and started to work it into the seam, but my hands shook so hard I almost dropped it.

  I wasn’t ready. Whatever was in the box, it wouldn’t change the fact that he had died a traitor, jeered by a thousand strangers. I shoved it under the wardrobe, too far away to reach.

  Arcturus had moved the drip to his room for me and attached another pouch of medicine. I hooked myself up to it and laid my hand flat on the duvet. Somehow I was still as tired as if I hadn’t slept at all.

  It soon became clear that I wasn’t going to drift off. I watched the drip, waited until the whole dose had gone in, then freed myself and retrieved my sweater from the floor.

  As I pulled it over my head, the ground tilted. My breath thickened. I could smell the water, taste its foulness, feel the sodden cloth over my nose and mouth. A clammy membrane. My joints ached from the manacles, the chill. I reached out and dug my nails into the bedpost.

  You are alive. You are safe. I smoothed down the sweater and flattened my hands on my stomach. You are not alone.

  The apartment was dark. I headed to the kitchen for something to settle me—a glass of milk, a bite to eat, anything. On my way, I looked into my own room. Ivy was sound asleep, one arm wrapped around the pillow.