Tourist Trap

TOURIST TRAP

26 August 2057

The fifth and six members of our group were found in 2057, over a year after I joined. It happened during a vicious heatwave, rare in the Scion Citadel of London. One morning in August, a local courier reported two new voyants to Jaxon. Neither of them had declared themselves.

Jaxon dispatched me to deal with it. By then, he had already made me his mollisher. At only seventeen years old, I was a future mime-queen.

I worked myself to the bone for the honour. Jaxon was mellow and charming when pleased, but quick to anger, with a cruel streak – a man as mercurial as the Thames. He was soft on Nick, given his demanding job in Scion – it helped that Nick was generous with his earnings – but Eliza and I were expected to give our whole selves to the underworld.

By and large, I was happy to oblige. I had blossomed in the syndicate, as I never had at school. Jaxon paid me well, and I had my own room at the den. My father had asked me to visit several times, but I kept putting him off. I was tired of pretending to be amaurotic.

As mollisher, one of my duties was to inform new arrivals of their duty to pay the syndicate tax. It had been difficult at first – one seer had already pleaded for leniency – but I soon hardened myself. Jaxon was like a rough stone on the hands, callusing all he touched.

Led by the courier, I found the newcomers in a coffeehouse on Gower Street with a group who were clearly not from Scion. Confirming my suspicions, I tailed them to the Anchotel by Euston Station, where visitors from the free world stayed.

A false alarm. Jaxon sent the hapless courier away with a clip on the ear and a warning not to waste his precious time again.

Nobody expected tourists to respect syndicate law, but the pair had intrigued me. One of them was probably a sensor – relatively common in London – but the other had an aura I had never sensed before.

Jaxon overheard me telling Nick about it. He sauntered in with a glass of absinthe, leaning against the doorway.

‘This might be worth a little more investigation,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Why would two young voyants risk their lives to visit Scion?’

‘They might not know,’ Nick said. ‘Paige didn’t.’

‘Perhaps we could enlighten them.’ Jaxon had that ambitious gleam in his eye. ‘Paige has done her part, Dr Nygård. Your turn now.’

Nick looked sceptical, but nodded.

He soon had some information for us. It pertained to the Grand Conference.

Every five years, the University of Scion London held an event to educate outsiders, inspiring them to embrace the anchor. Eager tourists, politicians, celebrities and investors were invited from all over the free world. They travelled by private charter and basked in luxury for a week. Some of them would continue on the Grand Tour to Paris, Stockholm and Athens.

Scion was seducing them. It wanted them to return to their countries and campaign for conversion, reducing the need for expensive invasions.

At present, the Grand Conference was in full swing. Jaxon despised it. For an entire week, his section was flooded with Vigiles, whose presence disrupted syndicate business. Worse still, there were tour guides on every corner. Scion paid them to keep the visitors on approved paths, avoiding prisons and execution grounds.

On the third day of this, I got up to find Jaxon standing by a window.

‘I am offended by the number of witless amaurotics in my eyeline,’ he said icily. ‘When will they flop back to their own banal lives?’

I joined him. Three laughing men had just emerged from the oxygen bar on the other side of the street. They were easy to clock as tourists – their clothes were bright and loose, unusual in London.

‘I could give them all a headache,’ I offered.

‘Oh, the temptation.’ A dark chuckle escaped him. ‘No. Don’t waste that extraordinary gift on people so unpalatably ordinary, Paige.’

Nick sent a message at midday. The mysterious pair were attending the Grand Conference on a programme funded by a university in Boston.

So far, neither of them had been detained. Then again, I doubted Scion would risk arresting a pair of outsiders, even if they were unnatural.

‘Their names are Nadine Arnett and Ezekiel Sáenz,’ Nick told us over supper. ‘Nadine is the student, and Ezekiel is her guest on the programme.’

Jaxon twirled a chip on his fork. ‘I trust you have more than that, Dr Nygård.’

‘As if I would dare to rest on my laurels.’ Nick cut a sliver of fish. ‘I managed to brush past them while they were on a walking tour – close enough to feel their auras. Paige was right. Nadine is a whisperer.’

Jaxon gave me a nod. Whisperers were a kind of sensor. They could hear the voices of spirits and channel their tiny vibrations into instruments.

‘A pretty gift,’ Jaxon mused, ‘but by no means … groundbreaking.’

‘Come on, Jaxon.’ Eliza gave him a knowing smile. ‘I wasn’t groundbreaking, either.’

‘Ah, but you are simply exceptional, my dear.’

‘Nadine could be exceptional, too. You won’t know unless you give her a chance.’

Eliza Renton was our trance medium, a specialist in mime-art. Born within striking distance of Bow Bells, she had worked in an underground theatre on the New Cut until she was nineteen, when she had read On the Merits and got in touch with its author, hoping for a new job.

Jaxon had seen her potential at once. Now, two years later, she was his most reliable source of income, standing among the highest earners on the black market. Her forgeries sold for thousands. On top of that, she designed and made all her own clothes by hand. She had clear olive skin, eyes as green as apples, and golden hair she kept in barley curls.

She was never short of admirers – people loved her as much as her muses did – but Jaxon strictly forbade us from relationships that lasted any longer than a night (and that was a grudging caveat), and Eliza respected his wishes. No one was more loyal to Jaxon than his Martyred Muse.

Jaxon narrowed his eyes in thought. Sensors were the fourth order of clairvoyance – less common than mediums. Many of them had left for other citadels during the street wars, making them even rarer.

‘Ezekiel Sáenz,’ he finally said. ‘Could you glean anything from him, Nick?’

‘I’ve never sensed an aura like his before,’ Nick said. ‘It was somewhere between orange and red, to my eye.’

‘A potential fury.’ Jaxon raised his eyebrows. ‘Now, that is interesting.’

The sixth order of clairvoyance, and perhaps the most arcane. None of us had ever met one, to our knowledge.

Nick shared a glance with Eliza. They had both worked with Jaxon for longer than me, and used a language of subtle looks I had yet to learn.

Still, they never left me out, even though Jaxon had passed them both over to choose me as mollisher. Nick went out of his way to make sure I was all right.

Jaxon lit a cigar. He had been scouring the streets for a fury for years, but this must be his first hopeful case. The White Binder didn’t just want any commonplace gang – he wanted a box of rare jewels, the cream of the crop, the very best and brightest of voyants. He wanted the Unnatural Assembly to envy him above all other mime-lords.

‘It’s high time I spoke to them myself,’ he said. ‘If Ezekiel is a fury, I want him for the Seven Seals. I’ll take the whisperer as well, if I must.’

I dipped a chip in ketchup. ‘You really think you can get them to stay?’

‘Did I not persuade you, O my lovely?’

‘This is different, Jax. Nadine is at university. She won’t want to interrupt that. Besides, they must have families back home, career plans—’

‘You dropped your father like the millstone he is, without a second thought.’

‘It’s not the same. I didn’t have to upend my entire life to come and work for you. I just moved to a different part of the citadel. If I wanted to see my father, I could.’

‘Well, make sure you don’t. I don’t want his amaurotic dullness rubbing off on you.’

Jaxon often made jabs at my father. I resented him enough that I could live with it.

‘You’d be asking them to stay illegally in an empire that wants them dead,’ I said. ‘Why would they do it?’

Jaxon steepled his fingers. ‘How old would you say the whisperer was, Nick?’

‘About the same age as Paige.’

‘Then she knows something is amiss. The voices would have come in by now,’ Jaxon said. ‘She’s aware that she is a potential unnatural, but still chose to come here – and to put someone else at risk. Either they came to die, or they crave knowledge.’

‘There are only three days of the conference left,’ Eliza said, looking just as doubtful as me. ‘Won’t they need more time to consider it?’

‘Not if they have a spark of intelligence between them. What sort of bores would choose a decade of student debt over the underworld?’

‘They’re not going to stay,’ I said.

‘Faithless girl. Shall we have a wager?’ Jaxon extended a hand. ‘If you lose, you do two assignments with no pay. You will also polish my antique mirror.’

‘And if I win?’

‘I’ll pay you double for the assignments. And you won’t have to polish my antique mirror.’

We shook on it.

It was fascinating to watch Jaxon take control of a situation. On the whole, he would stay in the den – but when he deigned to emerge from his lair, he was a force of nature.

Within hours, he had discovered that conference guests were allowed to go shopping in Covent Garden for an hour a day without a chaperone. He sent a skilled courier to plant a note on Nadine, inviting the pair to a coffeehouse there, warning her not to let on to Scion.

On the day of the meeting, he dressed in his best, immaculate from his collar to his cufflinks.

‘By tonight, we will have two Americans in the Seven Seals, for better or worse.’ He pointed his cane at me. ‘Be ready to polish that mirror, Paige.’

‘In your wildest dreams,’ I called after him.

‘Voyants don’t dream, darling. We achieve.’

The door shut behind him. I shook my head and went back upstairs.

Eliza sketched a design for a dress while I leafed through our files on the local spirits, updating my notes about their haunts. Some of them needed regular attention to stop them causing mayhem. It had been a while since anyone had checked on a nearby poltergeist, William Terriss.

At noon, Jaxon sent us a message by courier:

They are siblings. They are also not American.

‘Let me guess.’ Eliza glanced up. ‘He’s already persuaded them.’

I shut the door. ‘You really think he will?’

‘Jax could sell the sun a candle.’ She swept her pencil down the page. ‘You’ll learn, Paige.’

I kept working. It was another hour before the golden words came in:

The mirror requires elbow grease.

That was the last time I bet against Jaxon Hall.

Jaxon still wasn’t sure exactly what Ezekiel Sáenz was, but he loved a mystery. Now he had convinced the siblings to stay, he was confident Ezekiel would bare his soul, and everything would click into place. If not, he still relished the thought of snatching two tourists and whisking them into the underworld. For him, outwitting Scion was a merry game.

We would be doing the legwork, of course. He would just watch it happen, and admire himself for assembling such loyal followers.

Nadine and Ezekiel were due to fly back to Boston on the thirtieth. Before then, we needed to help them disappear. If Scion realised two outsiders had gone rogue in London, it would hunt them down with every resource at its disposal.

At nightfall, the siblings would leave their hotel. That would be hard enough, since Vigiles guarded all the exits, but Jaxon was confident they could do it. It would certainly test their ingenuity.

Next, they would enter the bustling train station at Inquisitors Cross. Eliza had left clothes there – clothes she had made to their measurements, designed to help them fit into London. Both sets included a hat that would hide their faces from the security cameras. They would change in the toilets, then walk to meet me and Nick on Judd Street.

As soon as the pair were safely in the den, Eliza would set the next part of the plan in motion.

Eliza loved beauty, but was always willing to get both hands dirty. She would leave clues near the hotel – some blood and hair, their old clothes in a public bin, a knife slipped down a drain. Scion would relish it. Scarlett Burnish could use the incident to shed horrifying new light on unnatural crimes.

Most importantly, no one would ever come after the missing siblings. We would teach them to blend in, keep them away from the Vigiles.

‘I still can’t believe Jax convinced them to do this,’ I said to Nick. We were in the car he occasionally used for syndicate business, an old guzzler with fake plates. ‘Their families will think they’re dead.’

‘You know what he’s like. Jax could convince you to jump off a cliff if you listened to him long enough.’

‘Eliza said the same.’

‘Same words?’

‘No, but same gist.’

‘They might not have done well in Boston, sötnos. At least voyants know what they are in Scion. Over there, they must just think they’re losing their minds.’

He was right, in a sense. To our knowledge, there was no official policy on clairvoyants outside Scion. We had no legal recognition, no minority status. We only appeared in fiction.

Still, that had to be a better deal than being systematically hunted and killed. Even now, I couldn’t work out why they would stay.

Nick parked on Judd Street. We both sipped our coffees.

‘You look tired,’ I said. ‘How’s work?’

‘No worse than usual.’

‘Just quit. You don’t need the money. Jax could make room in the den.’

‘There’s definitely no more room in the den. Besides, it’s useful to have someone inside Scion.’ He glanced at me. ‘Is everything okay with you?’

‘It’s great,’ I said, smiling. ‘I’m enjoying it.’

‘Jax can be harsh when he’s in a bad mood. Don’t take it to heart, Paige.’

‘I don’t.’ I paused. ‘Is that them?’

Two figures were coming down the street. Nick gave the headlamps a brief flash, and they quickened their pace. When he unlocked the doors, they got into the backseat and pulled off their hats.

‘Hi,’ Nick said.

‘Hey.’ The woman leaned forward. ‘I’m Nadine. Please tell me you’re Nick and Paige.’

‘You’re in the right car,’ I said.

‘Great.’ She let out a breathy sort of laugh. ‘That was kind of terrifying.’

She sounded American to my ear, but I was no expert. ‘You’ve done the hardest part,’ Nick said. ‘How did you get out of the hotel?’

‘We climbed down from the balcony.’

‘Good thinking.’ He tilted the mirror. ‘You must be Ezekiel.’

‘Zeke,’ the young man said. His eyes were like black tea, set in a thin, restive face. ‘I am happy to see you. We were afraid you might not be here.’

He must be in his twenties, with brittle wrists and skin used to the sun. A strand of dark hair hung over his forehead. He flicked it aside to wipe the sweat from his brow, giving me a glimpse of a vertical scar.

Nadine looked similar enough that you could guess they were siblings. Her skin was a deeper brown, and her hair cut to her collar as if with a ruler, dyed red.

Eliza had designed their outfits with care. Nadine wore a flounced cream blouse, paired with a long twill skirt, while Zeke was in a shirt and dark strides with bracers. A pair of perfect denizens.

‘I take it you’ve both thought carefully about this,’ Nick said. ‘Your escape might not have been noticed yet. I can still get you back to the hotel.’ He glanced at them. ‘Once we drive away, there’s no going back. We’re going to fake your deaths. Your old lives will be over.’

Zeke looked at his sister. She sank back in silence and buckled her seatbelt.

‘We’re sure,’ Zeke said.

‘Then let’s go.’

As Nick drove, Nadine dug around in her bag and took out a pair of headphones. Without another word, she snapped them on and closed her eyes.

Carefully, I reached for their dreamscapes. Nadine didn’t seem to notice. Hers was nothing unusual, but Zeke – well, his was very interesting, an opaque presence in the æther. He tensed a little, and I stopped.

‘So, Zeke,’ Nick said, ‘what do you do?’

‘For a living?’

Nick nodded. ‘Nadine was listed as the student on the programme, and you as her guest. I assume you’re not at the same university.’

‘No,’ Zeke said in a quiet voice. ‘Nadine asked me to share an apartment with her while she was studying in Boston. I was in … kind of a dark place, so I agreed to move there from Mexico, to keep her company.’

He gave no further explanation.

‘You’re a good brother,’ Nick said.

His throat bobbed. Scion had killed his younger sister when they were both in their teens. Karolina was his reason to bring down the anchor.

To give him a moment, I turned to Zeke. He was looking out of the window.

‘The streetlamps are blue,’ he murmured.

‘To calm the population,’ I said. ‘You’ll get used to that kind of shite.’ He swallowed. ‘What made you decide to come to Scion, Zeke?’

‘We needed to … get away for a while. Nadine saw the programme and applied.’ He looked down at his hands. ‘I’m glad we came. We’ve both felt different for years. Now we can learn why.’

Zeke clearly had secrets. Jaxon would not allow him to keep them for long.

‘We’ll help you.’ Nick breathed in, seeming to steady himself. ‘What’s the official stance on clairvoyance in the States, Zeke?’

‘They call it extrasensory perception. They don’t want to commit to any stance on it,’ Zeke said. ‘Scion has invaded five countries and threatened others, so the education programme is very controversial. I think there are four colleges that participate, to give students a chance to see it for themselves.’

I wanted to ask about their family, but something told me to save it for much later. They might have just made the most painful decision of their lives.

‘Well, Jaxon is so pleased you’re joining us.’ Nick offered a smile. ‘I hope you’ll like it here, even if it’s dangerous.’

‘You were born in Scion?’

‘Yes, in Sweden.’

‘What about you, Paige?’

‘I was born in the free world,’ I said. ‘I hated it here when I arrived, but it got better when Jaxon hired me. The syndicate will take care of you.’

‘Which country are you from?’

‘Ireland.’

Zeke looked at me with sudden understanding. No doubt he had been trying to put a finger on my accent.

I had arrived in London with a strong Tipperary lilt. As the denizens of Scion grew to hate anything Irish, my father had attempted to school it out of me. It was too late for him – his own accent had set deep as dye – but it might still be washed out of a child. He had stopped me from speaking Gaeilge, my first language, the one my beloved grandmother had gone out of her way to teach me.

In secret, I had kept learning, but my accent had soon become a burden. Even at eight, I noticed the looks I got when I spoke, the demands that I repeat myself. I would sit in front of the news every night, imitating the raconteurs, until I could speak like them.

All for nothing, in the end. Nobody at my school had been fooled.

As soon as I left at sixteen, I had finally dropped the act. After eight years of forcing myself to speak in a way that felt stiff and wrong, the sheer relief had left me in tears. Even if my lilt wasn’t the same as it had been when I was young, my voice was my own again, and I treasured it.

‘I have heard what happened to Ireland,’ Zeke said. ‘About a year ago, these people managed to escape from Galway and tell their story on the news. It … sounds like it was such a tragedy. I’m sorry.’

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘They sung a beautiful song about a tree and a meadow. They said it was sung at the end of the Molly Riots, to mourn the people who died.’

‘Not just at the end. I left during the second year,’ I said. ‘I know the song you mean.’

‘I would love to hear it again.’

I wished I could bear to share it with him. The last time I had heard it, my family had been gathered in secret in the Golden Vale, remembering Finn and Kay. With no bodies to bury, all we had been able to do was sing and remember, huddled around two empty graves.

‘Maybe I’ll sing it one day.’ I hitched up a smile. ‘Do you like music, Zeke?’

‘Yes, a lot. I used to be great at the piano,’ Zeke said wistfully. ‘I love listening to Nadine – she is a violinist – but she doesn’t really like to play.’

Nick gave me a worried look. A whisperer who didn’t like to play her instrument.

That really was a rarity.

It was only a short drive. Nick returned the car to its garage on Rose Street, and we headed on foot to Seven Dials.

The den was a cosy maisonette above a coffeehouse – three floors, including the garret. Jaxon was a man of fine tastes, but he seemed content with his small home.

For months, I had been learning the ropes of the underworld in this house of golden brick. I had learned about the gangs and their leaders, the trade and auction of spirits, their haunts. Now Jaxon was starting to test my gift.

Not long ago, I had been able to consciously crack my spirit out of place. I had immediately stopped breathing. Jaxon and Eliza had panicked, but Nick had revived me with a syringe of adrenalin to the heart. Even though my chest had hurt for a week, I had glowed with pride when Jaxon congratulated me. The four of us had gone out for supper to celebrate, and Jaxon had ordered life support for next time.

I belonged with these people. They understood the strangeness of my life – a life I was finally beginning to embrace. We had carved out a little world in Seven Dials. We thrived in that world, in defiance of Scion.

Now there were two strangers in our midst. Two brave strangers, willing to abandon their old lives to be part of that world.

Nadine gave the building a wary look. I had 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. At the top of the stairs was Jaxon, dressed to impress: silk waistcoat, stiff white collar, glowing cigar. He held a small cup of coffee in the other hand. I tried and failed to work out how a cigar and coffee could make a compatible pair.

‘Zeke, Nadine,’ he said warmly. ‘Good to see you again.’

Zeke cleared his throat. ‘And you, Mr Hall.’

‘Jaxon, please. Welcome to Seven Dials,’ he said. ‘As you know, I am mime-lord of this territory, and you are now members of my coterie. I presume you left Judd Street in a surreptitious fashion, Nick.’

‘No one saw us.’

‘Good. Eliza will just need a few things from you,’ Jaxon added to the newcomers. ‘To help craft the impression that you have been tragically murdered.’

‘That’s me.’ Eliza waved from his side. ‘Welcome home.’

‘Thank you for your help, Eliza.’ Zeke tensed. ‘Is that a spirit?’

Jaxon glanced up. ‘Yes, that’s Pieter Claesz, Dutch vanitas painter – died in 1660. One of our more prolific muses. Pieter, come and meet our new friends.’

‘Zeke can do the honours. I’m tired.’ Nadine slid her bag off her shoulder. ‘I want my own room. I don’t share my space. Just so that’s settled.’

Jaxon looked at her without blinking, and his nostrils flared. Not a good sign.

‘You will have what you are given,’ he said. ‘Unlike the building you just left, this is not a hotel.’

Nadine bristled. Nick quickly ushered her towards the stairs. ‘Of course you’ll have your own room,’ he said to her, giving me a resigned look over her head. ‘Eliza put you with Zeke – we don’t have much space – but I’m sure she can arrange something.’

Eliza smiled. ‘I really don’t know how any of you managed without me.’

‘We simply languished,’ Jaxon said, still eyeing Nadine.

‘We did.’ Nick sidled past him. ‘Can I get you something to drink, Nadine?’

‘Yes, you can, Nick. I will have a glass of your famous blood mecks.’ She gave Jaxon a pointed smile. ‘I see some Europeans know how to treat a lady.’

Jaxon looked as if she had slapped him. Nick steered her into the room we used as both an office and a parlour, shutting the door in their wake.

‘I am not,’ Jaxon said, with the delicate menace of a wolf holding a doll between its teeth, ‘European.’

Zeke swallowed. I glanced at Eliza, who was clearly trying not to burst out laughing. Nadine had already made at least three missteps.

‘I’ll make sure nobody disturbs you,’ I said to Jaxon.

‘Thank you, Paige.’ He seemed to recover from the insult, taking a puff of his cigar. ‘Do go up to my boudoir, dear Zeke. We should talk.’

Zeke hesitated. ‘Your boudoir?’

‘On the next floor. The door straight ahead of the stairs.’

With a dazed nod, Zeke went up, stairs creaking beneath his boots. The poor man clearly had no idea what he had got himself into. Before I could speak, Jaxon grasped my arm, drawing me close.

‘His dreamscape,’ he said under his breath. ‘What does it feel like, Paige?’

‘I can’t explain it,’ I said, ‘but it’s dark and heavy, like—’

‘Excellent. Say no more.’

He almost ran after Zeke, his cigar lodged in the corner of his mouth. Eliza leaned against the newel.

‘This is going to be interesting,’ she said. ‘I’ve no idea where I’m going to put Nadine. We might have to build a false wall in the garret.’ She reached for a hat. ‘In the meantime, are you interested in helping me create a murder scene?’

‘No, but I’ll wait up for you. You’re sure you can manage?’

‘It’s just setting a stage.’

She went upstairs. I was left on the landing with a dead artist for company, and as much as I liked Pieter, he was not a man of many words.

It was late, but I wouldn’t sleep until Eliza came back. I made some fresh coffee and went to sit in the office, where a painting took pride of place. It portrayed a dark-haired woman in a flowing red dress, gazing into a crystal ball. Jaxon had paid a fortune for it – the last painting by John William Waterhouse, finished in 1902, the year after the fall of the Bloody King.

I cracked open a window and sat down to read the draft of his next pamphlet, 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. The old scars on my palm remained as cold as ever.

Once Eliza had what she needed, she left in dark clothes. Above, I sensed Nadine going up to the garret. Even if it had annoyed Jaxon, her request was reasonable. My room in the den was my sanctuary.

Since he had work in the morning, Nick departed around one, heading for his apartment in Marylebone. Eliza returned about half an hour later.

‘Done,’ she whispered, removing her gloves. ‘I wasn’t seen.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘As sure as I can be.’ She took off the hat. ‘Anything from upstairs?’

‘Nadine is asleep, but Jax is still talking to Zeke.’

‘Zeke isn’t how I imagined a fury. Much quieter than I expected.’ She sat down on my bed. ‘Jax mentioned they’re not American. Where are they from?’

‘Zeke is from Mexico. Nadine was studying in Boston, but I think she’s Canadian.’

‘So they grew up separately?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I can’t wait to hear what life is like out there.’ Eliza fanned herself with the pamphlet. ‘I won’t sleep in this heat. Can I tempt you to come to Psionic?’

‘I am never going out dancing with you again.’

‘Why not?’

‘Did you forget what happened last time?’ I said flatly. ‘You took one look at that cryomancer and left me to stand on my own in a séance club.’

‘Oh, him.’ Eliza smiled. ‘That was fun. He liked putting ice on his—’

‘Whatever it is, I don’t want to know.’

‘I was going to say drinks, Paige.’ She winked and adjusted her earrings. ‘I do have something else for you to do. Jax wants you to draw your dreamscape.’

‘I can’t draw. That’s your area.’

‘Not the flowers. He just wants the basic shape – a bird’s-eye view, preferably. We’re trying to work out the complete layout of the human dreamscape, but none of us can leave the middle,’ Eliza said. ‘We think there are at least three rings, but we’re not sure. Can you help?’

A sense of purpose filled me to the brim. It was still a surreal realisation, that my gift could be useful.

‘Of course,’ I said.

Eliza got me a sketchbook and pencil, then switched on her data pad to watch a show. I drew something like a bullseye, with five sections. Once the sketch was finished, I blew dust off it and showed it to her.

‘This is the sunlit zone.’ I pointed to the middle. ‘The place where the spirit is meant to stay.’

‘Right. The silver cord is like a safety net or a harness, fixed to that central sanctuary,’ Eliza said. ‘It stops most voyants from leaving it.’

‘But not me.’

‘Exactly. Say the majority of us have an inch of string between our dreamscape and our spirit,’ she said, measuring with her fingers. ‘You have a mile. You can walk to the edge of your dreamscape, which means you can sense far more of the æther than the rest of us. I can only sense aura and spirits at close range. I can’t feel the others now.’

I could.

‘I probably do have a limit,’ I said. ‘We just haven’t found it yet.’

‘That’s why we need to be careful. You might be able to leave your body without hurting yourself, or you might not. We’ll have to wait and see.’

I nodded. Jaxon had told me about his possession theory, but Eliza was more patient in her explanations.

‘What would happen if you tried to leave your sunlit zone?’ I asked her.

‘The second zone is survivable,’ Eliza said, ‘but if your spirit enters it, it means something is wrong. Mine kept drifting there after I gave up aster. I was entering my dreamscape to escape from the withdrawal, but I’d often find I was in the wrong place. It was unsettling.’

‘But no one can go farther than that.’

‘Not that I’ve heard. If you tried to push beyond that point, I think it would start to really hurt. If you kept going, it would damage your cord and your sanity. It’s amazing that you can breeze straight through.’

‘I truly am a circus freak.’

‘Don’t say that, Paige. None of us are freaks,’ Eliza said. ‘You’re a marvel. A jumper.’ She took the sketchbook back and examined my drawing. ‘So there are five zones. That’s interesting.’

‘Sunlit, twilight, midnight, abyssal, and hadal,’ I said. ‘They’re quite distinct.’

‘Great.’ She handed the sketchbook back. ‘Add a bit more detail, if you want, and I’ll pick it up tomorrow. Jax will love this, Paige. He wants to write a pamphlet on the dreamscape, but he’ll need your help.’

‘I expect a generous cut of the royalties.’

Eliza laughed. ‘I’ll tell him.’ As she left, she turned to face me. ‘Paige, you know what they say about the syndicate – once you get in, you never get out. That will sink in for Nadine and Zeke soon, when they start feeling homesick. Are you sure you’re still happy with it?’

‘I’ve never been happier,’ I said.

And it was true. Here in this stuffy room, surrounded by forbidden trinkets, I had never felt more like the person I was meant to be. Eliza gave me a smile that was almost wistful.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll pop into the club for a couple of hours. I’ll be back before sunrise.’

‘Have fun,’ I said.

‘You can bet on it.’

With a jangle of bracelets, she sidled from my room.

Eliza Renton – a woman who could fake two deaths, then dance until dawn without a second thought. You had to admire her. I started to shade the rings on my sketch, making each one darker than the last.

When my door opened again, I expected to see an enlivened Eliza. Instead, Jaxon appeared, looking almost feverish, spots of pink on his cheeks.

Before my eyes, he downed his entire absinthe. I lowered the sketchbook.

‘Jaxon?’

‘Unreadable,’ he burst out, a wild glittering in his eyes. ‘Darling, you have company. Another diamond among stones. Our dear Mr Sáenz is an unreadable.’