Amaranth

AMARANTH

The three Rephs took their leave of the stage. In their place, the Overseer bounded out, wearing a red cloak that covered him from the neck down.

‘Welcome, one and all,’ he called. He must be wearing a microphone. ‘Welcome to our crowning glory, the Guildhall. Beltrame is my name. I am the Overseer, humble writer of this masque. A particular welcome to those of you who have joined us from abroad.’

Above, Liss and Nell swung to opposite sides of the hall, into the gallery.

‘As Overseer, I am honoured to help the humans of this city adjust to their new life, and to develop new and useful skills. The Bone Seasons enable us to mould young unnaturals into model denizens before they can do any harm, preventing the need for execution.’

I had seen hundreds of hangings in my time. Even after the introduction of nitrogen aspyxiation, Scion liked to send us warnings from the Lychgate.

‘We truly regret that the Grand Inquisitor of France is unable to join us tonight, and trust he will recover soon,’ the Overseer said. ‘In the meantime, his Grand Raconteur, Aloïs Mynatt, has come in his stead. We are all delighted to announce that Sheol II is already under construction in the Scion Republic of France, with unnaturals to be harvested from Paris and Marseille. Glory to the anchor! Vive la France!’

Aloïs Mynatt raised a glass as the hall erupted with cheers. My stomach curdled.

I had assumed negotiations for a second colony had only just started. Even if I burned this place down, another one was already rising.

‘As the blood-sovereigns have said, tonight is both a celebration of our future and a grave acknowledgement of our past,’ the Overseer said. ‘Our repentant unnaturals have worked very hard to entertain you this evening. Their performance will remind us of the dark days before the Rephaim arrived – the days of the Bloody King.’

I watched as the performers walked out in a line. More of them filled the gallery, standing among the emissaries.

Liss had told me about this. They were going to re-enact the life story of the Bloody King. She had been cast as one of his five victims, Elizabeth Stride. She walked out with a seer named Lotte, cast as Kate Eddowes.

Most of the actors were masked and wore authentic Victorian costumes. Standing among them, the Overseer threw off his cloak to reveal the regalia of a monarch, complete with furs and jewels. The crowd jeered. He would be playing the Prince of Wales, the future Bloody King.

‘Now, we are proud to present our masque, The Fall of the Bloody King.’

What an original title.

Cathal Bell led the applause, naturally. The performers efficiently circled the stage, moving scenery and props. It was all so well oiled; I could only watch.

The first act seemed to take place in a bedchamber. Affecting a pompous English accent, Cyril introduced himself to us as Lord Frederick Ponsonby, Baron Sysonby, devoted secretary to Queen Victoria.

‘Your Highness,’ he said to the Overseer, ‘shall we take a turn outside?’

‘Do you have your short jacket, Ponsonby?’

‘Only a tailcoat, Your Highness.’

‘I thought everyone must know,’ the Overseer declared, ‘that a short jacket is always worn with a silk hat at a private view in the morning. And those trousers are quite the ugliest pair I have ever seen.’

Hissing ensued. I had no idea if any of this was real, or made any sense to the audience. Cyril turned to us, anguish in his eyes.

‘It was after a long awakening of afflictions – for example, with my tailcoat, and my poor trousers,’ he said (to sympathetic laughter), ‘that the prince first grew dissatisfied with his privileged life. He drank and he whored, he feasted and gambled, but none of it sated his appetites. On that very afternoon, he asked me to accompany him on an excursion.’

The next setting was a park. A fairground organ piped out ‘Daisy Bell’ – a reference that won a few knowing chuckles. That song was said to have been inspired by Lady Frances Greville, Countess of Warwick. Edward the Caresser had been notorious for his many affairs.

Ponsonby was clearly our narrator for the evening. Cyril shot us desperate looks as the two of them took a slow turn around the stage.

‘I say, I don’t mind praying to the Eternal Father,’ the Overseer boomed, lighting a cigar, ‘but was ever any man in England cursed with an Eternal Mother, Ponsonby?’

‘Oh, my friends, human suffering has never surpassed that of my queen, watching her son tread the path towards evil,’ Cyril said, as an aside. ‘She knew, as did the good Prince Albert. How did I ever miss the signs?’

I kept watching, morbidly fascinated by this web of truth and fiction.

‘I knew that you were thoughtless and weak,’ a contortionist (playing the aforementioned Prince Albert) despaired in one scene, ‘but I could not think you depraved.’

‘Your words have no meaning to one who now sees as clearly as I do,’ the Overseer said, laughing. ‘Come, test your courage against my depravity!’

A climactic duel followed, delighting the audience. This part had definitely never happened.

Prince Albert fell into bed and died. After a fraught silence, the widowed Queen Victoria appeared, played by one of the tightrope artists.

‘That boy. Oh, that boy,’ she said bitterly. ‘I never can, or shall, look at him without a shudder. His listlessness and want of attention are great, and cause me much anxiety. In truth, he is unnatural to me.’

Alone in the candlelight, she was a bastion of goodness, the last unsullied monarch. As the emissaries applauded, I caught sight of the clock and looked for Michael, finding him close to the stage, entranced by the spectacle.

‘Michael.’ I touched his shoulder. ‘Do you know how I can get into the trap room?’

He nodded and showed me the way. I disappeared beneath the stage.

The trap room was stacked high with storage crates, which must have been used to bring in the props. Some of the candlelight leaked from above. Otherwise, all was dark.

I stood in that gloom for a minute, catching my breath. The dress felt even tighter. Despite the cold, I had broken into a sweat again.

For once, I wanted to see Warden. I wanted his calm and familiar presence. I followed the golden cord.

Over the last two months, I had got better at using it. Sometimes I would feel a flicker of emotion I couldn’t explain, that didn’t feel like mine. Now I was racked by fear and uncertainty, and both of those belonged to me.

Warden waited in a corner of the trap, behind two layers of crimson drapes – grand theatre curtains hung all around, perhaps to be dusted. The masque continued above us, but the sound was muffled.

‘I assume we’re alone here,’ I said.

‘The performers may descend to collect their props, but there is no reason for them to come this far,’ he said. ‘Besides, I believe we are quite hidden.’

‘Why did you ask me here?’

‘To make you an offer.’ He met my gaze. ‘If you wish to leave now, I will escort you directly to Port Meadow. You need not face Nashira.’

‘Warden, I told you I wanted to do it. You’ve trained me for months.’

‘Not just for this. For you, so you might understand your own power.’

The light from his eyes made the shadows deeper. I faltered, unsure.

‘That power,’ he said, ‘is yours to wield as you wish. You are not obliged to use it. We can proceed to the train station and wait for the others. Say the word, and I will lead you past the Vigiles.’

It was tempting. If I confronted Nashira, I knew I was likely to die. I would not defeat her in single combat. I had thrown myself into training, but for all the work I had done with Warden, I had never managed to possess him.

And yet.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I want to do it.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘Yes. Are you certain you want to turn your back on your own kind?’

‘I do not see it that way. I am fighting on their behalf,’ Warden said, his face set. ‘We were not always tyrants, Paige. The Sargas have made us so, to consolidate their rule on Earth. I know we are better than cruelty and violence. We can share this world peacefully with humans.’

‘I hope you’re right.’ I lifted my chin. ‘Cathal Bell is out there.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you understand why I need to stay. I will not leave while I can remind them of Dublin.’

‘If you die, so does the memory.’

‘No. Antoinette Carter is still alive. And you saw it,’ I said, my voice strained. ‘You saw the Dublin Incursion through me, so it can never be forgotten.’ As I spoke, warmth lined my eyes, but I held it back. ‘I have to do this, Warden. Whether or not I die is irrelevant.’

‘Not to me.’

Warden spoke quietly, as he always did, but those words reached a part of me I had never known was there. I grew very still, watching him.

‘I respect your decision,’ he said. ‘Whatever happens when you attack her, I will be there to help you, Paige.’

‘I should think so.’

Warden inclined his head. I thought his gaze darted to my lips, but it was so quick, it might not have even happened. No, I had to be losing my wits.

He looked trapped by his clothes tonight, bound up almost to his chin in that rigid doublet. Where the last fastening gave way to the small parting of his collar, I knew I would be able to see just a little of his throat, if not for the darkness. I knew because I had glimpsed it before.

‘I can’t stand this makeup.’ I glanced away. ‘I hate that they’ve tried to … polish me, like the rest of this hell. I want them to remember my face.’

‘Then show them.’

I looked back at him, curious. He tore off part of a drape with ease – a casual display of strength – and offered it to me. As I reached for the red velvet, I faltered.

‘I don’t think I can. I’ve no mirror,’ I said. ‘Would you mind?’

‘As you wish.’

Warden closed most of the space between us. His left hand came to my jaw, tipping my face into the faint candlelight. Our auras tangled.

The golden cord was taut. I was more aware of it now than I had ever been, sensitive to its every vibration.

He brushed the cloth over my cheek, to help erase the blush. Without any water, there was only so much he could do to get the greasepaint off, but he could try, at least. I wanted them to see how tired and pinched I was.

As he tucked a curl behind my ear, lingering on the shell, I had the strangest desire to touch his face in return. It was the only part of him he had ever been supposed to show me.

Even if his reason for saying it had been absurd, Duckett had been right to call Warden striking. For the first time in six months, I saw it.

I closed my eyes at once. I could be dead in half an hour, drifting around Nashira. That fear was overwhelming me, forcing me to look for distractions. Of course I would find one in the nearest person. As my breath caught, I concentrated on the soft brush of the cloth on my chin, my lips.

Now my heart was hammering on my breastbone, as if it wanted to get out.

Warden stopped, assessing my face.

‘I fear that is all I can do.’

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘Your hair must be tied.’ He offered me a small box. ‘Forgive me.’

‘Will you do that, too?’

I had asked before I could think better of it. He nodded, and I turned around.

I told myself it was because I was about to die, and my fingers were shaking too much to do it. It was because I was so cold in the red dress, which left my arms and neckline bare. Those were the only reasons I could want to move closer to him. To want him to touch me again.

Warden placed the box on the corner of a crate and opened it. Inside were hairpins and gold ribbon.

It was some time before he started. In that prelude, I tried to understand what I was feeling. My skin quickened with goosebumps. I was aware of the sound of my breath, the depth of it, the rising cadence.

And I wondered if this was how it should have felt. That night with Reuben.

The thought shook me. I had to snap out of it, now. Warden had no interest in me, and I should have no interest in him. He was a Reph.

Warden seemed to finally decide on his approach. His first touch drew my back straighter, tightening my stomach. He felt the change and stopped.

‘Paige?’

He had never said my name like that. A low thrum in the depths of his throat.

‘I’m fine,’ I said.

After a moment, he set to work. He gathered a thick bunch of curls at my nape, securing it there with satin. Then he began to wind and tuck.

Never in my life had I been so aware of someone else. He worked on my hair as if we had all night, careful with every strand. Even the gentlest tug went right the way through me.

I had thought he would stick to a bun – plain and simple, serving its purpose – but this was something more intricate. Now and then, he would slide a pin into my hair, sending a chill across my scalp and down my sides. I lost track of time, rooted by the fragile intimacy of it.

It took me far too long to notice.

He had taken his gloves off.

Now I was twice as conscious of him. Even if he had been ordered to make sure my hair was done up, the way he was touching me now – it had to be forbidden.

I had no idea why he would risk it. Still, I willed him not to stop.

By the time he was done, it was all I could do to take a steady breath. I reached up to feel my hair. He had worked it into an elaborate chignon, leaving a few loose curls at the front, framing my face.

‘Warden,’ I said, ‘where did you learn to do this?’

‘An old duty I no longer have cause to perform.’

I looked over my shoulder at him. His eyes were burning.

‘I have another small gift for you.’ He reached into his doublet. ‘Nashira has a violent breacher in her entourage – a poltergeist. If she wields it against you, this pendant will deter it.’ Pause. ‘By your leave.’

I could only nod in answer, almost too aware of his soft voice to hear the words.

He fastened a thin silver chain around my neck. The pendant in question was like filigree, woven into the shape of wings.

‘If she kills me, you have to lead the others,’ I said. ‘Get them to the train.’

‘I will not need to lead them.’

‘Warden, please.’ When he gave me a small nod, I said, ‘If she does turn me into a fallen angel, I need you to promise you’ll set me free. It would be worse than torture, to watch her using my gift.’

‘I vow it, but it will not be necessary. You survived the Dublin Incursion, Paige Mahoney,’ he said. ‘I believe you can survive the Bicentenary.’

‘You’re not wearing gloves,’ I said, very softly. ‘Why not?’

My senses heightened, taking him in.

‘I do not fear humans’ touch,’ he said. ‘I am weary of pretending otherwise.’

‘Why do the others fear it?’

Warden just looked at me, his eyes bright enough to limn his cheekbones.

Before I could think better of the idea, I took him by the hand, threading my fingers between his knuckles, holding tight. His palm was callused against mine.

‘There,’ I said. ‘The world didn’t end.’

His gaze moved from our hands to my face. ‘I never thought it would.’

Perhaps it was a kind of madness – the madness I had seen in people as they faced the noose, a wild desperation for escape. Perhaps I had just lost my fear of consequences, or I wanted to defy Scion.

Either way, I guided his warm hand back to my cheek, clasping it there. He let me do it, watched me do it. The lure of his touch was excruciating, and I was too cold to deny myself.

I wanted this, before the end. I didn’t know exactly what I felt for him, but I needed to be touched, to be seen – here in this dark room, this red silence. And here he stood, willing. He was here, like the amaurotic had been there, in the flash house. This time, it had to be enough.

Except this wasn’t like Reuben. I already knew that Warden could see me.

When he let go of my hand, I thought he would refuse me. Then he brought his palm up to lie flat between my shoulders, drawing me towards him.

Now I was cradled to his chest. My fingertips came to the front of his doublet, circling one of the fastenings. His other hand came to the back of my head.

And I wanted to touch him where I had before, when he was injured. I wanted the comfort of being held. I wanted to search for his scars from the first time.

I could not ask for any of this from a Reph.

Except the golden cord was echoing my need. Even if I didn’t understand the link I shared with him, our spirits were connected now.

Warden moved to meet me, still supporting my head, sparing my neck. I gripped his arms, partly to keep myself from falling backwards.

‘Paige.’

When he touched me under the chin, I looked him in the eyes, forcing myself to think only of this moment. To clear my mind and see.

‘I know this can’t mean anything,’ I whispered.

Now he was cupping my face with both hands. Slowly, I understood that he was giving me time to think, to change my mind. He had seen me running blindly to the flash house in that memory.

I nodded, not breaking his gaze. He nodded back.

Rephs might not even do what I wanted from him. He might not have a clue what he was doing. A moment later, he taught me otherwise.

Who moved first, I’m still not sure.

I had always known there was no heaven. Jaxon had told me so. There was only the outer darkness, then light – a final rest, an ending. Beyond that, who knew.

Warden leaned in close. In that first moment our lips touched, I wondered if Jaxon was wrong.

And then I cast all thoughts of Jaxon Hall out of my head, and there was only Arcturus.

He wrapped an arm beneath mine, tipping me back a little. I was being held up by the æther itself, touching it with my bare hands. As I grasped him, drawing him closer, my mind fractured with realisations.

He was kissing me.

Arcturus Mesarthim, consort of Nashira Sargas, kissing an Irish thief in the dark.

Straight away, I knew that it was nothing like the night with Reuben. My body, my spirit, my dreamscape – every part of me knew Warden. The cord trembled with sensation, matching his touches, the chills his kiss raised. His lips were firm and warm on mine.

Don’t stop.

It was all I could think, all I could breathe. I needed this embrace to last.

Kissing a giant was no easy task. Warden took me by the waist and hitched me up, sitting me on a crate. He was still taller than me, but not by such a long shot. At once, I framed his face and brought it close.

Warden let me look at him. I searched his eyes for the glazed look I had seen before. His gaze was sharp and clear. As his nose touched mine, he brushed the stray curls behind my ear, pressing our foreheads together. My dreamscape scorched. He set fire to the poppies.

For a sweet moment, it was slower, softer. I took the opportunity to dislodge my shoes, which fell to the floor with the ribbon and pins. My hand found his jaw, then slid into his tousled hair. With the other, I took hold of his nape, and he kissed me again, lips nudging mine apart.

Not like us, yet so like us.

He must have felt how cold I was. Now he pressed me close, so my bare arms were tucked between his chest and mine, sheltering them from the chill. I used the opportunity to start unfastening his doublet, working the stiff buttons. I had never felt anything like this in my life – this rising in my chest, this need to touch.

Stop, the voice of reason said.

Someone was going to find us and realise. This was reckless. I was gambling with far more than coin. I broke the kiss, and a word escaped me – maybe no, maybe yes. Maybe his name. He stopped at once. We looked at each other, both dishevelled, curls sprung loose from my chignon.

Only a moment passed. I looked at him, and he looked at me. A moment. A choice. My choice. His choice. I kissed him again, deeper. His arms came back around me, tighter. And I wanted it, all of it – too much, so much. I couldn’t help myself. His lips brushed my eyelids and cheeks. He slipped a sleeve off one shoulder, placing a soft kiss there as well, then did the same to the other.

My hands went straight back to his doublet. I got some of the buttons loose and parted the black linen – only to find a shirt underneath. Without a word, he unlaced it. He swept up a thick handful of my hair, loosening a few more curls, and lowered his lips to my neck.

I had been sure his skin would feel ethereally cold. Instead, it was a silken warmth I wanted against mine. I smoothed my hands under the doublet and shirt, reaching over his broad shoulders. I slowed when I felt the scars under my fingers.

Not just the scars of a traitor, but scars left by a poltergeist. They held the same chill as the ones on my palm.

Our gazes met. I touched his face with my left hand, tracing around his cheekbone.

‘I won’t betray you,’ I murmured against his lips. ‘I’m not him.’

Warden nodded, resting his forehead on mine. I spread my hands on the tops of his scars.

The Novembertide rebellion was history, and it would not repeat itself.

Two hundred years was more than enough.

Warden suddenly tensed. He strengthened his embrace around me, drawing me straight to his chest. That was when I noticed the æther beyond him, and followed his line of sight.

Nashira Sargas was silhouetted against the dim candlelight from above, her eyes gold and ablaze. All I could do was stare back, my blood freezing.

The Suzerain took in the scene. The red drapes. The crate. My dress, its sleeves off my shoulders, the skirt gathered around my hips. Her consort, his doublet and shirt unfastened, my fingers still trespassing on his skin.

‘So the two of you have been hiding in here,’ she said. ‘I expected a number of things when I noticed your absence … but not this degree of depravity.’

Warden lifted me straight down and swung me just behind him. ‘I forced it on her,’ he said, his voice thick and rough. ‘She refused me.’

‘I must say,’ Nashira replied, ‘that she did not look as if she was being forced.’

My cheeks burned with anger and mortification, knowing she had been watching us, and I had failed to sense it. I tasted fear, sour and metallic, as the terrible danger sank in. I had risked the rebellion for a kiss.

I might have just destroyed everything.

Somewhere in my panic-stricken haze, I found a grain of calm. Nashira still had no idea we were plotting anything. She was picturing a secret liaison. If she thought that was all there was to this, I could still protect everyone.

‘Tell me,’ Nashira said, ‘when did you first touch the blood-consort, 40?’

‘After the assignment to London,’ I said quickly. ‘He saved my life. He looked after me.’

‘Paige,’ Warden rasped.

I gave the golden cord a forceful pull, trying to shut him up. He had to let me bear the blame. Nashira was taking me to my death either way.

She also seemed to be listening. I stepped forward, in front of Warden.

‘He refused my advances, but I kept pushing. I told him I wouldn’t train if he didn’t—’ I was saying anything I could, laying my neck on the block of my acting, hoping she would stay her sword. ‘He knew you wanted me to hone my gift, so he did it. Forgive me, Suzerain.’

‘You are forgiven.’

That surprised me.

‘You are human, 40. Of course your base needs overwhelmed you, living alongside my consort for so long,’ she continued. ‘He is, after all, the most … striking of us. Many have agreed as much.’ She reached over me to take him by the chin, too hard. ‘But if your story is true, he allowed a mortal to manipulate him. He had the option of coming to me. Such poor judgement, such weakness, is inexcusable.’

I had given it my best shot. Warden cupped my elbow, as if to console me.

‘I divest you of your position as blood-consort, and the mantle of the Warden of the Mesarthim,’ Nashira said. ‘I have done all I can to bring you into the fold, to no avail. When you are sequestered, I may hang your sarx from the walls of this city, to serve as an eternal warning.’

‘So be it. Others will still rise,’ Warden said quietly. ‘I am not alone.’

‘Neither were you alone last time. You never knew when to let go of a cause.’

Thuban and Situla strode in. Situla shoved me aside, and the two of them laid into Warden, using their fists and the hilts of their blades. At once, I lashed out at them with my spirit, but Nashira was clearly at her limit. She struck me with her open hand, right across the head.

The corner of a crate glanced off my brow. I hit the floor and lay on my side, stunned. A sharp twinge came first, then a deep throbbing.

Warden took his punishment without falling. He would not kneel again. Dizzy and bleeding, I tried to rise, but Nashira pinned me, her boot heavy between my shoulders. All I could do was strain uselessly as Situla and Thuban took it in turns to beat Warden, hard enough to kill a human. I felt each shattering blow through the cord.

‘Enough, for now,’ Nashira said. ‘Take him to the gallery and chain him. Let him watch his own concubine die before I deal his punishment.’

‘With pleasure, cousin.’ Thuban paused. ‘And the flower?’

‘It will be removed at the end of the masque. Draw no more attention to it.’

Situla and Thuban restrained Warden. His gaze caught mine, almost devoid of light. They had ripped off his livery collar, which now lay in separate gold links on the floor. Between them, they marched him away.

Nashira took her boot off me. I looked up at her, blood seeping down my face.

‘Your time in this city has come to an end,’ she said. ‘Tonight, you and I will end the masque.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I know about your fallen angels.’

‘It is no great secret. I suppose Arcturus told you,’ she said. ‘Now I think of it, perhaps he meant to save your life.’ She turned away. ‘You ought to rejoice, 40. A dreamwalker must long for the æther; now you will enter it for good. Not only that, but you will find purpose in death. Together, you and I will not just possess one man, but the world.’

‘And what about the syndicate?’

‘A gathering of vagabonds is no threat to the Republic of Scion.’

‘And yet,’ I said, ‘you’re fixated on the White Binder. And you never did manage to catch Antoinette Carter.’ I looked up at her with a smile. ‘You were right, Nashira. I am the Pale Dreamer – and I meant what I said, when you murdered Seb. Even if I can’t destroy you all myself, the Unnatural Assembly will.’

‘Oh, Pale Dreamer,’ Nashira said. ‘You are as naïve as all mortals. And as blind to your own nature.’ She brushed a drape aside. ‘Take her, Alsafi.’

Alsafi picked me up, grasping me under the arms. My tears mingled with the blood on my cheeks as he lowered a black bag over my head.

He walked me up a flight of hollow steps. I had left the red shoes behind in the trap room. Beneath the bag, my lips were tender, my cheeks feverish. The rest of me was turning cold again.

The bad people do when they hate other people for no good reason.Finn appeared out of the dark. Alsafi kept a firm grip on my arms. They put bags over their heads and ropes around their necks, to kill them. Even little girls, like you.

Finn had been amaurotic, like all my father’s relatives. He had still foreseen my fate.

Warden was gone. My only Reph ally, and I had let him get caught, just when I needed him most. The only way to save him now was to get one over on Nashira.

The bag came off my head. I was stage left, out of sight of the audience, watching the end of the masque. Ponsonby had just discovered the hoard of evidence in Buckingham Palace – the séance table, the knives, the portal to the pit of unnaturalness, or however the amaurotics understood the æther. Liss was already back on her silks, still in her bloody costume.

Terebell came to my other side. Grasping my shoulder, she lowered her head.

‘Where is Arcturus?’

‘They took him to the gallery,’ I said. ‘They … think he was trying to help me escape.’

‘Terebell and Pleione will assist him,’ Alsafi said. I stared up at him. ‘Distract her, 40.’

One, in particular, has a trusted position we do not want to risk.

‘Alsafi,’ I whispered. ‘You’re a scarred one?’

‘I was not captured the first time,’ Alsafi said. ‘I walk among our enemies unscathed, but always loyal.’ He nodded across the stage. ‘Behold the sign, dreamwalker. The amaranth now blooms on Earth. After all these centuries, the scales tip in our favour.’

I looked towards the piano, which the whisperer still played. The bell jar was slightly aglow. Blood dripped into my eye from my cut, keeping me from seeing clearly.

The Overseer fled the stage. His screams echoed around the Guildhall. The emissaries cheered and laughed as a group of performers chased him into the crowd, all wearing the anachronistic uniforms of Vigiles.

In their wake, Nashira took to the stage again. Terebell handed me the red shoes. I placed them on the floor and stepped back into them.

‘My thanks to you all,’ the Overseer called. ‘I trust that you enjoyed our masque, The Fall of the Bloody King. Now, I give you … the Suzerain!’

Nashira stood in the candlelight to be applauded, surrounded by stage blood.

‘My congratulations to the Overseer. His skills as a writer and thespian have shone tonight,’ she said. ‘Alas, the end of the masque also heralds the end of our celebration. At midnight, our train will return you to London – but before you are escorted to the station, I wish to show you the future, as our performers have shown you the past.’

‘Your mouth was to be sealed,’ Alsafi said to me. ‘I will leave you free to speak.’

He left my side, and then so did Terebell. Warden was in the gallery – I sensed him. The memory of the kiss burned through me again. I grasped the pendant.

‘The Overseer and his performers have proven that rehabilitation is possible, with the Bone Seasons. Their talents beautify our city,’ Nashira said. ‘Sadly, not all clairvoyants’ abilities can be moulded for good.’

The hall fell deathly silent.

‘This year, a woman was sent to this city from London. As a child, she was accustomed to sedition, for she hails from the Irish province of Munster, known for its wanton violence during the Molly Riots.’

Cathal Bell must be sweating again. A few of the emissaries muttered.

‘After receiving a home in London, as well as a private education, this woman chose to repay Scion by devoting her life to crime,’ Nashira said. ‘Early in March, she murdered two of her fellow clairvoyants – both serving Underguards, loyal to Scion. It was a cold-blooded and cruel affair. Neither of her victims died quickly. She was transported here at once, in the hope that she could be redeemed. I believed we could improve her, teach her to control herself.

‘It pains me to admit that our endeavour to reform her has failed. She has answered our compassion with insolence and brutality. There is no option left for her but to face the judgement of the Grand Inquisitor.’

Thuban brought my death to the stage. I recognised the great sword he carried. A blade of steel, coated with gold. A black hilt with a cross guard.

The Wrath of the Inquisitor. Scion almost never used it. The last time I remembered was about six years ago, when a voyant had been found to be working in the Westminster Archon. The streets had been full of people that day, drawn to the sight of a new kind of bloodshed.

I was the daughter of a defector. That was why. Scion had sent me to one of their best schools, and I had repaid them with defiance.

‘Fortunately,’ Nashira said, ‘we have educated this woman just enough for her to understand the danger she poses. Tonight, she willingly passes her unnaturalness to me, so I might harness and destroy it. Dear friends, we are merciful, but not foolish. I wish to prove this to you now.’

So it was to be decapitation. The head was the part of the body we associated with the dreamscape. She was removing the house of my spirit.

This was it. With clammy hands, I reached up to my hair, tucking the stray curls back into the chignon, and took a shaking breath.

‘Come forward, 40.’

I obeyed.

There was a hush as I emerged, my heels loud on the stage. I walked as if they were all beneath me, ignoring the anchorites’ murmurs and hisses. All I had to do was live. By morning, I could be in London.

When I was close to Nashira, I stopped, folding my hands placidly in front of me. I made sure to keep my lips together, as if Alsafi had sealed them.

From here, I could see the bell jar, and what it now contained – a flower in bloom, as clear as if it had been spun from ice or glass, its petals touched by a curious, iridescent glow. It had a small presence in the æther.

The amaranth, a flower that grows only in the Netherworld. Its history extends to the time before we came here. Now it is a forbidden symbol of rebellion. A rejection of the legitimacy of the Sargas.

Nashira was clearly aware of it, but for now, she had eyes only for me, her most pressing concern. The amaranth looked as if it could shatter. It wept small drops from the ends of its petals.

‘You face the Wrath of the Inquisitor,’ she said. ‘Kneel and be at rest, 40.’

I should do as she said, to keep her off her guard. But Warden had never knelt when they were beating him. I stared her down.

And then a voice came from the gallery. I couldn’t see Jos, but I recognised the voice of a polyglot, sweet enough to call every spirit:

In fair Dublin City, where the girls are so pretty,

‘Twas there I first met with sweet Molly Malone

She drove a wheelbarrow thro’ streets broad and narrow,

crying ‘cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh’

The audience was stricken into panicked silence. Even the Vigiles seemed to have no idea what to do with this outburst of forbidden song. I glanced around the hall, but Jos was hiding, wisely. Crina launched into the next verse:

She was a fishmonger, and that was no wonder

Her father and mother were fishmongers, too

And they drove wheelbarrows thro’ streets broad and narrow,

crying ‘cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh’

Crina was Romanian, from occupied Bucharest. Some of the other humans had joined in with her and Jos. Last to sing was Liss, defiant in her cradle of silks, dark fire in her eyes as she glared at Nashira.

She died of a fever, and nothing could save her

and that should have ended sweet Molly Malone –

but her ghost wheels a barrow thro’ streets broad and narrow

crying ‘cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh’

And I knew this must be a Scottish take on that old anthem of Dublin, blown across the Irish Sea to Inverness.

Liss had thought my mouth would be sealed. She had reminded them for me.

Nashira looked with chilling emptiness at Liss, and then at me. The Vigiles tightened their grips on their rifles, but they couldn’t shoot in here. Not without running the risk of hitting their own employers.

‘Thirteen years ago,’ I said, ‘I was six years old. I was in Dublin on the first of February, when Scion murdered thousands of unarmed people – all to send a message. A warning to anyone who thought they could defy the anchor.’

‘You will be silent,’ Nashira said.

‘I will not.’

One of the Vigiles aimed his rifle straight at my heart, the red light hovering on my chest. Nashira raised a hand to stop him.

‘Cathal the Sasanach,’ I called. ‘Thirteen years ago, you left me alive – one child on Grafton Street. You let me live to bear witness to a day of reckoning, as you saw it. Now you will bear witness to this one. You will bear witness to the beginning of the end of Scion.’ My voice was rising, my teeth bared. ‘Go dtuitfeadh an tigh ort.’

Even from here, I could see him staring back at me, surrounded by hostile eyes.

He still knew his Gaeilge, all right.

Nashira flung one of her fallen angels at me – the poltergeist. I stiffened, but the pendant on my collarbone deflected it, with such force that it sent me lurching, almost off my heels.

One of the Rephs spoke in resonant Gloss, and spirits came surging back to the Guildhall. I took flight with them, abandoning my body.

They joined me at the edges of her dreamscape, helping me break down her armour. The fallen angels were moving to defend her, but now twenty, now fifty – now over a hundred spirits – were descending on their killer, and those ancient walls were starting to give.

I tumbled into the first ring, the darkest circle of her dreamscape.

Like other Rephs, she had a mind as large as a cathedral. I paid no mind to anything but the light at its heart, far away. Launching into a dead sprint, I pictured myself with a massive dream-form, growing myself into a giant, taking longer and longer strides. Outside, the spirits were still distracting her. Otherwise she would have stopped me.

There she was, in that pool of light – another giant, regal and glowing, not looking at me. I braced myself just before I slammed into it.

When her eyes opened, I saw.

The Guildhall appeared, afire with colour. Auras flared and spirits danced, the latter appearing as hairlines and zigzags of light. For the first time, I was grateful I didn’t have the sight – it was sickening in its intensity, making it impossible to focus. Her sixth sense threatened to sweep me away.

A moment later, I was struck blind. Nashira must be trying to shut her own body down. I forced her eyes to work again and looked down at her gloved hand, clenching it.

Pressure mounted in her skull. Her spirit was fighting back in her dreamscape, recovering from the shock of my entry. I had moments to act.

Paige Mahoney lay on the stage, the dress garish against her pallid skin. Jos clambered up to shake me, jolting my silver cord. I could see it, with these sighted eyes, stretching between that body and this one. The golden cord, however, was invisible to Nashira.

Hurry, Paige.

I had to find a way to prove how weak she was. Straining to move her arm, I reached for the Wrath of the Inquisitor.

Even with full control of my host, the sword would have been heavy. I lifted it from its stand. Rephs were resistant to amaurotic weaponry, but this performance was for the emissaries’ sake, not hers. I turned the sword, planting its hilt on the floor.

I threw Nashira on the blade, just as she hurled me out of her dreamscape.

The Guildhall was in chaos. When I opened my own eyes, my ears were full of shouts, and my head was in such agony that tears welled, hot and stinging. I looked up, hair falling over my brow.

Nashira Sargas was impaled on the Wrath of the Inquisitor.

‘Suzerain,’ the Overseer cried, aghast. ‘Red-jackets, to arms, to arms!’

The red-jackets did not reply. Across the hall, they were collapsing.

Nashira opened her eyes. I watched her come back to herself. The blade had gone into her middle and out of her back. She gripped it with both hands, uprooting it from her body. Drops of light scattered the boards and coated the blade; more of it spread in her doublet.

‘A clever display,’ she said to me. ‘Arcturus trained you well, after all.’

I was frozen. Even knowing the Rephs were immortal, seeing her pull that sword out of herself, as if it were just an inconvenience, was paralysing.

The sword fell to the ground. Instead, she unsheathed a knife. It came flying towards me. With so much pain in my head, I barely moved in time. The blade caught my right cheek, leaving a shallow wound.

‘You can do better than knives,’ I said hoarsely. ‘What are you – a common thief ?’

My voice was slurred. Each time I returned to my body, it took a moment for each part of me to wake up. My fingertips were numb; my heart laboured. The poltergeist came back for a second go, only for the pendant to send it packing. In a fury, the poltergeist shot towards the golden sword, the sword coated in the blood of its binder.

The possession had disoriented Nashira. I could see it in the flicker of her eyes, her stiffened gait. Her fallen angel would finish the job.

The Wrath of the Inquisitor began to shake, its blade clattering on the boards. As with angels, I had seen poltergeists lift and hurl objects before, an ability we called apport.

The nearest candles went out in a rush. A Vigile found Crina, the second dissident to sing. He lifted his rifle and shot her clean in the head. I flinched as she died and fell to the ground, blood on her grey tunic.

The gunshot elicited screams from the audience. They broke like a wave on the doors of the Guildhall. I watched Birgitta Tjäder try another door. Someone had sealed the entrances.

Had that been part of the plan?

I had no time to think about it. The Vigile aimed his rifle at Jos, the first singer. My nose bled as I tried desperately to dreamwalk. Jos backed away, his small hands raised.

Liss swept down from the ceiling and grabbed Jos with one arm. With incredible strength, she swung him into the gallery. He scrambled over the balustrade and ran, pursued by the same Vigile.

A film of cold sweat coated my skin. Turning back to the poltergeist, I watched the golden sword rise of its own accord, casting a long shadow on the wall. Heaving for breath, I dreamwalked yet again.

This time, I had lost the element of surprise. Nashira threw up all her centuries of armour, slamming me back into my own skin. This time, I woke to my own scream of agony. A tight helmet was crushing my skull, more excruciating than when I killed the Underguards.

That was it. I was done.

Nashira recovered faster than I did. As she rose, four of her angels ripped into my dreamscape, trying to destroy a threat to their binder. In the distance, I heard myself sob again; I felt myself thump my head on the boards, as if that could dislodge the invaders. They were tearing at my poppies like a plough, scattering petals.

Her outline came back into focus. As the angels withdrew, she grasped me by the hair.

‘How tired you look,’ she said. ‘Give in, dreamwalker. The æther calls you.’

I was tempted, just to escape the pain. All I could smell or taste was blood.

Nashira held up a hand. The sword snapped into it, delivered by the poltergeist. ‘A willing angel is better,’ she said. ‘But that would be too much to ask from someone as wilful as you.’

Suddenly she let go of my hair. Michael had thrown himself on to her back, forcing her to deal with him first. It gave me time to crawl away, but I was so weak, so racked with pain. My gift burned like a curse.

Nashira pitched Michael off the stage. He landed on a performer, sending them both crashing to the floor in a heap.

Her face appeared above mine again, her eyes turning as red as my dress. The draining was the final insult. I was cut and bruised, in more pain than I knew how to hold. I couldn’t stop her forcing me to my knees, shoving my head down, baring my nape to the sword.

At least I had spoken.

At least I had reminded them of Dublin.

‘You are too feeble to wield this gift. You should never have possessed it,’ Nashira told me. ‘No human can harness such power. I am pleased you did not die in Dublin, or it might have been lost for good.’ She held up the Wrath of the Inquisitor. ‘Rest easy, dreamwalker. All you need do is watch as I conquer.’

I managed, with my last scrap of strength, to look up, into her eyes.

The golden blade swung high, reflecting the candlelight.

Arcturus Mesarthim stopped it.

The blade sank deep into his shoulder. He wrenched free and attacked Nashira, whirling immense spools. Merope and Alsafi leapt into action, with Alsafi battling his own secret allies, keeping up his long pretence. Pleione and Terebell joined the fray, fighting on the same side as Warden. Their outlines ran together.

All the while, the amaranth shone.

I was surrounded by the Rephs. My survival instinct urged me to get out of their way. As I started to get up, my dreamscape sent mirages across my line of sight – candlelight and poppies, hall and field. My knees buckled again, the pain pounding at the front of my head.

Then Warden was there, one arm across my chest, turning me. He scooped me into his arms and bore me from the stage.

‘The train will leave erelong,’ he said. ‘We must go.’ I could hardly speak. ‘Paige?’

The main doors to the Guildhall suddenly opened. A solitary figure emerged from outside, wearing a suit and tie and an ornate white mask.

‘Good evening, one and all.’

His voice was slightly muffled, but he still managed to silence the room. All skirmishes came to a standstill. I stared towards the man in the doorway, convinced I was still hallucinating.

That could not be his voice.

He could not be here.

‘I hear you’ve all been looking rather hard for me – to no avail,’ the same deep voice said, with a familiar tinge of amusement. ‘All those secrets and clever defences, and I still found you first.’ He walked into our midst, undaunted by the guns, the giants. ‘But for those of you who somehow don’t know, I am the White Binder.’ His charm gave way to a terrible chill. ‘And I want my dreamwalker back.’

‘Jaxon,’ I breathed.

He was here. They had come.

Just as I passed out, the windows shattered.