The Rookery

THE ROOKERY

13 March 2059

A bell roused me from a deep sleep that evening. For a drowsy moment, I thought I was in my old room in Islington, a long weekend of nothing ahead of me – away from work, away from Jaxon.

Then I saw the ceiling. I sat up, heart pounding, hair wild around my face. I was still in the opulent parlour, on the daybed.

The Rephaim, the halls and the dancing; the origins of Scion.

Somehow, all of it was real.

I hadn’t meant to doze off, but the flux had left me weak and tired. The small of my back ached. Rubbing my stiff neck, I drank in my surroundings. Arcturus – Warden – was nowhere to be seen.

His gramophone was sorrowing away. I recognised ‘Danse Macabre’ immediately, my pulse quickening – Jaxon listened to it when he was in a sour mood, usually over a glass of vintage wine. I switched it off and pushed the drapes from the nearest window.

The last blue light was leaving the sky. Across the parlour, a writing desk stood by a leadlight. A note had been left on it, penned in black ink.

Wait for the bell.

The bell must lift the curfew. Beside the message, I found a floor plan of Magdalen. I noted the names of the buildings, the rooms.

Next, I had a look around. A chess table stood in the alcove formed by a window, ready for a new game. Apart from the main door, there were two others, both locked. One was most likely for a bedchamber; the other led on to the roof of the cloister. The former had a few wooden stairs leading up to it.

The main door was newly unlocked. Once I had picked up a candle, I exited the parlour and crossed the landing, taking the steps to a bathroom with plastered stone walls. The bath itself was enormous, made for someone of great height. A mirror shone above the sink, polished to perfection. There was a concerning lack of toilet.

I set the candle down in its holder and turned one of the brass taps on the sink. Hot water rushed out. With a sigh of relief, I washed my face and neck, leaving the pristine towels where they were.

I held my own gaze in the mirror, thinking.

The Rephaim had struck their deal in 1859. That was long before the fall of the monarchy in 1901. Queen Victoria had been allowed to reign until her death. Had she known she would be the last monarch?

Lord Palmerston had been the Prime Minister. He must have paved the way to Scion out of fear, trying to save the world. What I still didn’t understand was why the system targeted voyants. The Rephaim blamed all humans for the loss of their home. Why were we paying the price?

Even stranger, the Rephaim were voyant. So far, they all had auras. I couldn’t wrap my head around this arrangement.

My priority was to get out of here. Until then, I would learn what I could. For now, it was probably in my best interest to play along.

Tonight I planned to check on Seb. I could almost hear Jaxon laughing at me, but Seb wouldn’t last a day on his own. Once I had found him, I would look for Julian, who seemed to have a level head on him. It might pay to forge an alliance or two.

On my way out of the bathroom, I glanced up the rest of the steps. Those must lead to the attic.

Back in the parlour, I laced my boots and opened the middle drawer of the desk. Inside were three blister packs of pills. I popped one of each – red, white and green, none of them labelled.

The city was full of things I didn’t yet understand. These pills might be there to protect me from something: toxins, radiation. Maybe I should take them. Once Warden returned, I would have no choice.

For now, I washed them all down the sink. No matter what happened to me in this place, I refused to blindly obey.

The Residence of Magdalen was like nowhere I had ever seen. It could have been a small district, if anyone had cared to fill it. As it stood, I could only sense three other dreamscapes, all human.

I did a lap of the cloister, which surrounded a pristine lawn. As I went, I tried various locked doors, committing each to memory.

Warden was away tonight. I should use the opportunity to explore the residence, but I wanted to be outside. I would survive Oxford the same way I had survived London, by learning its secrets.

Magdalen could wait.

In the Porters’ Lodge at the front of the residence, a soothsayer had replaced the man from earlier. Her thin brown hair was pulled into a bun, and her gilet looked warmer than mine.

‘Good evening,’ she said. ‘You must be 40.’ I nodded. ‘I’m the night porter. Welcome to the Residence of Magdalen.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, for want of anything else to say.

‘It’s lovely to have a newcomer to the household. The Warden has never been a keeper before – not once, according to our records,’ she said. ‘You’re very lucky to be training with him.’

‘So I’ve been told.’ I eyed her pink tunic. ‘If he’s not your keeper, who is?’

‘Alsafi Sualocin. He suspected I wouldn’t survive my second test, so he permitted me to leave Queens to work for the Warden,’ she said. ‘I’m proud to say this is my twelfth year at Magdalen.’

That was alarming. I hadn’t been planning to sit around here for twelve days, let alone twelve years.

‘I hope you were comfortable in the Founders Tower,’ she added. ‘The attic will be ready for you soon. We just need to clear it.’

‘No bother.’ I folded my arms. ‘I’d like to go outside, if I may.’

‘Of course.’ She opened a thick book. ‘Let me sign you out.’

‘Am I allowed to go anywhere in Magdalen?’

‘Anywhere but the Old Chapel. Otherwise, you can go as far as the gate just east of the lawns. You can also explore the city whenever you like during the night, so long as you sign out.’

‘Anything else I should know?’

She considered me. ‘Personally,’ she said, ‘I would stay close to the residences, within the limits of the medieval city wall. You can go farther, but if you’re alone, you may be questioned.’

‘I didn’t see a wall when I arrived.’

‘The wall itself doesn’t exist any more, but the boundary is marked on that map. You’ll know it when you reach it. It’s where the lamplight ends.’ She nodded to a frame on the wall behind me. ‘After that point, the city is dark and dangerous. The farther you stray towards the outskirts, the closer you are to Gallows Wood.’

‘And what’s in there?’

‘The Warden will tell you,’ she said. ‘In good time.’

There was a finality to her tone. I decided not to push my luck.

‘I see.’ I went to look at the map. ‘Any idea where I can get food?’

‘Magdalen will provide you with two meals a day if you work hard. For now, use this.’ She handed me a small drawstring pouch. ‘The harlies always want numa. You can often exchange these for bread and broth in the Rookery, the shanty town on the Broad.’

I shook my head, lost. ‘Harlies?’

‘The performers.’

I undid the pouch. It rattled with rodent bones and needles, as well as a cheap ring.

These numa were brittle. They would break or degrade. A cruel and clever way to keep the soothsayers in line – perhaps some of the augurs, too. Things like bones and tea leaves must be hard to find.

‘Right.’ I tucked them away. ‘Is there a bathroom for humans around here?’

Now, there was a question I had never imagined asking.

‘Oh, yes. The nearest is just east of the cloister, adjoining the tool shed. I’d wait until morning, if you can. It isn’t heated,’ she said. ‘The day bell rings at sunrise. Don’t be late.’

‘Fine. Thanks for your help.’

‘You’re welcome. Have a wonderful night.’

Well, somebody was brainwashed. I hefted the main door open and left.

A thick fog had descended. It was cold as midwinter here. As I turned up my collar, I wondered what I had got myself into with Warden. His name was said like a prayer, like a promise.

You’re very lucky to be training with him.

I would look into it later. For now, I would get some food and find Seb.

There seemed to be no electricity in this city. To my left was a stone bridge, lit by gas lamps on both sides. A line of red-jackets blocked that way to the outside world. When I got too close, they pointed their rifles at me. With their sights trained on my back, I set off to find the Rookery.

According to the map, the Rookery was a short way north. I retraced the steps I had taken with Warden, back along Magdalen Walk.

The next path lay as quiet as the first, leading me to a square I recognised. I passed the Residence of the Suzerain, fighting off a chill.

Several large buildings emerged from the fog. One of them had pillars and a decorated pediment, like the Grand Museum in Bloomsbury. I skirted around its edge, on to the Broad.

The sound of human life strained through the night. I recognised this place. Rickety stalls ran down the street, skeletal and gloomy, hung with dirty lanterns. On either side of these were rows of rudimentary huts, shacks and tents, made of ridged metal and plastic – a shanty town in the middle of a city.

And there was the siren, right by the settlement. An old giant with a rotor and a gaping horn, nothing like the sleek models in London.

The smell of roasting meat drew me into a shack. My stomach was tight with hunger. Plywood tunnels linked the dwellings, patched with scrap metal and cloth. They had few windows; instead they were lit by paraffin lamps and the reddish glow from the cookfires outside, which leaked in through innumerable cracks.

The people here wore threadbare clothes. None of them looked healthy. These must be the performers, who had failed their tests and been condemned here, probably for both life and afterlife. Most were soothsayers or augurs, from the most common orders of clairvoyance. A few glanced my way, but quickly moved on.

The source of the smell was a large square room, a smoke hole cut into its roof. I stood to one side, trying not to draw attention to myself.

The meat was being served in thin slices, pink and tender in the middle. The performers shared plates of vegetables and spooned gravy from silver tureens. They were hunched over the food, stuffing it into their mouths, licking the hot juices from their fingers.

Before I could ask, a tall voyant pressed a plate into my hands. He was in his thirties, dressed in little more than rags, with a tangle of brown hair. His thick glasses were scratched all over.

‘Is Mayfield still in the Archon?’

I raised an eyebrow. ‘What?’

‘Mayfield,’ he repeated, impatient. ‘Is he still Grand Inquisitor?’

‘Mayfield died a few years ago.’

‘Who is it now?’

‘Frank Weaver.’

‘Oh, him with the whiskers, right. You haven’t got a copy of the Descendant, have you?’

‘They confiscated everything.’ I glanced around for somewhere to sit. ‘Did you really think Mayfield was still the Inquisitor?’

‘All right,’ the voyant snapped. ‘Don’t get on your high horse, oracle. This is our first news in ten years.’ He grasped my arm, leading me to a corner. ‘Did they ever bring back the Roaring Boy, then?’

‘No.’ I tried to free my arm, but he clung. ‘Look—’

‘Tell me they never found the Fleapit.’

‘She’s only just arrived, Cyril. I think she’d like something to eat.’

Cyril rounded on the speaker, a young woman with her arms crossed and her chin tipped up.

‘You are an absolute stinking bloody curmudgeon, Rymore,’ he complained. ‘Did you pick up Ten of Swords today?’

‘Aye, when I was thinking about you.’

With a glower, Cyril snatched my plate and scarpered. I made a grab for his shirt, but he was faster than a flimp.

The woman shook her head. She had delicate features, framed by black ringlets. Her red lipstick stood out like a fresh wound against her skin.

‘You had your oration last night, little sister.’ She spoke with a warm Scottish burr. ‘Trust me. Your stomach wouldn’t have taken it.’ She took me by the elbow. ‘Hurry. Come with me.’

I wasn’t sure whether or not to laugh at being called little sister by this tiny woman. ‘Where?’

‘I have a place. We can talk.’

After a moment, I nodded. My street instinct told me not to follow a stranger into an unfamiliar place, but she might have information.

My guide touched hands with various people, keeping a sharp eye on me all the while. Her clothes were in better condition than those of the other performers, but she must still be cold in them – a flimsy shirt with bell sleeves and trousers too short for her legs, clearly repaired by hand.

She drew back a ragged curtain to reveal a cramped room, where a paraffin lamp kept the dark at bay. A pile of stained sheets and a cushion served as a bed. Several pots and pans hung from hooks on the wall, and a shirt was drying on a rack.

I sat by an old stove. ‘Do you often take in strays?’

‘I know how it is when you arrive,’ the woman said. ‘I was terrified.’

‘How long ago was that?’

‘Ten years.’ She knelt on the other side of the stove and held out a callused hand. ‘Liss Rymore.’

After a moment, I shook it. ‘Paige Mahoney.’

‘XX-59-40?’

‘Yes.’

Liss caught my expression. ‘Sorry. Force of habit,’ she said. ‘We do use our names in the Rookery, but we have to be careful.’

Even though her face was careworn, she could only be in her early twenties. She must have been young when she arrived here.

‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘How do you know my number?’

Liss took out a bottle of paraffin and poured a little into the stove.

‘News travels fast in a city this small,’ she said. ‘Your number is on everyone’s lips.’

‘Dare I ask why?’

‘Did you not hear?’ she said drily. ‘Arcturus Mesarthim has never shown interest in training a human. It’s the most excitement we’ve had in a while.’ She struck a match, setting a flame in the stove. ‘I’ll warm up some broth. The others won’t share.’

‘Why not?’

‘They don’t like jackets, with good reason.’ She set a pot on the stove. ‘They’ll want to judge your character before they trade with you.’

‘But you don’t care.’

‘I always give new arrivals a chance.’

Liss heated the broth. Once it was steaming, she divided it between two bowls. I offered her my numa, but she shook her head.

‘On the house.’

I took a sip of the broth, a thin concoction of oatmeal and shredded leaves. It was gritty, but warm.

‘Here.’ Liss passed me a hunk of stale bread. ‘Skilly and toke. It takes the edge off, at least.’

‘Thank you.’ I nodded towards the central room. ‘There’s food in there.’

‘A rare display of generosity for the Bone Season,’ she said. ‘Our usual rations depend on what sort of performing we do. I get more than most, but it’s never enough. We’re always hungry. Always cold.’

‘How do you manage?’

‘I forage, myself. Others risk stealing from the residences. I hear Merton is best,’ she said. ‘You can slip a few eggs from its coops, or scrump apples.’ She served herself. ‘You could try fishing, if you’re patient. Some poach squirrels and pheasants with traps, but that never ends well. Not in the woods.’

So far, stealing from the residences sounded like my best option. It fit my skill set.

‘I assume the red-jackets have plenty of food,’ I said.

‘Aye. They get chicken from Balliol, venison from Magdalen, all sorts. The amaurotics prepare their meals. They sometimes help us, but they’ve been less willing since December.’

‘What happened?’

‘In winter, the killing cold blows in, and we can’t forage any more. An amaurotic – Nita – took pity on us,’ Liss said. ‘She used to leave food in a basket at the back of Queens. It kept us strong for weeks, but someone reported her. I’ve not seen her since.’

‘Some humans are loyal to the cause, then.’

‘Just like Vigiles. Be careful who you trust.’ She moved her feet closer to the stove. ‘So you’re at Magdalen. What’s it like?’

‘A gilded cage.’

‘It’s a very exclusive residence. In all my time here, there’s never been more than three humans living there. You’ve pushed it to four.’

‘How many residences are there?’

‘Seven that traditionally accept humans. Those are Balliol, Corpus, Exeter, Merton, Oriel, Queens and Trinity,’ Liss said. ‘The Overseer has the whole of Kettell Hall, which is here on the Broad.’

‘And the other buildings?’

‘Those are reserved for the Rephs, except when the amaurotics are cleaning them. You saw the Residence of the Suzerain. There’s also a storage facility on Fish Street, the House.’

‘And what’s Gallows Wood?’

‘When the Rephs came, the outlying districts of Oxford were demolished, replaced by a forest that now surrounds what’s left of the city.’ Liss drank some broth. ‘Gallows Wood is where the Emim hunt. The red-jackets patrol it to stop them reaching the lamplight. Apparently its far reaches are full of mines and trap pits.’

‘And beyond that?’

‘I’ve heard there’s a wall. After that, it’s probably just countryside.’

‘Has anyone ever tried to escape?’

‘Yes.’

Her shoulders were tense. I tore off a scrap of bread.

I wasn’t surprised no one had succeeded. You couldn’t plan a jailbreak if you were fighting a constant battle for your next mouthful.

‘How long were you in the Tower?’

I glanced up. ‘I didn’t go to the Tower.’

‘Then you must have only been caught a few days ago.’ When I nodded, Liss blew out her breath. ‘You’re lucky. They collect voyants for each Bone Season over a decade.’

‘Nashira said. It seems like a bit of a palaver,’ I said. ‘Why not just send us here as they catch us?’

‘It’s so they can curate an interesting variety. And the Rephs are good at taming us,’ Liss said. ‘They know every way to break a human. Even one year in the Tower would break the strongest person. After that, anything seems like a release, even a place like this.’

‘What are the Rephs, exactly?’

‘None of us really know.’ She dabbed some bread in the broth. ‘Whatever they are, they never let us forget that humans are inferior. We broke the ethereal threshold, so we’re responsible for the Buzzers.’

‘Buzzers?’

‘Emim. That’s what we’ve always called them,’ she said. ‘The red-jackets came up with it. They’re the ones who have to fight them.’

‘How often?’

I was asking far too many questions, but I needed knowledge.

‘Depends. They attack a lot more in winter, so you’ve just missed the worst time of year,’ Liss said. ‘A single tone from the siren calls the red-jackets to arms. If the tone starts to change, you need to get inside. It means the Buzzers have breached the city.’

‘Have you seen them?’

‘No, but I’ve heard stories. The red-jackets like scaring us.’ The firelight played across her face. ‘They say the Buzzers can devour your spirit – erase you from the æther, as if you never existed. Others say they’re skeletons that need skin to cover themselves. I don’t know how much of it is true, but they do eat flesh. Don’t be surprised if you see a few missing limbs out there.’

It should have unsettled me, but this place still felt disjointed from the real world.

Liss adjusted the curtain. As she moved, a pile of folded purple silk caught my eye.

‘You’re the aerialist,’ I said.

She smiled at me over her shoulder. ‘Did you think I was good?’

‘Very good.’

‘That’s how I earn my flatches here. Lucky for me, I picked it up quickly.’

‘I think I saw you after the oration, too.’

‘I was curious to see who each Reph would choose.’ She sat back down. ‘This place is already rustling with speculation. That’s why I got you in here quickly, before everyone realised who you are. Your aura was … a talking point.’

I nodded without elaborating.

Julian had not believed I was an acultomancer. I doubted Liss would, either. The lie was even less likely to work on a soothsayer. Passing myself off as an oracle was my best shot at secrecy.

‘Well,’ Liss said gently. ‘Are you going to make me guess?’

I tilted my head. ‘Can you?’

Perhaps I could trust one person with the truth. Liss had been here for a long time. I needed her to tell me whether to hide or use my gift.

‘I can try.’ Her fingers drummed on the floor. ‘Your aura is red. That makes me think you’re an oracle – but I hear oracles have come here before, and Arcturus Mesarthim never took an interest.’

I saw the idea taking root in her mind.

‘You have to be something else. Something unprecedented. You have to be—’ The realisation dawned. ‘A dreamwalker.’

I nodded once more. Liss sank back as if her stomach was punctured.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘that solves it.’

‘What?’

‘Why he took you under his wing. Nashira must already suspect what you are. She wants you protected by her own consort.’

‘Why would she care?’

‘You won’t like this.’

I waited.

‘Did you notice that aura of hers?’ Liss asked. ‘She doesn’t just have one ability. She walks several different paths to the æther.’

‘I’ve never met a voyant with more than one gift.’

‘This place has its own rules.’ She pulled her knees up to her chin. ‘Nashira has five angels.’ (Another impossibility.) ‘This is just a theory, but we think they used to be voyants, and that she can use the gifts they had in life.’

‘Not even binders can do that.’

‘Exactly.’ Liss shot me a perturbed look. ‘If you want my advice, give no inkling of what you are. If she sees for sure … you’re done for, Paige.’

I kept my expression neutral. Three years in the syndicate had hardened me to danger, but here, I would have to keep my wits sharp.

‘I know how to hide what I am,’ I said. ‘I did it for eleven years.’

‘It’ll be harder here. They’ll test you to expose your gift. That’s what the tunics mean. Pink after your first test, red after the second.’

‘Did you fail yours?’

‘By choice. Now I answer to the Overseer.’

‘Who was your keeper?’

Liss breathed out through her nose, her jaw tight.

‘Gomeisa Sargas,’ she eventually said. ‘The other blood-sovereign.’

‘Was he at the oration?’

‘No. He lives in London now, but I imagine he’ll visit soon, to hear about the Bone Season. Nashira shares her power with him.’

‘Arcturus is her consort.’

‘Yes, but he’s not a Sargas. That’s what blood-sovereign means,’ Liss said. ‘Only their family – their blood – can rule. Arcturus is from a smaller family. His conjugal title is blood-consort. Like a prince consort.’

‘But he’s also the Warden.’

‘We think that means he’s the head of his family. Not that I’ve heard of many other Mesarthims.’ She nodded to the pot. ‘More skilly?’

‘I’m fine. Thanks.’ I watched her slide our bowls into a tub of water. ‘It can’t have been easy to live with a Reph. But it doesn’t look easy to live out here, either.’

‘It isn’t,’ she said, ‘but I refused to give up my humanity.’ She glanced at me. ‘Rephs aren’t human. No matter how much they look like us, they’ve got nothing here.’ She tapped her chest. ‘If you ever mean to earn their trust, you’ll have to cut away your kindness.’

Before I could ask, the curtain was torn aside. A lean male Reph stood in the doorway.

‘You,’ he barked at Liss. Her hands flew to her head at once. ‘Get up and dress, lazy filth. And with a guest, I see! Are you a queen?’

Liss stood. All her strength was gone, leaving her small and fragile. ‘I’m sorry, Suhail,’ she said. ‘40 is new here. I wanted to explain the rules.’

‘40 should already know the rules.’

‘She only just arrived. I—’ Liss backed into the corner of the shack. ‘I didn’t think I was performing tonight. Have you spoken to the Overseer?’

‘I do not answer to humans.’

‘Of course not. Forgive me.’

This Reph didn’t have the blank stare that some of the others did. Every crease of his chiselled face bled contempt. He looked as if he was made of dull gold, with a long sheet of hair, platinum blond.

‘The other aerialist is injured,’ he said. ‘The red-jackets expect their favourite jester to replace him. Unless you wish to suffer this evening, you will perform.’

Liss nodded. Her shoulders pulled towards her chest, and she looked away.

‘I understand,’ she said. ‘I’ll get ready.’

Suhail finally seemed to notice me. He gave me a sneering look before ripping the curtain down on his way out. I helped Liss gather it.

‘He seems nice,’ I said drily.

‘Suhail Chertan.’ Liss was shaking. ‘The Overseer is always a bit tense under his greasepaint. He answers to Suhail if we do something wrong.’

She brushed at her eyes. Thinking she was crying, I gently took the curtain from her hands. The cuff of her shirt was smeared with blood.

‘Hey,’ I said. ‘Did you cut yourself ?’

‘It’s nothing. He just took a bit of my glow.’

‘What?’

‘He fed on me.’

I was sure I had misheard her.

‘He fed on you,’ I repeated.

‘Did they forget to mention that Rephs feed on aura?’ Liss let me see her face at last. ‘That part must have slipped their mind.’

She had bled from both eyes. Just like the tasseographer when Pleione fixed her gaze on him.

‘That’s not possible,’ I murmured. ‘That would mean they weren’t just voyant.’

‘They act like gods.’ Liss reached for her silks. ‘We harlies are their libations, but you jackets – you don’t get fed on. That’s your privilege.’

Rephs feeding on aura made no sense. It was a link to the æther, unique to each voyant. I couldn’t imagine how they could use it for survival.

But the news was a stark light on this place. This was why they took voyants into their fold; why the performers weren’t bumped off if they failed their tests. The Rephs didn’t just want them to dance.

This was why voyants, most of all, were paying for human error.

‘Someone has to stop this,’ I said.

‘They’ve been here for two hundred years,’ Liss said. ‘If it were possible, don’t you think someone would have done it by now?’

She had a point.

‘I’ve been here for a decade,’ Liss said. ‘I’ve seen people fight, people who couldn’t let go of their old lives. They’re all dead. In the end you’ll stop trying.’

I studied her. ‘Are you a seer?’

She wasn’t, but I wondered if she would lie.

‘I’m a broadsider,’ Liss said. (An old word for a cartomancer, street slang of a decade past.) ‘The first time I touched a deck of cards, I knew.’

‘What did they show you?’

Liss knelt beside a wooden box and took out a tarot deck, tied with purple ribbon. This had to be her favoured numen. She picked out a card and showed it to me.

The Fool.

‘The first card in the tarot,’ she said, ‘and somehow I still wound up at the bottom of the pile.’ She traced its edge. ‘Paige, I wish I could give you some hope, but it’s been too long. I’ve accepted my lot.’

‘I’ve never had my cards read.’

‘Perhaps we can change that.’ Liss tucked the deck away with care. ‘Come and see me again soon, sister. I can’t protect you, but I might be able to stop you getting yourself killed.’ She gave me a tired smile. ‘Welcome to Sheol I.’

Liss gave me directions to Amaurotic House, where Seb had been placed under the questionable care of Graffias Sheratan, the Grey Keeper. She also gave me a bread roll, wrapped in paper.

I had learned a great deal from her. The most troubling revelation was that Nashira could be on to me. If she was a binder, like Jaxon, she might want to turn me into her boundling – a spirit forced to stay and serve.

Not getting to the last light – the end of the æther – was something I had always feared. I hated the thought of being a restless spirit, a clip of spare ammo, for voyants to abuse and trade. Still, that had never stopped me making spools to protect myself, or helping Jaxon bind Anne Naylor, the Ghost of Farringdon, who had been a young girl when she was murdered.

In the end you’ll stop trying.

Liss was wrong.

I would prove it to her.

Amaurotic House lay on Fayre Street, outside the heart of the city. I soon understood what the night porter had meant about the boundary. Even a short way north of the Rookery, the streets were almost deserted, most of the gas lamps unlit. I breezed on with all the confidence I could muster, as if I were on my own turf in London.

A few plane trees lined the boulevard. The farther I walked, the darker and quieter it became. A few red-jackets were stationed in doorways, armed with lanterns and pistols. Before long, I heard the inevitable shout: ‘You there. What are you doing?’

I stopped.

‘My keeper told me to get my bearings,’ I called back. ‘Can I have a look around?’

‘If you insist. Just make sure you’re back for the day bell.’

‘Got it.’

I quickened my step before the red-jacket could change her mind.

Soon I had found the building I needed. A chained gate was set into its façade, with a lunette reading AMAUROTIC HOUSE. There was a phrase underneath, probably Latin: DOMUS STULTORUM.

Two flaming torches lit those words, contained in iron brackets on either side of the gate. I looked between the bars to see the telltale glint of yellow eyes.

‘I hope you have good reason to be near Amaurotic House.’

I stepped back as a Reph approached. Thick dark hair spilled over his broad shoulders, and his lower lip was full and petulant. Like the other Rephs, he could have been shaped from dull metal – palest copper, like rose gold. It made him look invulnerable.

‘Just on a walk.’ I kept my composure. ‘Are you Graffias?’

‘Indeed. Graffias Sheratan, the Grey Keeper.’ He stopped on the other side of the gate. ‘And who is your keeper, white-jacket?’

‘Arcturus Mesarthim.’

‘I should have known.’ Graffias wrapped a large hand around one of the bars. ‘Perhaps you walked exactly where you pleased in London, but I would not advise straying too far by yourself again. All manner of dangers lurk in this city.’

I believed it. Even with a gate between us, his gaze chilled me to the bone.

‘I can handle myself,’ I said.

‘Can you?’

Rephs’ auras were hard to read, but if I were to take a wild guess, I would have said Graffias was an augur. I reached for the pouch.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘there’s someone in here I want to see. I can pay.’

Before I could think it through, I offered him the numa. Graffias gave me a look of such hatred, such open disgust, that I flinched. I almost preferred the emotionless stares.

‘Fool.’ He drew a spool of spirits. ‘Get out of my sight, before I call your keeper to discipline you. Do not let me see you here again.’

Without protest, I turned and walked away from the gate, my breath darting out in white puffs. I shoved the numa back into my pocket.

That had been a stupid thing to do. Even if Graffias was an augur, he would use numa of the finest quality, not fragile rodent bones.

For one dangerous moment, I had forgotten where I was.

Just as I was about to hightail it back to Magdalen, a quiet voice came from somewhere above my head.

‘Paige!’

Above me, a hand reached through a barred window. I released my breath.

‘Seb.’ I kept my voice low. ‘Are you okay?’

‘No.’ He sounded tearful. ‘Please, Paige – please get me out of here. I have to get out of here. I’m sorry I called you unnatural, I’m sorry.’

Graffias had retreated into the building. When I was sure the coast was clear, I climbed up to the window and passed Seb the bread.

‘I’ll let you off the hook.’ I squeezed his icy hand through the bars. ‘I’m going to get us out of here, but you have to give me time.’

‘They’ll kill me.’ He unwrapped the bread. ‘I’ll be dead in a week.’

‘What did they do?’

‘They made me scrub the floors and clean pieces of a smashed mirror,’ he said, biting into the bread. His fingers were cut to ribbons. ‘Tomorrow I’m supposed to start work in the residences.’

‘What sort of work?’

‘I don’t know yet. I’m scared to know.’ His voice was cracking. ‘I want to see my parents. Why did this happen to me, Paige?’

‘I think you were just unlucky,’ I said.

‘Scion was supposed to keep us safe.’

‘Scion lies,’ I told him. ‘Now you know that as well as we do.’ His right eye was swollen and bloodshot. ‘What happened there?’

‘Graffias hit me. I didn’t do anything, Paige, really. He said I was human scum. He said—’ Seb hung his head, and his lip shook. ‘I don’t understand why they would be so cruel to us.’

‘You don’t have to understand. Just survive.’ I nodded to the bread. ‘Eat that. Try and get yourself assigned to Magdalen tomorrow.’

‘Is that where you live?’

‘Yes.’

Seb nodded. Now he was calmer, he also seemed drowsy, unfocused. It occurred to me that he might be concussed. He needed a hospital, a doctor, but I doubted the Rephs provided those.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You’re kind, Paige. I’m sorry for what happens to unnat—’ He paused, swallowing. ‘To clairvoyants.’

‘Okay. I’ll come back when I can,’ I said. ‘You just keep your head down, Seb.’