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“Noted.” I shot him a winning smile. “But I think we’ll make a decent syndie of you yet, Arcturus Mesarthim.”

****

The sky was cloudless in the morning. Sunlight striped the floors with gold.

Exhilaration crushed my hurts. I danced along to the record player. I wolfed some porridge with apple butter, then prepared for the Court of Miracles.

I was heading into a citadel I had dreamed of seeing since I was a child. Anticipation thrummed in every limb. For the first time in weeks, I was a live wire, raring to run.

The wardrobe was a room of its own. Domino agents must have stayed here in the past and needed a range of disguises. I chose a white blouse and a charcoal sweater, which I tucked into high-waisted trousers, and button boots with low heels. Smoked lenses hid some of my face. A peaked cap would hide a little more. I straightened my hair, scalding my neck and one hand in the process—I debated asking Arcturus to do the back for me—before I swung a green coat onto my shoulders and a scarf around my neck. I took the knife from under my pillow, wrapped it, and slipped it into my pocket.

On my way downstairs, I glanced at a mirror. My sleek auburn hair was off-putting.

Arcturus was in the hall, dressed from head to toe in black, as usual. His new overcoat suited him.

“Good morning.” He was pulling on his gloves. “I trust you slept well.”

“I did.” I turned on the spot. “Est-ce-que j’ai l’air suffisamment française?”

“Très française, petite rêveuse.”

His pronunciation was impeccable. “You’ve a cut of the money?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Watch out for pickpockets.” I belted my coat and drew on my own gloves. “We shouldn’t walk together. You go first. If the Vigiles get wind of us, we call it off, lose them, and meet here later.”

“Very well.” Arcturus took me in. “Are you certain you are ready for this?”

“Absolutely.”

In truth, my palms were slick. Before my capture, I had always been confident that if a Vigile spied me, I could climb and fight my way out of danger.

As soon as I opened the door, a breeze whipped my hair across my eyes. Arcturus strode out first. I checked no one was looking before I pulled on my cap and went after him.

My boots crunched into an ankle-deep snowbank. Once the door was locked, I walked up the four steps to the street and stepped out of the shadow of the safe house.

Paris roared its welcome.

The noise and light were overwhelming. At eight in the morning, cars and people thronged the Quai des Grands Augustins. A vintage moto rattled past, close enough for me to smell its exhaust. I blinked and looked east, to the twin bell towers of the Grande Salle de Paris. A place of worship in the monarch days, it was now used for some of the most significant events and ceremonies in France. I had to stop myself from staring at it. Beyond it lay two more natural islands of Paris—the Île aux Vaches, where many wealthy officials lived, and the Île Louviers, home to some of the most famous Parisian markets and arcades.

Arcturus had crossed the road. I followed at a distance, craning my neck to take in the sky. London was a vertical citadel, all ’scrapers and high-rise apartments, but Paris seemed far wider.

I looked down, to the stern gray waters of the Seine and the streets I had pored over in travel guides. Tearooms and boutiques and tiny chocolate shops. Florists with windows framed by winter-flowering blossom. Branches of the Bank of Scion France, white doors embellished with gold leaf, façades whittled from marble. Printers sold broadsides and mysteries beside children with red brooches on their lapels, marking them as official vendors of theDaily Descendant. Stalls with candy-striped awnings stood cheek by jowl, boasting penny toys, artwork, souvenirs (I resisted the compulsion to spend three pounds on a miniature Eiffel Tower), and all manner of curiosities. I spotted a snow globe with London inside it and felt a pang of longing.

Even though English was the official language of the empire, taught in schools before any other, France had clawed back some of its own—many of the establishments had French names, and the chapbooks were all printed in French. There was no trace of a Brekkabox from here to the horizon, but there would be one somewhere. No citadel could get away with not having a Brekkabox.

Paris was her own creature. She had her own underworld, lurking like crude oil beneath her surface. Somewhere very close to here, the River Bièvre slunk past a district of tanneries and shambles, licking up blood and dye as it went. Thieves conspired in slums. And perhaps—just perhaps—there were whispers of insurrection.

Arcturus turned his head a little. I spotted the camera and obscured my face with one hand.

A transmission screen was mounted on the first bridge we passed. I slowed to watch the cycle of photographs. My face was no longer among them, but the other fugitives were still there. Nick Nygård. Ivy. Julian Amesbury.

I clenched my fist in my pocket. More than five months since I had last seen Julian, and I still had no idea if he was dead or alive. After the faces, a series of messages appeared.

WE MUST SAVE SPAIN FROM ITSELF

NOUS DEVONS SAUVER L’ESPAGNE D’ELLE-MêME