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“I still haven’t formed one. I’d like to hear yours,” I said. “I don’t know whether a truce with him is a wise idea. Everything in me recoils from the thought. All I know is that he despises the Rephaim. For him, we are a means to an end—and we could use him the same way.”

“It does not surprise me that he hates them,” Le Vieux Orphelin said. “Knowing what Ménard is, I confess, I would find it exceedingly difficult to tolerate him in any capacity. I also doubt he would be willing to work with me.” He swilled his wine. “Let us . . . give this matter some thought, and return to it later. For now, will you permit me to explain my proposal?”

“Of course.”

“There is one step we must take before all others, and that is to eliminate the Man in the Iron Mask. I think it best for a small group of four or five of us to catch him unawares. Once he is in custody, my perdues can emerge from hiding without fear of his followers.”

I nodded.

“I will then gather the syndicate on the Île des Cygnes—an old refuge—where I will have summoned the other grands ducs. I can think of some convincing pretext. Once they arrive, I will accuse them of treachery. It will be easiest if they confess. If not, we may have a fight on our hands.”

“And that’s where you need me.”

“Yes. I need you at my side. That will carry weight among the anormaux, which I will need to defeat Le Latronpuche, since he has many of them in his pocket. Unless we can prove there is a trail between him and Scion, I have no proof of his dealings.”

“I have proof,” I said. “Proof that Le Latronpuche was involved in the gray market. The same ledger I mentioned earlier.”

“Intriguing. May I see it?”

“Certainly. It’s on the surface.”

“Thank you. It will help me to build a case against Le Latronpuche.” He drank. “Underqueen, I know about Operation Albion. I know your friends and supporters are in considerable danger. If the Mime Order is to survive, it must double in strength. I offer you a way for it to do that. If you agree, I can announce our alliance to the syndicate on the Île des Cygnes.”

The voyants of London and Paris, bridged at last, after over a century of estrangement. This might be the most important alliance I ever made, and I had no intention of running into it in haste.

“I promise you soldiers for your army,” Le Vieux Orphelin said, “and coin for your cause.”

“And in return, I give you my backing, and you usurp Le Latronpuche and La Reine des Thunes?”

“As you usurped the White Binder, your own mime-lord,” he said. “Not for selfish gain, but for the sake of all anormaux. For the sake of humankind.”

The mask denied me his expression, but his tone rang with sincerity and conviction.

“The thought of an alliance between our two great syndicates is a very compelling one.” I allowed myself a brief smile. “I need to return to the surface to . . . consult with my network, but I’ll give you an answer as soon as I can.”

He nodded.

“We should take another day to recover before we attempt to find the Man in the Iron Mask,” I said, rising from the hot spring and enveloping myself in a towel. “I don’t know about you, but I think I need it.”

“Of course. Your fever was severe,” Le Vieux Orphelin said. “I was captured on Rue de Grenelle, near L’Hôtel des Invalides. Perhaps we should begin our search for the Man in the Iron Mask there.”

“Actually, I think you were the exception. He usually hunts near the Court of Miracles. There’s a symbol he uses,” I said. “A skeletal hand.”

“I will send messages to my eyes on the surface,” he said. “Let us meet at the Métro station of Sentier, then—on Sunday, at half past eleven in the evening. If you need me before then, you may find me here.”

“Very well.”

“Before you leave, Underqueen,” he said, “I hope you will permit me to present you with a gift. It comes with no conditions.” He climbed from the spring and reached into another alcove. “This is simply a small token of admiration, from one revolutionary to another.”

With a towel around his waist, he walked toward me. I took the wooden box he offered and tipped open its lid.

Bedded in silk was a white mask. Its lips were crimson, and an ornate black moth spread its wings over the cheeks, with holes cut out for my eyes. The white sections were latticed with very fine cracks, imitating the way paint looked after aging. It was a work of art.

“Stunning.” I ran my fingertip over the nose, the lips. Someone had studied my face before creating this. “Who made it?”

“I did. It is a passion of mine. I crafted masks for all of my perdues, telling their stories,” he said. “Sometimes theatre is necessary to earn an audience, Underqueen. And the revolution needs that audience. But if our roles are to be more than trappings—more than cheap distractions—then we must occupy them. Live and breathe them. I have done that for eleven years, since the day I first covered my face with this mask.”

I glimpsed his eyes, dark and incisive. I wondered who he was, and what had driven him to resist.