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“If you and I are to fight the gods, we must become mythic ourselves,” Le Vieux Orphelin said. “With this, whenever you desire, you can conceal Paige Mahoney—all her fears, all her sorrow, all her rage—and inhabit Black Moth. You can write her story. You can sing it to the streets of Paris. And I promise you, this citadel will call eternally for more.”

I had never had a costume. In the scrimmage, I had fought as the Pale Dreamer, the mirror of the White Binder, even when I had declared myself as Black Moth. Perhaps it was time.

“Thank you.” I closed the box. “You can call me Paige. In private, of course.”

“Paige.” He inclined his head, and I returned the gesture. “I look forward to our next meeting.”

He took his leave. I set the box down by the pool and began to dress, keeping the mask in view. It was the only proof that the meeting had been any more than a heat-induced hallucination.

****

The clothes I had been left were well-made and warm. By the time I returned to my sickroom, someone had lit a stove. I sat beside it until my hair dried.

My backpack sat in the corner. The camera was safe inside. I hoped the photograph had survived—but the water had reduced my dissimulator to mush.

I moved about, restless, folding the sheets into the corner, rolling the rug I had lain on for days. I was so distracted, I didn’t notice him until he spoke.

“Paige.”

My head snapped up. Arcturus was standing at the threshold.

Seeing him snatched the breath from me. He was here. He was fine. I wanted to go to him, but sudden trepidation stopped me.

“You’re back,” I said.

“Yes. And you are awake.”

“At last.” I couldn’t take my eyes off him. “Nadine said you were with me the whole time.”

“Hm.”

He let the drape fall across the entrance, silencing the muffled conversations in the rest of the appartements privés. Now that we shared the same firelit space, I could hardly think for wondering if he had heard my confession as the water closed in. If the golden cord had carried it to him.

I wanted you.I wanted us.

“I was just with Le Vieux Orphelin,” I said. “We laid the groundwork for an alliance between the syndicates. In the bath. Which is . . . very normal.”

“I am pleased to hear it.” His flaming gaze rested on mine. “It is done, then. Sheol II is no more.”

“Yes.”

The magnitude of it settled over us. Together, we had struck another blow against Scion.

“Domino might cut us off for what happened,” I said. “Ducos told me that discharged agents have to take white aster, to erase their memories of the network. Then again, blue aster could undo that, if we can find it.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Blue aster.”

“Yes. Scion uses it,” I said. “They feed blue aster to the subject and it lets them see recent memories.”

“That is a lie, doubtless planted to frighten voyants. Blue aster can make memories clearer, but only an oneiromancer can see them.”

“Oh.” Scion had really hoodwinked the syndicate there. “I see. Couldyourestore my memories?”

“In theory, I could reverse the effects of white aster, though I have never attempted it. Memory is complex. And fragile.”

There was a brief silence. In that silence, I remembered the fire. The taste of the smoke when I had asked if he still wanted me. The smoke, and what had come before it.

“Arcturus—” I looked away. “I forgave you for lying to me about the Emim. That was nothing in comparison to what I did to you by not killing Jaxon. And I don’t expect your forgiveness.”