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Alfred finally noticed me. The gaze I had once thought kind was now cold and greedy.

“Hello, dear heart,” he rasped. I had to lean close to hear him, close enough to smell his foul breath. “I would bow if I could.”

I was already hollowed out from one betrayal. There was no more heat in me for anger.

“You never did tell me your surname when we met. I think I know now,” I said. “Rackham. Alfred Rackham.”

Alfred ground out a chuckle. “So,” he said, “s-someone let my name slip. I was not as careful as I should have been when we first began our trade.” Red bubbled at the seam of his lips. “Alfred Hayhurst Rackham, founding member of the gray market.”

Alfred.

The hawk-eyed scout who had plucked an impoverished Jaxon Hall from a garret and shown his words to the citadel. Who had profited from the bloodshedOn the Merits of Unnaturalnesshad left in its wake. Who had stitched a monster into being. He had seemed harmless, with his passion for good literature and his quaint little office.

He and Jaxon had known each other since before the latter had been taken to Sheol I. Since before he was even called Jaxon Hall. It was because of the pamphlet they had published together that Jaxon had been arrested in the first place. On his return, he must have gone straight to his old friend—his redeemer—to tell him the secret behind Scion.

And so the two of them had decided to branch into a new line of business. To take advantage of the knowledge Jaxon had attained.

How blind I had been.

“It was you who editedThe Rephaite Revelation,” I finally said. “You made it glorify the Sargas.”

“Too easy. All of it was too easy. N-no one would suspect a fusty old fellow with a penchant for poetry and cake.” A damp wheeze of laughter escaped him. “Be grateful I only hindered you, Paige. I did try to have you removed from the game altogether, if you recall.”

The bag over my head. A saw-toothed blade.

“Jaxon had Hector and his entire gang slaughtered for selling me to Scion,” I said. “You were very brave to try killing me after that.”

“Oh, he was most upset when he found out. Threatened to spatchcock me if I touched a hair on your head again.” His eyes were unfocused. “He always . . . keeps his promises. In the end.”

That was when I looked down, at the wreath of flowers on his chest, like the ones sold at the black market, intended to be read counter-clockwise. I picked it up. One by one, I decoded the flowers.

White puffs of bittercress:paternal error. Monkshood, purple and poisonous:treachery. Fragrant bay leaves with golden blooms:I change but in death.Barberry, like drops of blood:sourness of temper.

And last, white clover:think of me. A sign-off as mocking as it was tender.

“The Grand Overseer is alive.”

The tunnel echoed my words. I thought of the man Nadine had mentioned, the silver-haired binder who had carried me away from the flood. When I tried to remember the period between that desperate swim and waking up in Passy, there was only white.

And I wondered. I wondered whether Jaxon, who had worked in the same building as Scarlett Burnish—a spy for Domino—could have somehow got his hands on a dissimulator. Whether he could have worn it to escape the burning Château de Versailles, tacked himself to our group as we left, and dented my memory with white aster when I put two and two together.

Even as I thought it, I sensed truth. I had told him I was onto the Rag and Bone Man. He had been confident enough in my talent to be sure that I would find this place, this wreath.

Paternal error. He had made a mistake by trusting Alfred. Jaxon Hall had lost his temper at last, and this was the consequence. It was also his apology. He had ended Alfred—just as he had ended Hector, except this time he had done it himself. He had carved his old friend like a leg of lamb.

If I didn’t care about you, Paige, would I have butchered nine people for you?

Please don’t try to impress me with that again. I closed my eyes.You didn’t even bother to butcher them yourself.

“How could he have survived?” Le Vieux Orphelin wondered aloud. “He did not escape with us.”

“I think he did. With a new face.”

“The man who saved you.”

“I think he gave me white aster.” I touched my temple. “But he made sure to tie up the final loose end of the gray market.” With the wreath still in my hand, I looked back at Alfred. “It’s over.”

I should let him bleed out. Deny him the threnody. Leave him to scream in the æther forever. A peddler of flesh deserved no better than this agonising death, this grave.