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“No idea.”

A muscle started in her cheek. “Eat.” She set the box down in front of me. “Tell me about this morning.”

“I couldn’t get into the study. Too many people.” I paused, then decided to use what Arcturus had told me. “I met with the Minister of Internal Security. She referred to a document from Weaver that Ménard was reluctant to sign. He eventually did, and Frère took it with her to England for New Year, but I got the impression he was still opposed to it.”

“Do you know what the document was?”

“Not yet, but Frère is eating with Ménard tonight. I thought that would be the best time to get to the root of it.”

Ducos breathed out through her nose. “That sounds . . . a promising avenue of inquiry. Is anyone suspicious?”

“Not as far as I can tell,” I said. “But they do suspect I’m in Paris.”

“How?”

I told her about my image being captured. Her lips thinned until they were almost nonexistent.

“Now, perhaps, you understand the importance of the dissimulator,” she said. “Fortunate that they didn’t identify you categorically.”

She motioned for me to eat. I opened the box to find a salad of diced tomato, cucumber, onion, and bell pepper, all covered with crumbled white cheese, accompanied by a slice of fresh bread. “Ducos,” I said, once I had eaten some of it, “do you know anything about me?”

She sat in the nearest chair. “I know everything I need to know about you, Flora.”

“Not Flora. Me.”

Her stance changed.

“You were born in Ireland,” she said eventually. “You exhibit a rare form of extrasensory perception. You were the commander of an insurgent militia in London. You sabotaged Senshield. And now you seem determined to sabotage my sanity by asking needless questions.”

“I still am the commander of that insurgent militia.”

“No. You are an intelligence officer. There is no time or place for divided loyalties behind enemy lines.”

“What if they didn’t need to be divided?”

She flung me an exasperated look. “What?”

“What if your organization could work alongside mine?” I kept my voice low and steady. “Domino wants to set fires across Scion. My people can do that. Would your superiors consider funding a militia?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.” Ducos regarded me. “We have not known each other for very long, Flora. Carry out your assignment. Demonstrate that you can follow orders to the letter. Then, perhaps, we can discuss this in more detail.” Her gaze was unyielding. “Eat. Rest.”

Perhaps it was because I was exhausted; perhaps I was finally learning diplomacy. Either way, I decided to leave it.

My appetite had been waning for days. Once I had eaten as much of the salad as I could, I lay on the couch. Ducos took a thin file from her briefcase and settled down to study it.

While I waited for sleep to claim me, I reached for the golden cord. A muted vibration rewarded my effort. In all our training, we had never mastered the art of mental conversation.

I could feel him on the other side. He was fine. Holding that knowledge close, I slept.

****

At half past eight, I looked through brown eyes once more. I saw a white marble floor, a painted ceiling lit by chandeliers, and a girl with sable locks and a small, upturned nose. Her black silk frock had puffed sleeves and a lace collar. This was Mylène. Middle child in the Inquisitorial family.

My fingers moved. I blinked discs of light away. Frère was sitting with her back against a wall, barefoot and wearing flounced cherry silk. Matching shoes were tucked into the corner.

This vast chamber was the Salle des Fêtes, where Frère and Ménard hosted dances and dinners. Their children had turned this corner into a playroom. Jean-Michel, who was only four, leaned into my side. His hair was the brown of dark chocolate, falling in curls around his face. Alexandra Kotzia sat in a chair in the corner, bent over some paperwork.

Mylène was absorbed in her data pad. “Onésime, t’es trop doué. C’est pas juste,” she said crossly. “Laisse moi gagner pour changer.”