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The two Vigiles exchanged glances, then shrugged and left their posts. As soon as they were out of sight, I unlocked my cell, dropped my host behind the daybed, and snapped back into my own body. The Vigile stirred. I pulled off his helmet and hit him over the head with his baton. He let out a low groan as I stole his transceiver and flux gun.

When the first guard returned with the water, I was ready. The moment she realized her squadmates were gone and reached for her transceiver, I sprang from my body and knocked her senseless. By some miracle, the glass rolled across the floor instead of breaking.

The base of my skull ached. I guessed I could use my gift once more without shattering my strength.

I grasped the second Vigile under the arms and towed her into my cell, where I stripped her of her utility belt and jacket and slung them on. Only then did I shoot both the half-conscious Vigiles in the neck with the flux gun. The drug would keep them down until someone found them and brought the antidote. With the way clear, I locked them into my cell and turned right.

For as long as the other two Vigiles stayed away, I had a head start. They would raise the alarm as soon as they returned.

The last daylight strained across the attic floor. I half-ran past furniture draped with dust sheets, keeping low. Every creak of the floorboards made me tense. At the western end of the attic, I found the life-sized portrait of Jacquemine Lang, framed in gold, leaning against the wall.

There was a small flashlight on my new belt. I illuminated the ornate panels behind the portrait and tested them for give. When I found the loose one, I pressed on it until it gave way, allowing me to move it aside. Cold air wafted from the pitch-black opening.

A false interior wall. I hunkered down on my stomach and slid through.

The ceiling snowed thick dust into my hair. I tried not to cough as I replaced the panel and shone the flashlight into the dark. Its beam revealed a set of cramped and winding stairs.

I pulled off my shoes and slotted them into my belt. As soon as I had my bearings, I switched off the flashlight and tucked it away. Light could seep through any cracks and betray my position. There were still at least a hundred dreamscapes in and around the Hôtel Garuche.

The darkness was crushing. Utterly blind, I edged down the staircase. The steps creaked underfoot. Any official working late could hear me through the thin wall that hid this forgotten part of the mansion. All the while, I was alert to the æther. It would do no good to run into Mylène and Jean-Michel.

They weren’t close. Their father was.

I lowered myself down a few more steps. When I felt a draft, I switched my flashlight on and cupped my hand around the beam. There was an uneven opening to my right, just above my head.

The staircase continued to the ground floor. I should keep going, try to get to Kornephoros before my guards returned to the attic —but Ménard was so close, and the prospect of eavesdropping on him was too much of a temptation. I had come here to spy, after all. Before I could think better of it, I wedged my head and shoulders into the opening and squirmed through. With the flashlight clamped between my teeth, I used my hands to pull myself forwards until I could feel colder air above me. I surfaced in a tight passage and killed the light again.

Icy air leaked under my collar. I was in the hollow space behind a lath-and-plaster wall. Quiet as a spider, I moved along on my stomach, breath setting like honey.

Small spaces, I could handle. Not the dark. I swallowed and pressed on, even as dust scored my throat.

A voice thrummed nearby, to my left. That was Ménard—and he was with someone who seemed to have no dreamscape. When I could go no farther, I stopped and pressed my ear to the wall.

“—four days ago, Rackham,” Ménard was saying. “I am not accustomed to waiting upon the pleasure of unnaturals.”

I stayed absolutely still.

“Show me the names.” After a long silence, Ménard spoke again, still in English. “This is extortion. Do you think me a fool, that I would pay these prices?”

“I would think you a wise man, Inquisitor Ménard,” said his guest. “Consider it a form of insurance.”

All feeling drained from my face. I knew that metallic voice, distorted by a mouthpiece. I had heard it only once—just before the scrimmage—but I could never forget.

I freed my arm from where it was pinned to my side, flexed the numbness from my fingers, and ran them along the wall, looking for anything that might help me see through it. They soon caught on a break in the laths. There was a hole in the plaster beyond, letting in a needle-thin ray of light. I peered through it.

What I saw was the Salon Doré.

Ménard stood behind his desk, pristine in a white shirt and gold cufflinks. His guest was in front of it, back turned to me. Instead of the cap and cloth that had shrouded him in London, he wore a helmet-like contraption to conceal his identity. The dirty greatcoat was still in place. He stood with his gloved hands clasped behind him, steel-capped boots planted apart, the soles crusted with mud.

The Rag and Bone Man. He was here. And Ménard had just called him by a name.

Rackham. Find Rackham.

A dying Scion official had given me that name as I fled the first colony. Rackham, the mysterious figure who had worked alongside Jaxon and Hector to sell voyants to the Rephaim.

Rackham.I shaped it with my lips.Rag and Bone Man.

“The Grand Overseer empathizes with your situation, Inquisitor Ménard. To be doubted by the Suzerain is an undesirable state to be in,” the Rag and Bone Man said. When Ménard glanced up, I flinched away from the spyhole, even though he couldn’t possibly see me. “These prices are high, yes. Reflective of their value. The potential gains, for you, are enormous.”