Page 91

“If you find her,” the Rag and Bone Man went on, “alert me at once, so I may deliver her to the Grand Overseer. He will reimburse you—generously—for your efforts.”

“There has been no sign of Mahoney,” Ménard said, sounding bored. “Nonetheless, we remain vigilant.” He was a good liar. “Is that all?”

For a moment, there was only the sound of slow breathing, magnified by the helmet.

“I remind you,” the Rag and Bone Man said, “that if you should discover Paige Mahoney’s whereabouts and withhold that information from the Grand Overseer, there will be serious consequences. Those consequences may touch Madelle Frère. And your children.”

At that, Ménard raised his head. His face gave me a chill. For the first time, I could see the killer under his façade.

“Threaten my family again,” he said, “and I will deal out consequences of my own.” His eyes were two blank spaces. “You are an abomination. An affront to nature. You stand here because I allow it. You breathe in my presence because I deem it acceptable. And I no longer do.”

The two men stared at each other.

“My ledger,” the Rag and Bone Man said. “If you please.”

“Not yet. One of your pawns may collect it tomorrow. In the meantime, it will make for a thought-provoking read. I would be very interested to see how wealthy you have all become . . . from a trade I sincerely doubt the Suzerain ever formally sanctioned.”

After a terrible silence, the Rag and Bone Man turned and walked with a heavy gait toward the door. At last, I could hold it in no longer. A tiny cough jolted my chest.

He stopped dead. So did my heart. I could feel his cloaked aura, but he should not be close enough to sense mine. He looked toward Ménard, who was still. Then he looked toward my hiding place.

A moment that lasted a lifetime. Finally, he trudged from the room. Ménard stayed where he was for a time, looking at whatever was on his desk, before he straightened his tie and left the Salon Doré, drawing the door shut behind him. I heard the lock activate and sensed him walk away.

As soon as he was out of earshot, I moved. This was my chance.

I pushed at the surface above my head. No give. Instead, I dug my fingers between the laths and pried at one until it broke. A splinter nipped my thumb. Throwing caution to the wind, I writhed into a different position and kicked at the wall, over and over, snapping the laths, crumbling the layer of plaster beyond. I scrambled through the gap, onto the red carpet of the Salon Doré, where I gave rein to the coughs that had been bursting to come out.

I rose and eyed the gaping hole I had made in the wall. This break-in needed to be worth the risk.

Cade had been right. Even in his own study, Ménard was cautious. All that lay on the desk was a sheet of letterhead paper, a gold fountain pen, and a leather-bound ledger with crinkled pages. I hefted the ledger open.

I knew immediately what this was. This was a list of everyone the gray marketeers had caught for the last two Bone Seasons, penned in a crabbed hand. People I knew and had known leapt out at me, as if their names were limned in gold.

The gray market had provided just over a quarter of the prisoners to the Rephaim that year. As well as voyant types and the places and dates of arrest, asponsor—whichever evil bastard had procured us for the market—was also recorded. Their names seemed to be signed in their own hands, with a fingerprint beside each one. As well as a record, this was insurance, meant to stop the traffickers from betraying the ring.

I already knew mine was Hector Grinslathe. When I saw how much coin my arrest had earned him, I stared at the figure until it blurred. There was my value to Scion, in cold sterling. Even though I had seen the glister of his intestines, his organs dumped on a blood-soaked floor, all I wanted, in that moment, was for Hector Grinslathe to die again.

He could never have spent so much money. I was asking myself why he would have entered the sum in the ledger at all—he had sold me behind the other marketeers’ backs—when I noticed the tiny stains beside his signature, which was rickety. He had signed this just before his death.

Like a confession.

I turned to the next page, which recorded the voyants who had been abducted for the twenty-first Bone Season. There, at the top of a list of ten, were three names I knew, as well as the one Ménard had mentioned.

Nadine and Zeke. They were alive. So was Michael, who had been missing for months. And there wasP. Waite—Le Latronpuche, brother of Didion Waite. He had sold Le Vieux Orphelin.

Arcturus had wondered how the gray market could still be turning a profit. I was beginning to understand.

Jaxon Hall waslaunderingus.

You soulless reptile.

A dreamscape was heading for the study. I pressed down the strangling rage and grabbed the ledger. It was too important to leave, hard evidence of the traffickers’ crimes. Holding it to my chest, I kicked the crumbled plaster into a corner, then released one of the curtains from its sash and drew it behind me as I crawled back into the false wall, covering the hole I had made.

I edged back to the staircase. At the bottom, I found myself in another passage and pulled my elbows in to stop them being skinned. When I reached the end, I felt an ill-fitting panel, pressed back into place by small hands, and moved it aside. It took a moment to see through the gloom.

A greenhouse-like ceiling let a small amount of light into the Winter Garden. I slid out of the wall, replaced the panel, and ran through an arched doorway, my gift keeping me alert to dangers. As I slipped into the next corridor, I shoved the ledger into my jacket and secured it with the utility belt.

Snow rushed against the windows. An attendant rounded the corner with a tray. I hid behind a pair of curtains until she passed, then ran out again, my sock-clad feet quiet on the carpet. I ducked under a desk to avoid a pair of Vigiles, and then, at last, I reached the cellar door and used the key I had stolen from Cade. Heart pounding, I locked the door behind me and lit my way down with the flashlight from the wall.