One of them, a tall boy with a flop of curry-red hair, stepped forward. “Mistress is waiting for you.”
Mistress? Grayson swallowed hard and stared at the boy. Their clothing was torn, the seams stretched to show white thread, and there was blood. Rusty red stains ran along the girls’ hems. But these Dusters didn’t appear to be under any kind of spell right now.
“Why do you call her that?” Grayson asked.
One of the tea gown girls combed her dirty fingers through her hair, which was loose around her shoulders in a style that no proper young lady would be caught wearing beyond her own bedroom. “You are supposed to lead us,” she said, her English heavily accented.
Grayson turned fully toward the group. “You’ve seen her? Spoken to her?”
The red-haired boy and the girl exchanged an uncertain glance.
“She speaks to us,” he said, palming the hair out of his eyes before touching his temple. “In here.”
Grayson nodded, remembering what Ingrid had said about Axia’s voice calling to her Dusters.
“Right now?” he asked.
The group slowly shook their heads, eyes coasting toward one another to be sure they were all in agreement.
“Do you know where she is?” Grayson pushed.
The girl spoke again. “The Champs de Mars. It is where we are all gathering.” Her chin quivered and dimpled. “She commanded us to find you. We have to take you to her.”
The girl’s quivering chin explained that there had been a promise of punishment should they not succeed. Grayson understood how she must have felt. He knew just how terrifying Axia was firsthand.
“I’ll come,” he said, knees trembling as he spoke. “But you don’t need to follow her. There is someone … someone who lives in that building, over by the church.” Grayson pointed out Vander’s place. “He might have a way to help you escape, the same way I have.”
The red-haired boy pushed back his hair again, and two other boys straightened their backs and shoulders.
“Escape how?” one asked.
Grayson started to pull one of the vials from his pocket, when a strong scent of decay tickled up his nostrils. The other Dusters must have smelled and recognized it as well; they stood at attention and drew themselves into a huddle.
Two hellhounds—real hellhounds—emerged from an intersecting street. Grayson doubted he would have been successful in convincing these Dusters to leave Axia anyway. There was no chance at all now. The hellhounds stalked forward, curling up around the group of Dusters so closely that one beast’s greasy tail swished the seat of a girl’s tea gown.
“Mistress is in the nest,” the red-haired boy said, his voice strangled. “Follow us.”
Grayson rolled the glass vial of blood in his palm, still concealed in his pocket. He let out a breath. “I can do this,” he whispered, and he fell into step behind the other Dusters.
The orangery at Clos du Vie was a complete disaster zone when Gabby and the others arrived. The Bois du Boulogne, usually a peaceful spot for strolling, had been graveyard quiet as their caravan had wound through on the way to Constantine’s home. Vander and Rory had led the way in Vander’s wagonette, followed by the Waverlys’ landau, Gabby, Ingrid, Mama, and Nolan inside. The Roman and Paris Alliance, joined by Benjamin and Nadia, had brought up the rear of the caravan with their few carriages.
The silence inside the landau had been nearly as fragile as that outside in the parkland. Something had broken between Vander and Ingrid back at the rectory, and all of them were feeling it. And then there was Nolan to worry about. What would Gabby do if none of this worked? What if the Alliance took him back to Rome and charged him with treason? What if the net did work and they took him anyway?
Since the glass walls and ceilings of the orangery had been riddled with gargoyle-sized gaps and the vegetation had been hit with what looked like hurricane-force winds, Constantine’s butler had led their party to the largest room that could accommodate them: the library. The musty scent of aged paper and oiled leather hit Gabby as soon as she stepped into the room, where ceiling-to-floor shelves of dark mahogany paneled walls and forest-green upholstered furniture seemed to muffle all sound.
Monsieur Constantine and Hugh Dupuis sat upon one of three sofas arranged in a bracket in front of a marble fireplace. Each man held a teacup and saucer and was in the process of sipping when the heavy black boots of the Roman Alliance slapped against the parquet floor.
Constantine set down his cup and saucer and leaped to his feet. “Lady Brickton, it is an exquisite pleasure to see you once again.” He strode across the library floor, completely ignoring the Alliance members spreading out around the room, and reached for Mama’s hand. He kissed the back of her black lace glove.