‘That’s my choice,’ I said. ‘It’s called “freedom”, Jax. It’s what I fought for.’
‘And how hard you fought,’ he said gently. He turned away. ‘Goodbye for now, O my lovely. I will remember you fondly, in your absence, as my unfinished masterpiece; my lost treasure. But bear this in mind: I do not like to leave things unfinished. Not masterpieces, and certainly not games. And perhaps our game is only just beginning.’
I raised one eyebrow. He really was a madman.
With the softest of smiles, he was gone.
Unfortunately, Jaxon was not my last visitor. The next was Bernard Hock, the High Chief of Vigilance – one of the few people in the Archon who was permitted to be voyant, who I had seen once before in the penal colony. He looked less than pleased to be in a suit as he entered my cell.
‘Don’t cry now, bitch.’ He grasped my arm and stabbed a needle into it. ‘Just lie there nice and quiet. The executioner will be here after the Jubilee . . . then you’ll cry.’
I shoved him off me. ‘How does it feel to hate yourself as much as you do, Hock?’
In answer, he backhanded me and left the cell. Soon, the sounds of conversation waned from the corridors.
I shivered on the floor, cold to my bones. It was a short while before the Sargas finally passed, accompanied by Frank Weaver and several other high-ranking officials, including Patricia Okonma, the Deputy Grand Commander. They must be going separately from the rest.
Alsafi brought up the rear. The sight of him made the hairs on my nape stand on end.
None of them so much as glanced at me, but as Alsafi walked by, I saw – as if in slow motion – a tiny scroll fall from his cloak and land within my reach. I waited until they were out of sight before I snatched it.
EUPATORIUM ICE PLANT CLEMATIS GROUND LAUREL
Eupatorium: delay. Ice plant: your looks freeze me. Clematis: that could either mean mental clarity or artifice, if I remembered correctly. Ground laurel: perseverance.
I read it several times.
Delay – it hadn’t happened.
Frozen by a look – he was being watched.
I leaned against the wall of my cell and grasped my own arms, as if that could hold me together. I didn’t know what mental clarity or perseverance were supposed to mean to me now, but one thing was clear.
He hadn’t done it.
And I couldn’t do it. I had already been drugged – rendering my gift useless – and in a few hours, I would be dead.
With a mewl of frustration, I buried my face in my knees.
They had broken me; Nashira and Hildred Vance had succeeded in breaking me. I was a malfunctioning mind radar. I shook with silent, rib-racking sobs, loathing myself for being so stupid as to hand myself to the anchor; so arrogant as to think I could survive for long enough to carry out the mission.
Trembling, I read the note again, trying to control my breathing. Ground laurel. Perseverance. What the hell did that mean? How could he persevere if he was being watched?
Clematis. Mental clarity. Artifice. Which of the two meanings did he intend me to take from it, and why?
I crumpled the note into my hand.
Nashira will not let you go once you are in her clutches. She will chain you in the darkness, and she will drain the life and hope from you.
When music sounded in the corridor, I raised my head. The transmission screen outside my cell was now fixed on the live broadcast of the Jubilee. The walls inside the stadium were covered by black drapes, each bearing an immense white circle with a golden anchor inside it.
Hundreds of tiered seats provided the best views. The groundlings, with cheaper tickets, had gathered at the edges of the vast, ring-shaped orchestra pit, and were craning their necks to see the top of the stage.
‘Esteemed denizens of the Scion Citadel of London,’ Burnish said, and her voice resounded through the space, ‘welcome, on this very special night, to the Grand Stadium!’
The roar was deafening. I made myself listen.
That was the sound of Scion’s victory.
‘Tonight,’ Burnish said, ‘we welcome a new year for Scion, and a new dawn for the anchor, the symbol of hope in a chaotic modern world.’ Applause answered her. ‘And now, before the stroke of midnight, it is time for us to reflect upon two centuries of our rich history, brought to you by some of Scion’s most talented denizens. Tonight, we celebrate our place in the world, and embrace our bright future. Let us set our bounds ever wider, and grow ever stronger – together. The Minister for Arts is proud to present – the Jubilee!’
The ovation rumbled on for almost a minute before mechanisms began to move in the stadium. A performance, then. Or a message from Vance. Look at our imperial might. Look at what you failed to thwart.
A platform rose, and the light ebbed to a twilight ambience. On the platform, a line of children sang a soulful rendition of ‘Anchored to Thee, O Scion’. When the audience gave them a standing ovation, they took a bow, and a new stage was drawn up, this one decked with the old symbols of the monarchy. A man, dressed as Edward VII, performed a lively dance to a violinist’s music, accompanied by actors in lavish Victorian gowns. Once the séance table was brought on, the dance became more tormented, and I understood that this was the story of Scion’s origin – heavily edited, of course, to remove the Rephaim from the equation. The lighting enflamed, and more performers swept on to the stage, executing acrobatic dances around the principal actor, clawing away his regalia. He was the king who had dabbled in evil, and they were the unnaturals he released into the world. Just like the play at the Bicentenary, all those months ago.
The scenery began to change. Now it was a shadow theatre, and new actors were forming the shapes of skyscrapers and towers, rising ever higher until their figures loomed over the stage, where the dancers had all fallen to their knees. This was the remaking of London, the rising from the ashes of the monarchy. The music swelled. Scion had triumphed.
The stage cleared of actors. The lights went out. When they returned, they were cool and muted.
A woman in an embroidered bodice with a black skirt, her fair hair coiled at the crown of her head, was poised on her toes in the middle of the stage. I recognised her at once: Marilena Bra?oveanu, Scion Bucharest’s most beloved dancer. She often performed at official ceremonies.
Bra?oveanu was as still as a porcelain doll. When the camera focused on her, close enough for every viewer to see the finest details of her costume, I realised the skirt of her dress was made up of hundreds of tiny silk moths.
She was the Black Moth.
She was me.