I allowed myself to be persuaded to go back to Hari’s for an hour’s sleep, a decision I soon bitterly regretted. Shortly after our return, a friend of Hari’s called to say an inspection of the nearest SciPLO factory was under way, meaning increased government activity for the next few hours. Hari categorically refused to let any of us leave until they were gone.
I found myself pacing around the attic as the morning wore on, consumed by frustration. The clock became a source of mockery. Every second was another second the Mime Order was trapped, and so far our mission had gone nowhere. I couldn’t imagine how Nick was holding up.
At noon, I lost patience and knocked on the door to Hari’s room. “Hang on a mo,” he called, but I was already through.
“Hari, we really have to—”
I trailed off, and my eyebrows shot up.
The curtains in the room were closed. Hari was sitting up in bed with his arm around Eliza, whose head rested on his shoulder. Both were disheveled and heavy-eyed. When she saw me, Eliza let out a yelp of “bloody hell, Paige” and clawed the sheets around her bare shoulders. I cleared my throat.
“Underqueen.” Hari fumbled for his glasses. “Sorry. Uh. Is everything all right?”
“Spiffing. If you’re . . . finished,” I said, “would you mind checking to see if we can leave?”
“Yeah, course.”
I retreated sharpish. Behind me, Eliza let out a mangled groan that sounded like “never live this down.”
I should have learned years ago not to barge through closed doors. That habit had landed me in hot water plenty of times while I was collecting money for Jaxon.
Jaxon . . . I envisioned him smoking a cigar in the Archon, chuckling as the army brought London back to heel.
In the kitchen, I piled on layers of clothing while I waited for the others to emerge. Hari hurried in after a couple of minutes, wearing a fresh shirt and a sheepish expression.
“The inspection just ended,” he said. “You can go now, if you like.”
“Good.” I fastened my jacket. “We should be back in a few hours.”
“I’ll be working. Come to the counter when you get back and I’ll give you the key.”
Maria and Eliza joined me in the hallway—the latter with pink cheeks—and we left for the monorail station together, walking through a drizzle. While we waited for our respective trains, Eliza whispered, “Sorry, Paige.”
“You don’t need to apologize. I’m not the sex patrol.”
She bit down a grin. “No. But I shouldn’t get distracted.” Water dripped from her hairline. “It’s just . . . been a while.”
“Mm-hm.” I blew on to my hands.
“Don’t do anything reckless while you’re out of our sight.” She elbowed me as my train appeared. “You have a bad habit of not coming back when you get on a train.”
“When do I ever do anything reckless?”
She gave me a skeptical look. I stepped on to the train before she could answer.
The sky must never be blue above Manchester. I watched the citadel through the window, taking in the flickers of activity beneath the monorail track. When the train rounded a corner and jounced past another SciPLO factory, I leaned forward until my breath misted the glass. A small group of workers were gesturing angrily at the Vigiles beyond the gate.
This place was on a knife-edge.
As the train pulled away again, my thoughts inevitably drifted to Warden. I hadn’t felt the cord since just before we had left London. I had thought at first that he had broken it somehow, but it was there—just still. I must not be able to feel him while he was in the Netherworld, working his way through the ruin of that realm beyond the veil.
It was strange to remember the distant, shadowy dealings of She’ol, embroiled as I was in human affairs. They would be searching for Adhara Sarin, to persuade her that I was capable of leading the Mime Order against the Sargas. Perhaps they had already found her. But when she asked for evidence of my skill as a leader, Warden would have nothing to give her. Not yet. He believed in me so utterly, and I had given him so little in return.
Thinking of him made a sharp pain flare behind my ribs. The silence on his side of the cord was unsettling, as if I’d lost one of my senses.
The district of Ancoats slumped in the shadow of the largest SciPLO factory in the citadel. I descended from the monorail and trekked through the snow, my head stooped against the wind, grateful for the protection of the respirator. As I wandered past back-to-back dwellings—infested with dry rot, so small that I could have reached up and touched their roofs—I passed a scrawl of orange writing on the stonework: MAITH DÚINN, A ÉIRE. Seeing the Irish language in Scion jarred my nerves, then filled me to the brim with homesickness for the place I hadn’t seen since I was eight.
The people here moved like sleepwalkers. Most wore threadbare factory uniforms and blank expressions. Others sat in doorways, wrapped in filthy blankets, their hands outstretched for money. A young woman was among them, her arms wound around two small boys. Her cheeks were blotched with tearstains.
I asked for Jonathan Cassidy at several small businesses in the district: a coal merchant, a shoe-shop, a tiny haberdashery. I was met with averted eyes and mumbles of “not here”. Almost as soon as I had left the haberdashery, a sign reading CLOSED appeared in its window. It was tempting to take off my respirator and prove I wasn’t trying to track him down for Scion, but there was no guarantee that I would be safe here.
My search soon brought me to a cookshop Hari had mentioned, which was perched on the corner of Blossom Street. Its narrow door had no window or handle. Shrivelled paint named it Teach na gCladhairí—House of Cowards. A yellow-bellied eel twisted on its sign.
A wilted bouquet of must and cigarettes awaited me inside. Paintings of tempestuous landscapes cluttered the walls, which were covered by peeling floral paper. I drew my hood down and sat at a round table in a corner. A bony, sour-faced amaurotic barked at me from the bar.
“You want something?”
I cleared my throat. “Coffee. Thanks.”
She stormed off. I replaced my respirator with my red cravat. Within a minute, the waitron had banged down a cup in front of me, along with a dish of soda bread. The coffee looked and smelled like vinegar.
“There you go, now,” she said.
“Thank you.” I lowered my voice. “I wonder if you could help me. Do you have a patron by the name of Jonathan Cassidy?”
She gave me a dirty look and stalked back to the bar. Next time I should show my wallet.
There were several other patrons nearby, all sitting on their own at small tables. Somebody must know where this guy was hiding. For appearances’ sake, I picked up the greasy menu and scanned it.
“You should try the stew.”
I glanced at the bearded amaurotic who had spoken. He had come in after me, and had just been served. “Sorry?”
“The stew.”
I eyed it. “Is it good?”
He shrugged. “It’s grand.”
It was tempting, but I couldn’t linger. “Not sure I trust the cook, to be honest,” I said. “The coffee smells like it should be on chips.”
The man chuckled. Most of his face was obscured by a peaked hat. “You from Scion Belfast?”
“Tipperary.”
“That’s quite an accent you’ve got. You must have left a long time ago.”
“Eleven years.” I could hear my lilt thickening just talking to him. “You from Galway?”
“I am. Been here two years.”
“And I suppose you don’t know anyone called Jonathan Cassidy, either.”
“Not anymore,” he said. “I’ve left him behind.”
I looked away, then back, as I realized what he was implying. He extended his free hand.
“Glaisne Ó Casaide.” After a moment, I shook it. The palm was thickly callused. “Changed the first name completely when I came here, but I couldn’t bring myself to cut all ties. I’m sure you know the feeling, Paige Mahoney.”
I sat very still, as if even the slightest flinch could make him reveal my identity to the rest of the district. This man might be a fellow fugitive, but there wasn’t always honor among thieves. “How did you know?”
“A Tipperary woman with a scarf over her face, seeking out someone wanted by Scion. Doesn’t take a genius. But I won’t tell.” He turned to look out of the window. “We all have our secrets, don’t we?”
When I saw the other side of his face, I only just kept my expression in check. The cheek around his jaw had rotted away, showing blackened, toothless gums and absent teeth.
“Phossy jaw. You get it working with white phosphorus,” he said. “Can’t go to a hospital. One of the many downsides of not having the correct Scion settlement paperwork, along with the poor wages. And they wonder why I started a little business on the side.”
As he spoke, more of the inside of his mouth showed. I glimpsed the pink flesh of his tongue.
“I heard a young woman was asking about me. Supposed you must have good reason,” he said. “When my friend the haberdasher pointed you out, I followed you in here. So, what do you want?”
This was my chance. With a quick glance around the room, I joined him at his table.
“I know you worked for SciPLO. That you stole from them. I was told that portable Senshield scanners are being manufactured in one of those factories,” I said under my breath. “Is it true?”
It was a long time before he gave me a single nod.
“That’s correct. In the one called SciPLO Establishment B. That’s the only place they make them,” he said. “Unfortunately, you won’t get an eye-witness account, if that’s what you’re after. When you’re assigned to that place, it’s a life sentence. The workhands eat, sleep, and die behind its walls.”
“They never come out?”
“Not since a year ago. It’s a fortress. Few are fool enough to apply to work there, so the workhands have to be forcibly drafted from other factories, usually without warning.” He spooned stew into his mouth. “No one goes in or out. Even the venerable Emlyn Price rarely emerges, though I’ve no doubt he’s free to come and go. He’s based in there.”
The Minister for Industry himself. This reeked of military secrecy. Now we were on to something. “If nobody comes out, how do you know that’s where they handle Senshield?”
“We just do. All of us.”
“Have you ever heard anything about how the machines work—or how Senshield itself works? How it’s powered, for example . . .”
He laughed hoarsely. “If I had that information, I would have sold it already. Thanks to Price, that secret is locked inside Establishment B. Even the Scuttlers can’t claim to know exactly what goes on in there, and they know most things that occur in Manchester.”
I frowned. “How do you know about the Scuttlers? You’re—”
“Can’t avoid knowing them. Roberta doesn’t cause trouble with us, but she doesn’t care much for those who aren’t unnatural. She minds her own. Her sister, on the other hand . . .”
Disgust oozed into every crease of his face.
“I take it you’re not fond of Catrin,” I said.
Ó Casaide used the soda bread to mop up the last of his stew. “She’s a nasty piece of work. They say it didn’t sit well with her when she wasn’t chosen by their late father to rule, so she makes up for it by terrorizing those she considers weak.”
She would have fitted in well in the age of Haymarket Hector.
“We’re one of the districts she preys on. If I had a penny for every time she turns up to demand money for ‘protection’ from the same thugs she employs to torment us . . .”
“Does she pick on people randomly?”
“Usually, but she has a particular grudge against us. She had a long rivalry with a Scuttler from Dublin. Catrin won the final confrontation, but he got in a good swing before she stabbed him in the gut. Scuttlers use their belts to fight, you know.” He made a snapping motion with his hands. “Since then, she’s punished us for the man who scarred her face.” His brow darkened. “She’ll be hanged at Spinningfields tomorrow, and good riddance.”
What disturbed me most was that, in spite of this new knowledge, I wasn’t ruling out this woman’s help.
The waitron thundered past with a bowl of gruel. “I saw some workhands protesting earlier outside one of the factories,” I said. “Do you know who leads them? Are there any other key players here but the Attards?”
He shook his head. “Those are just random outbreaks. They’ve been happening more often since that bastard Price introduced the quotas.”
“Price sounds like the root of the misery here.”
“He is. Things were bad before him, but not this bad.”
Emlyn Price. I thought hard. Roberta Attard had said that he had become Minister for Industry a year ago, which coincided with increased munitions production and the acceleration of Senshield. If he was responsible for making sure Manchester’s production was on schedule, he was key to Vance’s success.
“Thank you,” I said. “You’ve been very helpful.”
I had got what I had come for. I was almost on my feet, ready to return to the others and tell them that Establishment B was our target, when I found myself sinking back into my chair.
“You left Ireland two years ago.” I kept my voice low. “What has Scion done there since I left?”
Ó Casaide pulled the peak of his cap slightly lower. “You got out a long time ago. I’m thinking you remember it as it used to be. The Emerald Isle.” He barked out a laugh. “What a load of shite.”
“I saw the Molly Riots. I was in Dublin.”
He was silent for some time.
“You left around 2048, I take it,” he finally said.
I nodded slowly.
“Just in time. After they hanged the last of the riots’ leaders, the remaining rebels went to one of four massive labor camps, one in each of the provinces of Ireland. Then they were joined by anyone with a strong back—anyone who wasn’t necessary to keep the country running in other ways. I was in the Connacht camp for four years, cutting down trees for nothing but bread.”
The words were going in, but I couldn’t make sense of them. I had known that most of the country was under Scion rule, except for pockets of rebel-held land, but I hadn’t thought it would be much different from how it was here. Anti-unnatural propaganda. No safer place.
“Took me far too long to escape. I reached the coast and stowed on board a ship carrying lumber to Liverpool. Then I made a living for myself here. For a time.”
He kept eating. The room was tilting on its head. They were using forced labor in Ireland, my homeland—bleeding it dry to fuel Nashira’s vision of a world ruled by Scion.
“I don’t understand,” I managed. “On ScionEye, they’ve always talked about ‘the Pale’. I thought—”
“You thought that was the only area Scion had full control over. It’s a nice lie they tell their denizens, so they can convince everyone that we brogues are violent. There is no Pale. Scion controls Ireland.”
The next question was one I shouldn’t ask. He was right; I shouldn’t taint my memories. I shouldn’t know. I should keep my childhood in a glass box, where nothing could stain it.
“Did you—” I stopped, then: “Did you ever hear of Feirm na mBeach Meala?”
Of course he hadn’t. “It was a dairy farm in Tipperary. Family-owned,” I said, already knowing that he would shake his head. “The owners’ names were Éamonn Ó Mathúna and Gráinne Uí Mhathúna.”
“They would have lost it. Most family farms were merged into larger ones. Factory farms.”
My grandfather had always been opposed to factory farming. His animals had been treated gently. Quality over quantity, he’d told me once while he bottled milk. Rush the cow, spoil the cream. That farm had been their life; all they had worked for since they married in their teens.
“Thank you,” I said. “For telling me.”
“Not a bother.” The man patted my hand. “I wish you all the best of luck with what you’re trying to do, Paige Ní Mhathúna, but it’s best you don’t think about Ireland anymore. There’s a reason this cookshop is called by the name it is.” He turned away. “All of us left loved ones in the shadow.”
Manchester spun past the window, a mural of gray shapes against the sky. I sat in silence on the monorail.
The birthplace of my memory was gone. I should have known that Scion, traders in human flesh, would have no mercy on the children of Ireland. I pictured soldiers marching through the Glen of Aherlow, setting fire to everything they touched.
The wind scourged my face as I got off the train. My ribs felt broken, as if they could no longer hold my shape. I had left, and my grandparents had stayed. And it couldn’t be undone. Even if they weren’t dead, losing the farm would have killed them inside. I forced myself not to think of them dying in a camp, or trying desperately to live off the land.
I would become stone. For the people here, for my grandparents, for myself. I would shatter Scion, as they had shattered the country I loved, even if it took me every day of the rest of my life.
And I would begin here. No matter what the cost.
Darkness had fallen by the time I got back to Essex Street. The Red Rose was stifling and crammed with people, most of whom were engrossed in another icecrosse game and sporting waistcoats stamped with MANCHESTER ANCHORS or MANCHESTER CONQUERORS. When I’d forged a path through the elbows and backs, Hari beckoned me to the counter. I took the polystyrene cup of tea he handed me, along with the key to the safe house, and trudged up the stairs, leaving flecks of snow in my wake. Tom was waiting for me in the living room.
“Any luck, Underqueen?”
“Yes.” I took off my respirator. Beneath it, my hair was pasted to my forehead and nape. “Looks like we need to get into SciPLO Establishment B.”
I relayed to him what I had learned. He stroked his beard, eyes slightly narrowed.
“They’re going to great lengths to keep what happens in there a secret,” he said when I finished. “Why?”
“Senshield is Vance’s key weapon. She has to protect it,” I said. “A portable Senshield, especially, has to be kept secret—if the Vigiles had more than a suspicion that they were about to become obsolete, then Scion would be dealing with more than a few small-scale revolts. I think she wants to arm all the soldiers with the scanners, then axe the Vigiles.”
“Maybe you’re right. Well, nice work. I didna have any luck on my end,” he said. “I dressed like a beggar and waited outside Establishment D. I couldna get many of the workhands to talk, but those that did said nothing out of the ordinary happened in there. Gillies drove me off after a while, so I went to Establishment A. Same result.”
“That’s because there’s nothing to know,” I said, “unless you work in Establishment B.”
He smiled grimly. “And nobody comes out of there to tell the tale.”
Eliza and Maria returned as he spoke. They had visited the voyant publishing house in Withy Grove, trying to find out what they could about Catrin, to no avail. While the Querent’s writers were sympathetic to the Mime Order’s cause, they had the same ethos as Grub Street: strictly revolution through words. I updated them on what I had uncovered, then told them to get warm and have something to eat. I needed space to think.
In the attic, I sat alone and marked two locations on a map. The first was that of SciPLO Establishment B, which was in the adjacent section of the citadel. The second was that of Spinningfields Prison, quarter of a mile from here, the current abode of Catrin Attard.
For a long time, I sat in the dark, considering my options.
Leaving aside the botched raid on the warehouse, this would be the Mime Order’s first heist. There was information in that factory, and I meant to steal it.
First, I needed to get inside. I was a dreamwalker, capable of moving through walls and locked doors, but my weakness—my need for oxygen—put me on a time limit. My life-support masks weren’t designed to sustain me for more than a few minutes; I needed longer to investigate the factory, and if it was there, to destroy the core—and I didn’t yet have the mastery of my spirit to stay in someone else’s body for that long without causing damage to my own.
I would have to go to the factory in person. And to do that, especially without alerting Roberta, I would need help.
Catrin Attard was eager to oppose Scion, if her short-lived union with the Vigiles was anything to go by. She would have the level of local knowledge and support, as an Attard, to get me into SciPLO Establishment B. There were a lot of good reasons to approach her. She was about to get acquainted with the end of a rope.
Catrin and Roberta Attard. These sisters were like two halves of Hector: one with his bloodlust, the other with his unwillingness to change.
Terebell would want me to do whatever it took to find Senshield’s core. Something in that factory would lead us there. I felt it.
I got up and restlessly paced the room. As I passed the window, a glint of color caught my attention. A Scuttler was opposite the safe house, watching. Her lavender neckerchief was vivid even in the smog.
Roberta. She had sent her people to keep an eye on me, and she didn’t care if I knew it.
A burst of resolve had me tipping the contents of my backpack on to the floor, searching out my oxygen mask. Despite the injury it had suffered during the scrimmage, my gift had sharpened over the past few months. I might be stronger than I thought. There was one way to find out.
I had learned a hard lesson at the warehouse, going in without any evidence but what Danica had overheard. This time, I would make certain that we weren’t walking into a trap.
I knew the physical location of Establishment B, but it took a while to find it in the æther. When I was sure I had the right place—crammed with weakly flickering dreamscapes, enfeebled by fatigue—I took hold of the first person I encountered.
A warren of machinery surrounded me. Everything was washed in the inimical glow of a furnace. The smell was beyond atrocious: a hot, iron stench, as strong as if the walls were bleeding. And the noise: a deafening cacophony of gears and mechanisms, a soulless heartbeat that vibrated through my teeth. I was a morsel in the mouth of hell. My host, who I had managed to keep on her feet, was soaked in sweat and hunched over a tray of metal sheets. Hands moved on either side of her, combing through them with quick fingers.
This was a real, working factory, at least—not another dummy facility set up by Vance. I cast my eyes around for any hint of Senshield, any trace of ethereal technology. It always took a while for my vision to clear after a jump, but I could just see an armed Vigile standing guard in the doorway.
“Password.”
I flinched at the rough voice. A second Vigile, with a face concealed by a respirator, moved in front of the workstation. I was so taken aback, I could think of no more eloquent response than: “What?”
“Password, now.”
The other workhands cowered. When I only stared, mute with shock, he said, “Come with me.” The other Vigile’s head turned sharply. “Commandant, suspected unnatural infiltrator.”
“I’m sorry,” I said faintly. “I just—I’ve forgotten it.”
He grasped my host body by the shoulder and shoved her away from her workstation. Panic had me scrambling for the æther—I threw off my borrowed flesh and soared back into my own body. My fingers clawed at the oxygen mask and I rolled on to my side, gasping.
Scion had found a way to stop me accessing their buildings. I should have expected this, after I had walked straight into the Archon in a stolen body, bold as brass, and threatened the Grand Inquisitor. Now they had patched that weakness in their armor. All they had to do was be vigilant. If anyone behaved strangely, they could ask for a password, which would have been agreed upon earlier. If the person couldn’t give it, they were identified as a possible victim of possession.
I felt naked. My gift was the one weapon I had known I could use to hurt them.
This had to be Vance, with Jaxon as her adviser. He knew I couldn’t access memories—that I wouldn’t know a password. He knew the signs to watch for: the vacant eyes, the nosebleeds, the jerky movements. I hadn’t yet learned how to act natural in a host.
I pulled off my sweater and breathed, letting the sweat cool on my skin. The workhand would have fainted when I left her; they might not guess it had been me. Her forgetting the password might be put down to the heat or exhaustion.
It still meant we had to act quickly, tonight.
I joined the others in the kitchen, where they were sitting around the table, making short work of one of Hari’s homemade butter pies. As soon as Eliza clapped eyes on me, she was by my side.
“You’ve been dreamwalking.”
I nodded and took a seat, setting off a throb in my temple.
“I want to release Catrin Attard. Hear me out,” I added, when Tom grimaced. “We need help getting into Establishment B, and I’ve just discovered that I can’t dreamwalk inside.”
Eliza frowned. “Why?”
“They almost caught me doing it just now.”
Maria hissed in a breath. “Shit.”
“I don’t think they realized it was me,” I said, “but they’ll be suspicious. We need to go ourselves, and fast.”
“Right. I take it you have a plan.”
“Establishment B is guarded by Vigiles. We know that Catrin Attard has friends among them. This is our moment to try for their support—if ever they were going to rebel or offer us assistance, now is the time. I’m going to make Catrin an offer: if she helps us get into the factory, I’ll let her out of prison.”
“You’re lucky Glym’s not here,” Tom muttered.
“I never ruled out working with the Vigiles. I said that if we needed them, we’d reconsider. And we need them now.” I sat back. “If anyone has any other ideas, let’s hear them.”
Tom and Eliza both stayed quiet, as I’d known they would. This was the only lead we had.
“Burn it down?” Maria said hopefully.
This was what I got for trying to build an army out of criminals.
Spinningfields Prison, like all places where death was common, was easy enough to find. While my spirit was still supple, I jumped into the guard in the watchtower, who was midway through his cup of tea when I occupied his dreamscape. The hot drink spilled over his thighs.
The interior of the prison was designed to resemble a clock, with the watchtower at its heart, surrounded on all sides by five stories of cells. I heaved my new body from its chair, panting with the effort of doing this for a second time today, and descended from the watchtower, careful to avoid the guards on patrol.
The stairs to the gangways quaked as I stepped on to them. I walked past voyants and amaurotics: malnourished and silent, like the harlies in the Rookery, many with visible symptoms of flux poisoning. A whisperer was rocking on his haunches in the corner of one cell with his hands over his ears.
As I searched, I tried to make my stride more fluid, my expression more alive, but I could see just from my shadow that I was moving about as naturally as a reanimated corpse. Something to work on.
I stopped when I sensed a capnomancer. A woman lay on the floor with her feet up on the bed.
“I thought I got a last meal,” she rasped.
When there was no reply, the prisoner rolled her head to the side. Her skin was tinged with gray, and she had flux lips.
“Ah, you’re probably right.” Her laugh was sharp. “Wouldn’t want to throw it up on the gallows.”
A down of dark brown hair covered her scalp, short enough to expose a small tattoo of an eye on her nape. When she pushed herself on to her elbow, the light from the corridor reached her face. That face was all I needed to confirm her identity. A tress of scar tissue stretched from her hairline almost to her jaw, obliterating her left eye and hardening what I imagined had once been delicate features. The remaining eye narrowed.
“What’s the matter with you, you daft ’apeth?” She cocked her head. “Ah, I see. Come to stare at the mutilated wonder.”
“You know that ScionIDE is coming. No matter what.” My host’s tongue felt thick in his mouth. “I hear you’re the best chance of getting Manchester to do something about it.”
“What is this?”
“An opportunity.”
She gave a shout of laughter. Someone bawled from another cell: “Keep your mouth shut, Attard. Some of us want to sleep.”
“You’ll have plenty of time for that when you’re dead,” she sang back, making laughter echo through the prison. The smile faded, and she lowered her voice. “An opportunity, you say.”
“I want you to help me break into one of the factories and steal information,” I said. “As a condition of your release, I also want you to stop intimidating the people of this citadel. In return, I’ll walk you out of this place. You can kiss goodbye to the gallows.”
Catrin pushed herself against the wall, looking as relaxed as anything, but her good eye was like an iron rivet. Somewhere beneath the scarring and the sneer, she must fear the noose.
“I’d heard Paige Mahoney was a dreamwalker,” she said. “And I doubt there’s more than one.”
“There isn’t.”
“Hm. You must really need a hand if you’ve come to me, and not my big, bad sister,” she said. “On second thoughts, I bet you did ask for her help, and she turfed you out on your arse.” She inspected her nails. “Even if I agree to your demands, you’ve no guarantee I’ll keep my word. You don’t know what I’ll do when I get out of this hellhole. Must be terrifying for you, dreamwalker. Not being able to control everyone, everywhere.”
“You don’t know what I can control,” I said. “You don’t know where or when I could reach you.”
Her chuckle sent a chill through me. She picked at the laces of her prison-issue boots.
“This offer has a time limit, Attard,” I said.
She lay on her back again. “Does it?”
“Yes. So does your life.”
That gave her pause. All that awaited her here was the gallows.
“I’ll help you get into a factory,” she said finally. “And, seeing as you’ll be sparing me the noose, I might find it in my heart to cut my little protection tax and leave those brogues alone. But if there’s one thing we Scuttlers must have,” she purred, “it’s vengeance. I warn you that if you release me, there will be some trouble between me and Roberta.”
“Why?”
“I saw her standing there when I was arrested, watching. I shouted for help and she turned her back, knowing what I’d get for treason. Maybe it’s time I showed this citadel that Daddy made the wrong choice.”
“You have issues, Attard.”
“And you don’t?”
I had to smile at that.
Catrin Attard stood. “So,” she said silkily, “if I promise to be very, very good, how do you plan to get me out of here?”
“Just do exactly what I say.”