The Mime Order (36 page)

I checked the æther yet again, making sure I hadn’t been followed, before I pressed a finger to the doorbell. Somewhere in the building, a bell clanged. After two more rings and a knock on the door, a woman’s voice fluted from a speaker on my right.

“
Go away, please. We’ve enough poetry collections to paper every house in London.
”

“Minty, it’s the Pale Dreamer.”

“
Oh, not you. I’ve had enough trouble with booklice without a fugitive on my doorstep. This had better not be a ploy to get more of my elegies for the White Binder.”

“He doesn’t know I’m here. I’m looking for Alfred,” I said. “The psycho-scout.”

“
Yes, I know who he is. We are not hiding multiple Alfreds in here, I assure you. Have you been invited?
”

“No.” I rattled the handle. “It’s freezing out here, Minty. Will you just let me in?”

“
Wait in the foyer. Wipe your feet. Don’t touch anything.
”

The door swung open. I stamped my boots on the doormat and waited in the hallway.

It was quaint inside. Flower-patterned wallpaper, sconces, a little rosewood desk on a deep burgundy carpet. The symbol of the Spiritus Club—two fountain pens inside a circle, joined to create the hands of a clock—was carved on to a shield above the mantelpiece. That symbol was printed in the top right corner of every illegal pamphlet and chapbook in the citadel.

“Alfred!” a voice shouted from somewhere above me. “Alfred, get down to the foyer!”

“Yes, yes, Minty, wait a tick . . .”

“Now, Alfred.”

I sat on the edge of the desk to wait, keeping a tight grip on my messenger bag.

“Ah, the Pale Dreamer returns to Grub Street!” Alfred thumped his way down the staircase, a smile breaking his lips and teeth apart. When he saw my face, it plummeted. “Oh, dear. What happened?”

The hitman’s punch had left a terrific shiner under my right eye. “Just training. For the scrimmage.”

He
shook his head, squinting at the bruise. “You ought to be more careful, dear heart. But to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I wondered if you might be free for a few minutes.”

“But of course.” He extended an arm, which I took, and we walked up to the landing, stepping over gold stair rods with decorative brackets. “I say, you could almost be Jaxon’s daughter with that hair. Clever of you to dye it.”

Another woman came flying down the stairs, wild-haired and bespectacled, one I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t Minty Wolfson, in any case. She looked as if she was still in her nightclothes. “Who on
earth
are you?” she demanded, as if I had some nerve to be on earth at all.

“Why, this is the White Binder’s esteemed mollisher.” Alfred placed his hands on my shoulders. “Currently the most wanted person in London, which makes her very welcome in our midst.”

“Bloody troublemaker, from what I’ve heard. I hope you know where you are, young lady. The Spiritus Club is the finest voyant publishing house in the world.”

“It’s the only one, isn’t it?” I said.

“Ergo, it is the finest. We were built on the glorious foundations of the Scriblerus Club.”

“Indeed we were. All great satirists, the Scriblerians. Passionate in their pursuit of dullards.” Alfred ushered me through a door. “Be a dear and make us some tea, Ethel. My poor guest is thirsty.”

I could have sworn the ruffles of her dress quivered with outrage. “I am not a waitron, Alfred. I do not have time to serve cups of tea to some Dublin doxy. I have work to do—
work
, Alfred. Definition:
exertion
or
effort
directed to produce or
accomplish
something—”

Alfred, sweating, shut the door before she could continue.

“I apologize sincerely for my colleague’s conduct. The north will seem peaceful after this lunacy.”

I lowered myself into the opposite chair. “You’re going north?”

“In a few weeks, yes. I’ve heard of a very talented psychographer
in
Manchester.” He pushed a tier stand of biscuits toward me. “I must say, I’m very glad to see you made it back to Seven Dials after our last encounter. Close shave, wasn’t it? I usually have better luck with bribing them.”

“I’m the most wanted person in Scion. A numen was never going to help.” I nodded to a monochrome photograph in an elaborate brass frame, propped up on a highboy behind his desk. “Who’s that?”

Alfred looked over his shoulder. “Ah, that’s my late wife. Floy, she was called. My first, short-lived love.” His fingers caressed the frame. The woman inside it was perhaps thirty. Thick, straight hair fell past her shoulders. She looked straight at the viewer with her lips parted a little, as if she’d been speaking when the photograph was taken. “She was a good woman. Distant, perhaps, but kind and talented.”

“Was she voyant?”

“Amaurotic, as a matter of fact. An odd match, I know. She died very young, unfortunately. I’m still trying to find her in the æther, to ask her what happened, but she never seems to hear.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh, dear heart, it’s hardly your fault.” For the first time I noticed the ring on his finger, a thick gold band with no adornments. “Now, how can I help you?”

I opened my bag. “I hope you won’t think I’m being presumptuous,” I said with a rueful smile, “but I have a proposal for you.”

“I confess myself intrigued.”

“You said you were looking for something controversial. I have some acquaintances who’ve written a penny dreadful together, and I was wondering if you might like to have a look at it.”

He grinned. “You had me at ‘controversial,’ dear heart. Let’s take a look.”

I fanned the pages out across the desk. With a puzzled smile, Alfred reached for his pince-nez and peered at the title.

T
HE
R
EPHAITE
R
EVELATION

Being a true and faithful Account of the ghastly Puppet

Masters behind Scion, and their Harvest of clairvoyant Peoples

“My word.” He chuckled. “I suppose you did say ‘controversial.’ Who are these imaginists?”

“There’s three of them, but they want to remain anonymous. They’re identifying themselves with numbers.” I pointed to the bottom of the page. “All part of the story.”

“How splendidly meta.”

I let him leaf through it for a while. Occasionally he murmured “ah, yes” and “good” and “eccentric.” A shiver trailed along my spine. If Jaxon found out I was doing this, he would boot me out of Seven Dials and leave me to my fate. Then again, he wasn’t exactly happy with me now.

“Well, Paige, it could use some work, but the idea is quite terrifying.” Alfred pressed his index finger against the first page. “You rarely see literature that talks openly about Scion’s corruption. It does something to challenge their authority, implying that their minds are weak enough to be controlled by outside forces.”

“Exactly,” I said.

“Jaxon will be furious if he finds out that I was involved in this, but I always was a gambler.” He rubbed his hands together. “Not all writers come through me.”

“There is one catch,” I said. “The writers need it to be out by next week.”

“Next week? Gracious. Why?”

“They have their reasons,” I said.

“No doubt, but it isn’t just me they have to convince. It’s the fastidious Grub Street booksellers, who then have to allocate a certain amount of money to pay the Penny Post. They are the bookshop—a living, mobile bookshop, made up of thirty messengers,”
Alfred
explained. “It’s how Grub Street has kept itself out of Scion’s way for all these years. It would be far too dangerous to sell forbidden stories in one place.”

There was a knock on the door before a thin, trembling man tottered in with a tray. His aura almost shouted what he was: psychographer.

“Tea, Alfred,” he said.

“Thank you, Scrawl.”

Scrawl put the tray down and stumbled back out, muttering to himself. Seeing my expression, Alfred shook his head. “Not to worry. Poor fellow got himself possessed by Madeleine de Scudéry. A prolific novelist, to put it lightly.” He chortled into his teacup. “He’s been scrawling away for a month.”

“Our medium sometimes paints for days without sleeping,” I said.

“Oh, yes, the Martyred Muse. Sweet girl. Mediums do get the short end of the stick in this business, don’t they? Speaking of which, I must ask—are your friends psychographers? Writing mediums?”

“I’m not sure.” I stirred my tea. “Will that affect the Club’s decision?”

“I shan’t lie to you, dear heart. It may well do. With the exception of Jaxon, they’ve always believed that unless a story is written by someone whose link to the æther is sustained by writing, it’s a story not worth telling. Elitist claptrap, if you ask me, but my opinion only goes so far around here.”

“Do you think they’d need proof?”

“Oh, I’m sure they’d let it slide.” He twirled his pipe between his fingers. “I hope Minty will see its potential, but this sort of writing could cause Scion to come down on us like so many bricks.”

“The Club kept
On the Merits
secret.”

“For a while. Scion knows all about it now. It was only a matter of time until a Vigile showed them.” He looked down at the pages,
stroking
his small chin. “There’s enough material here for a novella, though that would be much harder to distribute. And a penny dreadful would be read on the spot. May I take these pages for Minty to peruse?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you. I shall call you with her verdict in a few hours. How should I contact you?”

“The I-4 phone booth.”

“Very good.” His damp eyes rested on mine. “Tell me, Paige—truthfully, now. Is there even a slither of truth in here?”

“No. It’s all just fiction, Alfred.”

He looked at me for some time.

“All right, then. I’ll be in touch.” Without getting up, Alfred took my hand between his large, warm ones and shook it. “Thank you, Paige. I hope to see you again soon.”

“I’ll let the writers know you’re vouching for them.”

“All right, dear heart. But do tell them from me: not a word to the Binder, or we’ll all be in for the high jump.” He slid the pages into a drawer. “I shall give these to Minty as soon as she’s finished writing. Stay safe, won’t you?”

“Of course,” I said, knowing I wouldn’t.

****

The sun burned a deep autumn gold. My next destination was Raconteur Street, where Jaxon had heard of unregistered pickpockets targeting amaurotics (“They’re stealing from
our
hapless victims, O my lovely, and I don’t like it one bit”). None of the others were available to deal with it. If I wanted my next pay packet, I’d have to do as I was told. I didn’t have the Ranthen’s patronage just yet.

Alfred called himself a gambler. Maybe I was, too, though I hadn’t made a penny from the risks I was taking. If Jaxon found out I’d
been
seeing Warden—in any capacity—his rage would be incandescent.

There was no sign of the pickpockets, though I could see a few of ours at work. If the offending voyants were here, this would be the perfect opportunity for them to strike. Across the inner citadel, amau-rotics were flooding into the vast department stores, buying stacks upon stacks of gifts for Novembertide. It was the most important festival on the Scion calendar, celebrating the formal opening of the Scion Citadel of London at the end of November in 1929. Red glass lanterns were strung between the streets, while tiny white lights, smaller than snowflakes, cascaded from windowsills and snaked in perfect spirals around lampposts. Vast painted banners of previous Grand Inquisitors hung from the largest buildings. The crowds were dotted with students handing out posies of red, white and black flowers.

Would my father celebrate alone this year? I pictured him at the table in the gray light of morning, reading his newspaper, with my face staring back at him from the front page. I’d been a disappointment to him from the moment I’d turned my back on the University, but I was far beyond that now.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” A woman’s plea reached my ears. “Please, Commandant, I just want to get home.”

An enormous, armored black vehicle was parked on the side of the street, marked with SUNLIGHT VIGILANCE DIVISION and the anchor, in the sun. I stepped behind a lamppost and pulled down the peak of my cap, straining to see what had happened. It was rare for the Vigiles to bring out military vehicles, as most of their army was stationed overseas. They’d patrolled the streets of every citadel during the Molly Riots, when Scion had declared martial law and put ScionIDE soldiers in the central cohort.

A young woman had been detained. Her hands were cuffed in front of her, and she had the wary, panicked look of someone who knew they were in trouble.

“
You claim to have arrived in 2058,” the Vigile commandant was saying. One of his underlings stood by with a data pad. “Can you prove that?”

“Yes, I have my papers,” the woman stammered, her Irish accent clear as a bell. She was about my height, though her hair was a darker blonde than mine had ever been, and she wore the crisp red uniform of a paramedic. I could tell from here that she was amaurotic. And a few months pregnant. “I’m from Belfast,” she continued when the commandant didn’t speak. “I came here to work. There’s no work left in the north of Ireland, not now that—”

The Vigile hit her.

The impact radiated through the crowd like a shock wave. He hadn’t just slapped her, but punched her in the jaw, hard enough to snap her head around. Sunlight Vigiles never used brutality.

The woman slipped on the ice and fell, twisting at the last moment to spare her rounded stomach. Blood leaked from her mouth, on to her palm. When she saw it, she let out a cry of shock. The commandant walked around her. “No one wants to hear your lies, Miss Mahoney.”

My heart lurched.

“You brought your unnaturalness to my shores. If I had it my way,” he barked, “we wouldn’t employ brogues at all. Especially not dirty, unnatural farm girls.”

“I’m from a Scion citadel! Can’t you
see
I’m not her? Are you blind?”