Page 210 of The Bone Season

We had weathered a few losses. In early August, a sickness had burned through the Rookery, killing Tilda and Guy, among others. I had caught it myself. Michael had ended it by stealing the medicine from the House.

I was still not convinced it had been a coincidence. At first we thought rats had caused it, but it could also have been contaminated water. The performers collected rain in kegs, which anyone could access.

For those long two months, a silent war had unfolded between the Residence of Magdalen and the Suzerain. Nashira must suspect dissidence – enough to want to cull our numbers – but she had no proof.

Paper hissed on the floorboards. I knelt by the door and picked up the note.

Julian had organised a small network of couriers, like the one Jaxon had in the citadel, to keep our trusted contacts informed of new developments. They included Felix Coombs – a tenant of Aludra – and Jos Biwott. I unfolded the note.

Delighted to report that the feast was delicious.

– Birdy

A smile crossed my lips. I had encouraged all my allies in the city to use aliases, as we did in the syndicate.

Michael had managed to spike the red-jackets’ food at their autumn feast, which had been held at dusk in Merton. He had bribed his way into the kitchen, giving him access to the pots of chestnut soup.

In July, Warden had overseen our raid on the glasshouse, keeping watch from Magdalen Tower. Led by Liss, we had cut our way through the physic garden and stolen all the aster Duckett had been growing.

Liss had learned a few things from the courtiers. When purple aster was cut with valerian, it would take effect slowly, over several hours. By a stroke of luck, valerian grew on the edge of Gallows Wood.

Duckett had been handled with ease. The performers had ransacked his shop and forced him to confess where his supplies were stashed. After the Novembertide rebellion, he had stripped the city of anything valuable and buried it all in Gallows Wood.

We had dug up his trove, making it look as if one of the Buzzers had uncovered it. Warden, our expert in matters of memory, had measured out the white aster we needed to give Duckett, to make sure he had no memory of who had raided him, or why. I had, quite literally, shoved it in his pipe and forced him to smoke it.

He would not be joining us on the train.

I took a steadying breath. There was no point in prolonging the inevitable. I was supposed to meet Warden at nine, but I needed some air.

Before I left, I wound the gramophone, just once more. It comforted me, somehow, that music would be playing when I left – that whatever happened, a song would still be rising in this chamber for a while.

I closed the door of the tower behind me.

It was only the first of September, but a deep frost had already set in. In this city, autumn was as cold as winter. Nashira had failed to provide me with a coat, naturally. I walked briskly through the cloister.

The Great Quad was empty. I didn’t know if I was strong enough to hurt Nashira, but I thought I might have a fighting chance now.

Fazal was just rounding off his shift. I caught him in the Porters’ Lodge.

‘Warden is in the Rose Garden,’ he told me. ‘Are you leaving now?’

‘Soon.’

He and Gail both knew something big would happen tonight, but not exactly what. Both would remain here and wait for instructions.

‘Thank you for being so good to me, Faz,’ I said. ‘Can you thank Gail, too?’

‘Of course. Best of luck tonight, Paige.’

Fazal knew his grounds. I soon found Warden in the Rose Garden, or what remained of it. Wearing his livery collar and a black doublet, its front and shoulders rich with goldwork, he was as beautiful and terrible as he had been on the very first night I saw him.

Well, perhaps not so terrible. Even if we had disagreed on certain aspects of the rebellion, we had always been able to talk it out. Over eight weeks of training and plotting, I had come to respect him, if nothing else.

As I approached, his eyes darkened a little. I picked my way towards him.

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I look like a doll.’

‘Hm.’ He glanced down at the goldwork. ‘I empathise, to some degree.’

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