Page 27 of The Bone Season

‘Frank Weaver.’

‘Oh, him with the whiskers, right. You haven’t got a copy of theDescendant, have you?’

‘They confiscated everything.’ I glanced around for somewhere to sit. ‘Did you really think Mayfield was still the Inquisitor?’

‘All right,’ the voyant snapped. ‘Don’t get on your high horse, oracle. This is our first news in ten years.’ He grasped my arm, leading me to a corner. ‘Did they ever bring back theRoaring Boy, then?’

‘No.’ I tried to free my arm, but he clung. ‘Look—’

‘Tell me they never found the Fleapit.’

‘She’s only just arrived, Cyril. I think she’d like something to eat.’

Cyril rounded on the speaker, a young woman with her arms crossed and her chin tipped up.

‘You are an absolute stinking bloody curmudgeon, Rymore,’ he complained. ‘Did you pick up Ten of Swords today?’

‘Aye, when I was thinking about you.’

With a glower, Cyril snatched my plate and scarpered. I made a grab for his shirt, but he was faster than a flimp.

The woman shook her head. She had delicate features, framed by black ringlets. Her red lipstick stood out like a fresh wound against her skin.

‘You had your oration last night, little sister.’ She spoke with a warm Scottish burr. ‘Trust me. Your stomach wouldn’t have taken it.’ She took me by the elbow. ‘Hurry. Come with me.’

I wasn’t sure whether or not to laugh at being calledlittle sisterby this tiny woman. ‘Where?’

‘I have a place. We can talk.’

After a moment, I nodded. My street instinct told me not to follow a stranger into an unfamiliar place, but she might have information.

My guide touched hands with various people, keeping a sharp eye on me all the while. Her clothes were in better condition than those of the other performers, but she must still be cold in them – a flimsy shirt with bell sleeves and trousers too short for her legs, clearly repaired by hand.

She drew back a ragged curtain to reveal a cramped room, where a paraffin lamp kept the dark at bay. A pile of stained sheets and a cushion served as a bed. Several pots and pans hung from hooks on the wall, and a shirt was drying on a rack.

I sat by an old stove. ‘Do you often take in strays?’

‘I know how it is when you arrive,’ the woman said. ‘I was terrified.’

‘How long ago was that?’

‘Ten years.’ She knelt on the other side of the stove and held out a callused hand. ‘Liss Rymore.’

After a moment, I shook it. ‘Paige Mahoney.’

‘XX-59-40?’

‘Yes.’

Liss caught my expression. ‘Sorry. Force of habit,’ she said. ‘We do use our names in the Rookery, but we have to be careful.’

Even though her face was careworn, she could only be in her early twenties. She must have been young when she arrived here.

‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘How do you know my number?’

Liss took out a bottle of paraffin and poured a little into the stove.

‘News travels fast in a city this small,’ she said. ‘Your number is on everyone’s lips.’

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