Page 36 of The Bone Season

In the Porters’ Lodge, nothing seemed amiss. The night porter was reading by the light of a paraffin lamp. Seeing me, she smiled.

‘Going out?’

‘Yes.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Is the Warden here?’

‘No, he’s gone to Oriel. I doubt he’ll return until dawn.’

He was alive, then. And the night porter was none the wiser.

‘He’ll train you in good time,’ she said, misreading my face. ‘There’s no hurry.’ She made a note in her book. ‘I’m sorry, but Magdalen can’t provide you with a meal today. Do you need more numa to trade?’

‘Yes,’ I said. She handed me a dull excuse for a shew stone, which I pocketed. ‘Thanks.’

‘You’re quite welcome.’ She closed the book. ‘You’re free to go. Just make sure you’re—’

‘—here before sunrise,’ I finished. ‘I know.’

I stepped on to Magdalen Walk and drew the door shut behind me. Some way ahead, a pair of red-jackets laughed, one of them holding a lantern. They wore hooded raincoats. Avoiding them, I turned into Catte Street.

In the Rookery, I swapped the stone for a bowl of porridge. It was thick and grey as wet cement, but it would muffle the hunger. I ate under a lean-to, watching the performers murmur and trade.

Now Liss had described her loss of hope, I could see it in all their faces. Their bright clothes were a harsh contrast, like graffiti on a headstone.

‘All right?’

I looked up. It was the whisperer from the first night, standing in the greasy light of the nearest lamps, her dark hair scraped into a ponytail.

‘Tilda,’ she said. ‘Can I sit?’

‘If you like,’ I said.

‘Ta.’ Tilda slid down the wall to the floor, all limbs. She looked about my age. ‘Well. Proper headwrecker, this place, isn’t it?’

‘You could say that.’

She had a roll-up between her fingers. Lilac smoke trailed from the end, thick with the sickly perfume of purple aster. Seeing me look, she said, ‘Want some regal?’

‘I’m fine. I was just wondering where you got it.’

‘One of the harlies.’ She leaned against the wall. ‘Probably a bad idea, but you try hearing the dead at all hours, muttering things you don’t understand. You’d want a distraction, too.’

‘This place isn’t enough of a distraction for you?’

Tilda let out a husky laugh. ‘Let’s see how unhinged it gets. I keep expecting Frank Weaver to pop up and say it was all a big joke,’ she said. ‘Scion officials must get their jollies somehow.’

‘Weaver doesn’t have the imagination for something like this.’

‘True. At least we’re alive,’ Tilda said. ‘That’s more than I expected.’ She crossed one ankle over the other. ‘They really put the spotlight on you at the oration. Your keeper is important, then, is he?’

‘So I’m told. Who’s yours?’

‘Terebell Sheratan. I’m at Oriel,’ she said. I resisted the urge to ask her if she had seen Warden, and roughly how close to death he had looked. ‘What part of Ireland are you from, by the way?’

‘You wouldn’t know it. Why do you ask?’

‘Just curious. I had some Irish friends up north, from Scion Belfast.’

I nodded to her. ‘You a Scouser?’

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