The Mime Order (The Bone Season, #2)

by Samantha Shannon

Sooner or later they’re going to come for us. I don’t know how we can fight them—I don’t even know if we can fight them—but I can’t lie down and let Scion decide how my life will look. I can’t do it, Nick.”

“No,” he said. “I can’t, either.”

At the touch of my hand, each one grew a tiny stalk and flowered— but they weren’t quite poppies now. A deeper red. A smaller bloom. The smell of fire.

Because if there was one thing more dangerous than having Jaxon Hall as a boss, it was having him as an enemy.

Literature is our most powerful tool,

“But we, the creative, must be very careful with seditious writing. Change a word or two, even a single letter, and you change the entire story. It’s a risky business.”

She wasn’t just paying attention. She was learning. Believing what would seem insane if you heard it on the street.

I have just received word from the Grand Commander that at least eight unnatural fugitives are at large in the citadel.

Warden, who had known more than anyone about dreamwalking.

until a woman knelt beside me and whispered in my ear, ‘Carve a name, sweet child, a long-dead name.’ And with those words, she disappeared.” “Who was she?” “Someone to whom I owe a great debt, O my lovely.”

I would sooner return to the streets in rags than let Scion take my dreamwalker.”

“There is one thing that you gained during your time away from Seven Dials. You realized your potential for leadership.”

And words, my walker—well, words are everything. Words give wings even to those who have been stamped upon, broken beyond all hope of repair.”

There are a number of reasons for the loss,” he said, sitting on the edge of his writing table. “Several of our most lucrative buskers have been detained—not being cautious enough, clearly, wretched fools—no offense to you, of course, dolly. Two key establishments have failed to pay their rent. On top of that, the whole section has been slacking off since you were taken. I need that surveillance camera of a spirit, darling.”

The Abbess was certainly flush with cash these days. Most of the central gang leaders were wealthy, but I wasn’t convinced that many of them had five grand to throw at a spirit.

“We had quite a few of them leave I-5 recently. They seem to be repelled by one street in particular. I can’t see anything wrong with it, unless someone’s botched a séance in one of the houses.” A line creased her forehead. “It worries me more than I’ll admit to my voyants. I don’t suppose you’ve had the same in I-4?”

“You keep safe, sweet. There’s always a place for you in I-5, you know, if you ever fancied moonlighting.” “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“All due respect, miss, I don’t know what macer’s tricks have been used on this. The metal ain’t silver, and it ain’t gold. I’d need to take it away and give it a closer look.

“You’re in denial,” I said. “And if you stay with Hector, you’ll be dead within the year.”

If the Underlord’s mollisher was looking for Ivy in particular, she had to be in deep shit.

I got a glimpse of the inside of her mind: an empty shipyard, light at the center, dark at the edges, rotten boats floating on greenish water.

I thought of how Warden had often sat in silence in his chair, gazing at the flames, alone with his wine and whatever thoughts had lived in that desolate dreamscape. I remembered the gentle precision of his touch as he’d tended to my injured cheek, the same hands on the organ, his fingers tracing my lips, framing my face in the gloom of the Guildhall.

thought of how Warden had often sat in silence in his chair, gazing at the flames, alone with his wine and whatever thoughts had lived in that desolate dreamscape. I remembered the gentle precision of his touch as he’d tended to my injured cheek, the same hands on the organ, his fingers tracing my lips, framing my face in the gloom of the Guildhall.

I wondered how much Jaxon was paying him. What price he placed on the life of a dreamwalker.

“Intriguing.” The corner of his mouth quirked. “There’s a message in the murder, Paige. And I don’t think it’s simply a reference to Hector running around like a headless chicken for the last eight years.”

“He was getting too big for his boots. Acting like a king.” “Quite. A very Bloody King.”

A new Underlord. We were getting a new Underlord.

Haymarket Hector had been buried by I-2 footpads beneath the ruins of St. Dunstan-in-the-East. Overgrown and beautiful, with a canopy of leaves, it was where all syndicate leaders were interred.

that fateful day in March.

“Now,” he said, “let me explain. The Monster was unable to occupy your dreamscape, but it has forged its own passageway into it. This tiny crack in your armor allows the Monster to cause you pain whenever it so desires.

“Names are important, you see—more important than you can possibly imagine.”

“That is why you should never identify with one name. Anonymity is your best protection from a binder. Now, watch.”

His eyes flicked down to the monster’s mark, which had turned a muted gray. “The scar, I’m afraid, will always remain.” I pushed myself up on trembling arms. “Is there no way to get rid of it?” “Not that I know of, darling.

“You’re going to be fine, my lovely. Just don’t show them that scar.”

“You have no idea what I would do to keep London from war.”

Jaxon isn’t interested in ‘good.’ He wants to sit on his throne and gather spirits and be king of the citadel until he dies. That is all he cares about.

“Or an Underqueen,” Nick said, with a brief laugh. “We haven’t had an Underqueen in a long time.” Slowly, I raised my gaze to his. The smile slid from his lips. “I couldn’t,” I murmured. “Could I?”

And make sure you include the pollen of the poppy anemone,” I said. “That’s how they can be destroyed.”

The Scrimmage is based on the medieval art of mêlée

They still use the language of flowers as a tribute to the first Underlord’s mollisher, who was, legend has it, a talented anthomancer.”

Two dreamscapes—armored, Rephaite dreamscapes—converged on me.

“And we want you to find the Warden of the Mesarthim for us.”

“If you wish to see his loyalty, check the backpack you took from the colony.”

Someone out there knew about the Rephaim.

Relief welled up inside me, so pure and strong I laughed out loud. I sank on to the carpet, bared my arm, and tipped the precious vial of amaranth on to the poltergeist’s mark. Warmth flowered underneath the stone-cold skin. The twisted wound cracked open, like old paint. As I circled my finger over it, it washed away, leaving my skin smooth as buttermilk.

Chiffon, her name is, short for La Chiffonnière. She’s the one who gets the orders from Rags.”

I pictured the grille, down to the very smallest details: the cast-iron metalwork, the granite sett paving, the seams that ran between metal and stone. And as I held the image in my mind’s eye, I felt him again—and this time, it was more than a sting at my senses. The lantern of his dreamscape flared to life, as if he’d woken from a deep sleep. The image I received in return was dark at the edges, like a frame from a silent film. A cell with bars. A chain. A guard with an orange aura.

Out of all the prisoners, only two had escaped from the massacre that followed the rebellion. One had been a child; the other, the traitor who had told Nashira about the insurrection.

I got the sense that I was only scratching the surface of these machinations.

Back later. Don’t open the door. Oh, and do me this honor: survive the night. I’m sure you’d rather not be rescued twice. —Paige