The carriage made its way farther north, and the rumble of rocky Belleplace cobblestones gave way to the glide of smoothly paved Galerie stone paths. Out the window, the buildings thinned until there were more shops, café houses, and theatres. Théâtre Mesmer glowed in starlight, electric beams piercing the air to guide the city’s wealthiest to tonight’s performance.
One of Nik’s earliest apprenticeships had been there, and it had given him his first taste of what power and money could truly buy. Champagne flowed day and night, people bought their way backstage to meet the prima ballerina, and the ballet magie was always strong enough to make the impossible come true.
Fairy tales. Beautiful stories, but still… lies.
Farther down the road, buildings disappeared entirely, giving way to long stretches of manicured lawns where elegant riders pushed theirhorses to breakneck speeds and over obstacles. Wasteful. Every inch of land they used for sport was another inch that could be used for farming or safer tenements for the booming population.
Nik inched forward, craning his neck to get the first glimpse of the Senate upon the hilltop. It was a strange building, crafted to look like an embrace from the front. The central structure, which served as a grand meeting hall, rounded outward with sloping pillars on the first and second level. Two long wings extended to the left and right. There, the Souverains conducted business in their own offices.
The Souverains could keep their fields and horses. Nik was playing for something much bigger.
The carriage’s progress slowed. A crowd had gathered around the gates to leave whisks, flowers, and rare ingredients on candle-bedecked altars for the late Souverain Lisette Plouffe. No oneactuallycared about her. They just hoped their sudden signs of devotion might be enough to gain them favor—ora chance to replace her in the Objet d’Art.
A better man might have feigned sympathy, but Nik was too caught up in the puzzle of her death.
There were only seven Souverains in the city, one for each Société. Unparalleled magie, money, governing powers, hosts of doctors at their beck and call, food to nourish their bodies and extend their lives—the Souverains were unmatched. They ruled Anespérer together as the Counseil des Sept, the Council of Seven.
They weren’t supposed to die early.
Yet Lisette Plouffe had.
The carriage slowed at the towering double doors. Nik climbed out after the Directeurs, who were allowed to pass with ease. However, the police scrutinized Nik’s mottled burgundy suit.
Rather than take a left up the marbled staircase toward Lafontaine’s wing, the Directeurs turned downward, descending into the bowels ofthe Senate. Anticipation was a poorly stitched wound in Nik’s belly, irritating and persistent.
The winding stairs ended in a long, suffocating hallway dimly lit by warm electric lights dotted along the walls. Ahead, a small group of Directeurs in scarlet huddled outside one of the dozens of black doors.
“Dupont,” one of them called, motioning him through the door.
It closed behind him, leaving him alone.
Not alone. There was another body on a gurney, except this one was uncovered and in much better shape than the Restes boy back in Pompes Funèbres.
Chambon, Basset, and those other sycophants would kill Nik for what he was looking at.
Whohe was looking at.
Souverain Lisette Plouffe was laid out, her slender figure covered by a slip that reflected the brilliant overhead light. The Restes boy had been frozen in agony, while Plouffe looked truly asleep, a graying sleep but peaceful nonetheless.
The preparation room was stocked with jars, syringes, and vials, but Nik’s shoulders released when he saw no sponges or operating kits prepared.
The door opened, and he spun to face the lone pale figure.
While Nik never felt shame compared to the Directeurs in their expensive red fabrics, he couldn’t deny the urge to brush his dingy suit clean again. Souverains were the only citizens allowed to wear pure white. Their clothes were always designed with accents of their Société colors, but their wardrobes were filled with snow-white everything: dresses, trousers, hats, gloves. Every article of clothing was a chance to demonstrate their class, their power.
Souverain Baptiste Lafontaine was no different.
Today he wore a long, flowing coat designed to represent a doctor’sfrock, but the buttons and hems were threaded with thousands of rubies. As usual, his graying hair was slicked back to perfection, his short beard trimmed close to his angular cheeks. Everything about him screamed authority, from his stare to his confident stride as he approached the table.
“Your apprenticeship has been going well?” he asked.
“Yes.” It wasn’t a lie. Chambon would tell the truth, Nikwastrying.
“Show me.” He motioned. “Tell me everything you notice.”
Shit. Lafontaine was no weak-minded Chambon, and this was a test.
Nik approached the table and pulled back the shroud.
