The Pale Dreamer

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

The Bone Season

The Mime Order

The Song Rising

The Pale Dreamer

A Bone Season Prequel

Samantha Shannon

The Grisly Case of Anne Naylor

London, 2056

If you were to ask me what I liked most about being an up-and-coming criminal in the year 2056, I’d probably point you to the simple things. Drinking coffee before daybreak in the den, listening to the capital stretch itself awake around me. Sitting beneath the blossom tree in the courtyard and leafing my way through a stack of forbidden novels. Sneaking into Jaxon’s room to listen to blacklisted music.

Strange, I know. It wasn’t as if I couldn’t have done things like that before I was employed by Jaxon Hall. Maybe not the blacklisted music and forbidden novels, but I could have found a tree to read by, or made coffee before daybreak, under other circumstances. They were ordinary moments in my newly extraordinary life – and they, in turn, became extraordinary.

As a dreamwalker, I was meant to be a great clairvoyant; a rare one, at least. Jaxon was certain that I was hiding spectacular powers; that I could leave my body, possess other people, and dance them around like mindless puppets if I so desired. But after three months in his employ, I still couldn’t do it. Not for want of trying, I should add – I just didn’t know how, and nobody agreed on how to teach me.

I first learned of the grisly case of Anne Naylor in October of that year. One Monday afternoon found me in the ‘office’ in our den, where an old oak desk was piled with paperwork. The den was a three-storey maisonette on Monmouth Street in the small district of Seven Dials. It had three permanent residents – me, Jaxon and Eliza. Nick had his own apartment, but he often stayed with us.

Since I had moved in, I had come to love the den. It was cluttered and dusty and the boiler was useless, but that only made it feel snug and lived-in. Jaxon had gifted me my own room and told me to do as I pleased with it, so I had painted it wine-red and filled it with trinkets from the black market, where I hunted for antiques and curios in the evenings. It was nothing like my room in my father’s sterile, ultra-modern apartment, which the government had given him.

Thinking of my father let a butterfly loose in my stomach. After I had left school, I had told him I was living with a friend, looking for a job in the service industry. He was still disappointed that I had decided against applying for a place at the University.

He would be even more disappointed if he knew the truth.

I tapped my pen against the ledger. Jaxon had asked me to find out who in the district hadn’t paid their rent, and how much they owed. Mind-numbing work. Not like what Eliza and Nick got to do. Those two were always out hunting spirits or confronting rival clairvoyant gangs – the sort of thing I had envisioned doing when Jaxon had first invited me to join his gang, the Seven Seals. They had worked for him longer than I had, but I still felt impatient – mostly with myself. I longed for an assignment of consequence; something that would really test me.

Not that I would ever ask for it outright. Jaxon Hall could be courteous, even charming, but he was mercurial. Pressing him at the wrong moment could make me look ungrateful for the work, and I couldn’t lose this job. I got the feeling that if you were exiled from the voyant underworld, you wouldn’t come back.

I couldn’t take that gamble. Now I knew this world existed, I would not risk being banished.

My eyelids were heavy. I glanced up from the figures, massaging the sore base of my neck.

The sun was low and copper-gold. Ensconced in here, it was easy to forget that our beloved government could have me hanged if they ever learned what I was – an unnatural. That was what they called clairvoyants.

I sat up straighter and adjusted my jersey when I saw Eliza through the window. She was flushed and bright-eyed, her hair unsettled by the wind.

Eliza Renton was twenty years old and had worked for Jaxon for over a year. From what I had observed about her – I did a lot of observation in between rounds of paperwork – she was both street-smart and absent-minded; a dressmaker, an artist, a voyant. Today she wore a silk dress, the same light green as her eyes, covered by a velvet coat. She had braved the cold to get us lunch, saying she had an errand anyway and I deserved a break from the endless food-and-coffee runs – but her hands were empty.

‘No caffeine?’ I said as she came up the stairs. But she was already gone, her face set. ‘Eliza?’

‘Jaxon!’

Her boots clicked on the stairs at speed. I deserted my post and followed her. Any excuse. By the time I reached the second-floor landing, she was knocking on the door to Jaxon’s study. She was all nervous energy, tilting her weight from one foot to the other.

The door creaked open. Jaxon Hall stood in his lounging robe, his black hair free of the oil he often used to smooth it back.

‘Did you bring that coffee, darling?’ he asked. There were greyish circles under his eyes.

‘I hate myself for saying this,’ Eliza said, ‘but we don’t have time for coffee.’

She slipped past him. I entered next, giving him a ‘no idea’ look. He twirled a burning cigarillo between his fingers.

I wasn’t sure what to make of Jaxon. I wasn’t even sure whether or not I liked him. All that was clear was that my employer was a man with secrets. He was eccentric, to say the least, and intimidating, with a smirk that promised mayhem and milk-blue eyes that saw through everything. Feared and loved in equal measure, he was the most famous mime-lord in the underworld – so Nick said, anyway.

As head of the gang, Jaxon had the best room in the building. It boasted large sash windows, an antique desk, a record player, a stained-glass lamp, bottles of absinthe, and shelf upon shelf of black-market books and ornaments. Nick was already here, lying sprawled on the chaise longue.

Nick Nygård was Jaxon’s mollisher, or second-in-command. He was the one who had uprooted me from my old life, introduced me to Jaxon, and welcomed me into this existence.

‘Afternoon.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Hey, sötnos.’

He had started calling me that a while ago. It meant ‘sweet nose’ in Swedish. I thought it was lovely. Nick in general was lovely.

‘Hey,’ I said.

Eliza threw herself down beside him, shunting his legs off to make room.

‘Jaxon,’ she said, fighting for breath, ‘one of our couriers just caught me at the black market – asked me to get word to you straight away. He said Didion Waite—’

‘It can’t be too dire if it involves Didion Waite, my dear. He’s a clown.’ Jaxon glanced at me. ‘Paige, some tea may be in order.’

Normally I would have asked how many sugars – his preference changed almost every day. Instead, the frustration I had felt for the last three months pooled like lava behind my ribs and bubbled up to my throat, and what came out was:

‘I’d like to stay.’

Jaxon’s eyebrows jumped towards his hairline.

All the heat inside me froze.

He was going to turf me out. I would have to go back to my father. I would never learn how to use my gift. It would eventually surface, and I would have no idea how to hide or control it. I would end up on the gallows before I turned seventeen. Death by reason of being too proud to make four cups of tea. Death by tea.

‘Eliza,’ Jaxon said, not taking his eyes off me, ‘continue.’

Quietly, I breathed again.

‘You know Didion’s been looking for valuable spirits to auction? Well, he only went and found Sarah Metyard,’ Eliza said. Jaxon became very still. ‘He hired someone to bind her, but they bungled it and set her off. She’s on a rampage.’

Jaxon leaned back in his chair and appeared to fix his full attention on a crack in the ceiling.

‘A rogue poltergeist,’ he said. ‘Oh dear, oh dear. Didion, what have you got yourself into?’

We sat in apprehensive silence for a while. Finally, Jaxon breathed in deeply, stood, and took the stairs to the top floor. Nick and Eliza swapped worried glances.

I cleared my throat.

‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘but who’s Sarah Metyard?’

Nick chuckled. ‘I keep forgetting you’ve only been here five minutes, Paige. You must have questions upon questions.’

He motioned for me to join them. Eliza nodded her encouragement, though she looked wary. I had always suspected she hadn’t wanted there to be any more members of this tight-knit family. I perched on the chaise longue beside Nick, trying not to notice his proximity.

‘You know what a poltergeist is, don’t you?’ Eliza said to me.

‘A violent kind of breacher – a spirit that can make contact with the physical world.’

‘That’s it. Poltergeists are extremely dangerous, as they can cause physical harm – but they’re also rare in comparison to other spirits, and hard to catch, so they sell for a lot of money.’

Nick caught my eye. He knew how familiar I was with poltergeists, even if Eliza didn’t. He took a file marked M from her, which she had drawn from a bookshelf beside the desk.

‘The spirit of Sarah Metyard has been around for a few centuries,’ Nick said. ‘Metyard was hanged for the murder of a young girl named Anne Naylor – one of her apprentices – in 1758.’

I steeled myself to hear more. ‘Why would she murder her own apprentice?’

‘Naylor’s death was an accident, but it was the result of extreme neglect and cruelty.’ With a puckered brow, he opened the file. Inside were witness accounts, yellowed eighteenth-century maps of London, death records, transcripts. I scanned them. ‘Metyard and her daughter, who was also called Sarah—’

‘But went by Sally,’ Eliza chipped in. ‘She was also a victim of her mother’s brutality. Didn’t stop her meting out cruelty on the girls in their care, though. Anyway, Sarah and Sally—’

‘—were either milliners or haberdashers, or both. Several girls from local workhouses were apprenticed to their business. One of them was called Anne Naylor, or Nanny.’

I listened closely, trying to remember every detail.

‘The girls were all treated badly, but Anne had a weak constitution,’ Eliza said. ‘She couldn’t work as fast as the other apprentices, so she became the focus of the Metyards’ contempt. Sarah never fed her enough, worked her to exhaustion, neglected her – the poor girl even had to have a finger removed after an abscess went bad, presumably because they didn’t get it treated.’ Eliza licked her own finger and turned a page in the folder. ‘She escaped twice, but they caught her. As punishment for her second escape, they beat her, tied her to a door, and left her there without anything to eat or drink. After a few days of this, the other apprentices called Sally in a panic.’

My gaze fell to the page, reading exactly what they had said. I could almost hear their frightened voices.

On the fourth day she faltered in speech, and presently afterwards expired. The other girls, seeing the whole weight of her body supported by the strings which confined her to the door, were greatly alarmed, and called out: ‘Miss Sally! Miss Sally! Nanny does not move.’ The daughter then came upstairs, saying: ‘If she does not move, I will make her move’; and then beat the deceased on the head with the heel of a shoe.

‘The Metyards tried to revive Anne,’ Eliza said, ‘but she was dead. She was thirteen.’

I should have been shaken, but I had heard too many stories like this over the past few months. Part of my education had been learning about the more famous spirits of the capital.

‘Of course, they tried to conceal Anne’s death,’ Eliza continued. ‘They claimed she’d run away and hid the body in a box in the attic for two months, but they couldn’t mask the smell of it for ever. Sarah Metyard removed and burned the hand with the missing finger, in case it could identify Anne, but decided not to risk burning the rest in case the neighbours got suspicious. Eventually, they cut up the body, and Metyard disposed of the pieces in a public sewer – a gully-hole, as they called it at the time.’

‘Some versions of the story say that they killed Anne’s eight-year-old sister Mary, who was also one of their apprentices,’ Nick said. ‘A watchman discovered the pieces of Anne’s corpse, but it was assumed that they had been dumped there by a body-snatcher or a surgeon, so nobody investigated.’

‘It seemed like they’d got away with it,’ Eliza said – she was clearly enjoying her role as a storyteller, ‘but as the years passed, Sarah grew more abusive towards her daughter. Sally finally went to live with a man named Richard Rooker, who had offered her employment. She moved away with him and became his lover, but Sarah wouldn’t leave them alone – she was obviously worried that Sally would tell someone about the murder. Eventually, Rooker overheard a confrontation between them, had a bad feeling about what he’d heard, and questioned Sally, who admitted everything. Rooker alerted the authorities, probably thinking Sally would get a lighter sentence, as her mother had done so much to influence her behaviour – but she didn’t. Both Metyards were hanged at Tyburn—’

‘—in 1768.’ Nick snapped the file shut. ‘The spirits of murderers often seek out those of their victims. I’ll wager that Sarah Metyard, now she’s been set off, is after Anne Naylor.’

I wet my lips. And only a few months ago, I thought that the dead stayed dead.

‘So,’ I said, trying to sound as if I found this all perfectly normal, ‘do you know where Anne is?’

Eliza reached for the N folder. ‘She became a poltergeist, too, and took up residence in Farringdon tube station. She’ll be frantic when she realises her killer is on the loose.’

‘She was “on the loose” before, wasn’t she?’

‘She was around, but poltergeists don’t usually become violent unless they’re disturbed. If you do disturb one, they tend to start visiting places that were important to them in life. Almost like they’ve been reminded that they’re dead.’

Before we could consider the matter any further, Jaxon blazed back down the stairs.

‘Paige, get me my pen. On the desk.’

Mild trepidation jolted in my stomach. There were at least eight pens on his desk.

Slowly, I stood. This had to be punishment for my little rebellion. Or was it a test of my clairvoyance? Was I supposed to know which pen he wanted? Shit. I made a snap decision and handed him a jewel-encrusted fountain pen, which I had seen him use before.

‘No. That,’ he said, ‘is my writing pen.’

Writing pen. Shit, shit. Was there any other use for a pen? Sweating, I offered a slightly cheaper-looking one. He shot me an indecipherable look before he took it.

‘First, we must deal with Didion. His incompetence is now a danger to us all,’ he said. ‘By creating a rogue poltergeist, he has broken syndicate law.’

It still amused me that criminals had laws. The clairvoyant syndicate flouted Scion law merely by existing, yet had its own justice system. Not a very effective one, but it was there.

‘Jax,’ Eliza said, ‘maybe we should just stay out of—’

‘No. We will hold Didion accountable for his misdeeds. You will go straight to Cheapside and order him to shut down that travesty of a business. And you will tell him to leave – yes, to leave this citadel once and for all, the ham-handed buffoon. He has forfeited his right to a place in this syndicate, and as such—’

‘We have no authority to exile Didion, and you know it,’ Nick said calmly. ‘We’d have to get Hector involved.’

The reminder deflated Jaxon somewhat, but his eyes were still alive with ambition.

‘Of course.’ He lit another cigarillo. ‘Much as I dislike it, you are right. We would have to involve Hector.’ Slowly, he sank into his chair. ‘But . . . there is another option.’

I didn’t know enough about the politics of the underworld to intervene, but I listened. If I meant to have a clue what anyone was talking about, I would have to soak up everything I heard.

Jaxon drew an old-fashioned phone across his desk. Scion was thought to listen in to most communication; this had to be a secure line. He dialled and raised the receiver to his ear.

‘Get me Didion Waite,’ he said, with dangerous delicacy. ‘I demand that he speak to me personally.’ Pause. ‘The White Binder.’ His gaze flickered to us. ‘I think,’ he said, almost to himself, ‘that I can see a way to turn this to our advantage. We must get to Metyard before every fool in London tries to catch her.’

He flicked a switch on the phone. There was a rustle before a thick-nosed voice filled the room.

‘Jaxon.’

‘Didion,’ Jaxon said silkily. ‘How are you?’

‘Well enough.’

Both of their greetings dripped with contempt. I knew Didion Waite was Jaxon’s long-standing rival, but Nick had yet to tell me what had started the feud.

‘I suppose,’ Didion said, ‘that you somehow found out about Metyard. Who told you?’

‘Oh, I have eyes everywhere, Didion. Even in your district.’ Jaxon had an unnerving smile on his face. ‘I always had my doubts about your little auction house, but I was led to believe that it would be, at the very least, a semi-professional establishment.’

‘How dare you imply that I am anything less than professional?’ Whoever Didion was, he had a grating voice. ‘Metyard was always going to be . . . a tad antagonistic—’

‘A tad antagonistic. Let me remind you that this woman murdered a thirteen-year-old girl, dismembered her corpse, and interred the pieces in a sewer.’

‘I had every assurance that—’

‘Assurances mean nothing, you bottle-headed imbecile.’ Jaxon’s knuckles whitened. ‘Was it you who tried to bind Metyard?’

‘No. I, ah, referred the task to someone else.’

‘That, Didion,’ Jaxon purred, ‘is because you are a coward. A disgusting, quivering coward.’

‘I am most certainly not—’

‘A craven. A yellow-belly. A lily-livered curl of besmirchèd slime, unfit for human civilisation.’

‘My heart knows no cowardice,’ Didion shrilled. ‘Damn you. I simply decided to—’

‘—palm the work off on an amateur, yes. You disgrace every binder who ever drew breath.’ Jaxon kept smiling. ‘Now. There are two potential outcomes to this fiasco, Didion. By rights, I should report you to the Underlord for your gross mishandling of a poltergeist. If Hector is informed, your establishment will be shut down. Finished. A mere echo of a memory. And you will most likely have your throat cut.’

Probably true. From what I’d heard about the Underlord, he loved a good old-fashioned throat-cutting.

Didion’s voice was shrinking: ‘And the second potential outcome?’

‘You allow my employees to intervene – and in the process, save your neck.’ Jaxon swung lazily on his chair, one leg crossed over the other. ‘If we bind Sarah Metyard, we claim her. In addition, I have the right to bind Anne Naylor, if the desire seizes me.’

‘Are you blackmailing me, sir?’

‘Didion, it appears you have finally cultivated a smidgen of intelligence. My heartiest congratulations.’

A strangled noise. ‘All right,’ Didion choked out, sounding as if he could hardly breathe for rage. ‘All right. So long as you say nothing to the Underlord about this . . . situation, I assent to your demands. Send your lackeys to the Juditheon. Promptly, if you please.’

‘Excellent. Goodbye, Didion.’

Jaxon settled the phone in its cradle, sat back in his chair, and joined his fingertips.

‘So,’ Nick said, breaking a long silence, ‘we’re going to try and bind Metyard.’

‘Precisely. Didion has proven that he is unworthy of such a prize. We will take Metyard for ourselves.’

‘Didion has no right to promise us Anne Naylor. She’s on Ognena Maria’s turf.’

I had heard of Ognena Maria, mime-queen of one of the neighbouring sections of the citadel – the one I had lived in for years with my father. ‘If you’re good to Maria, she’ll remember it,’ Eliza had told me once. ‘If you’re not so good to her, she’ll make you remember it.’

‘So long as Didion keeps his mouth shut,’ Jaxon said, ‘Maria never needs to know.’ The corner of his mouth twitched. ‘Two of you will go to the Juditheon and obtain as much information as you can about where and when Sarah Metyard was last seen. Relevant details about her life will help you track her – that can be found in the files here. One of you will stay behind to go through those.’

I didn’t have to ask to know that I would be the one doing research on Metyard while the others pursued her. I hid my face behind my hair, trying not to let my frustration show. It was true that I’d only been with the gang for three months, and yes, I was only sixteen, but being trapped inside was suffocating. I’d signed up to be a criminal, not a clerk.

‘We might be back late.’ Eliza stood. ‘Nick, we can take the Underground to—’

‘Stop,’ Jaxon said.

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Why?’

‘I don’t want you to go, darling. I want Paige to go.’

His words set off a small jolt in my gut. Eliza’s lips parted, and she frowned slightly.

‘Don’t give me that look. You’ll have your turn again. And it’s about time Miss Mahoney had a chance to prove her worth.’ Jaxon studied me. ‘Would you like that, Paige?’

‘Yes,’ I said at once. ‘Please. If Eliza doesn’t mind.’

‘No.’ She recovered. ‘No, not at all. It’ll be a nice break, actually. And I hate poltergeists.’

‘With good reason.’ Heaving a sigh, Nick reached for his trusty cable-knit sweater and pulled it over his head. ‘Jaxon, Paige is still so new to this, and Metyard is as hostile as they come. Maybe you should—’

‘I want to go,’ I cut in.

‘Excellent. Then you shall,’ Jaxon said, and went on smoothly before Nick could contest the decision. ‘Be quick. Once word spreads that Metyard is on the move, others will come for her. Try not to attract any untoward attention from Scion.’

‘We’ll give Didion your regards.’ Nick slung his coat over his shoulder. ‘Ready, Paige?’

I was already on my feet.

‘When you have her,’ Jaxon said, ‘I will bind her once and for all.’ He extinguished his cigarillo. ‘Go.’

As soon as we were out of his office, I dashed into my room and rummaged through the wardrobe. At last, at last I could be useful. Jaxon would be asking Nick how I conducted myself on this assignment, and I meant for him to give a good report. If I did well, I might never have to be on desk duty again – the streets of London would be my new workplace.

I wasn’t exactly fashionable on the best of days, but now I rootled through my clothes with a critical eye, trying to work out what would achieve the perfect balance between low-key, elegant and intimidating. Eventually I went for a ruffled white blouse, a double-breasted burgundy jacket with a hood, and black trousers. A little on the safe side, but I was a newcomer. Best to be understated. I laced my boots and faced the mirror. A serious, grey-eyed young woman looked back.

I considered my reflection, judging my anonymity. My main fear was that, through some infuriating twist of fate, my father would see me and ask questions. Even from a distance, my hair – white-blonde and curly – would give me away. I covered it with the hood and draped a scarf around my neck, ready to lift it over my face if necessary.

A knock came at the door. Nick was outside, clad in his heavy coat and a scarf that covered his nose and mouth.

‘Looking fierce,’ he said, eyes shining.

I smoothed the front of my jacket, embarrassed. ‘Am I weird to be concerned about this?’

‘Not at all. Your image is as integral to your reputation as your actions.’ I followed close behind him as he went down the stairs. ‘Stay by the phone, Eliza,’ he called. ‘No coffee runs.’

Her voice floated back from the office: ‘You’re a cruel man, Nicklas Nygård.’

Jaxon had emerged from his office to see us off. He waited for us in the hallway.

‘Paige,’ he said, looking me up and down. ‘Let us hope that you will dazzle us with your talents this evening.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

‘I expect you will.’ A smile hung on his lips, but didn’t reach his eyes – they were steely as ever. ‘Enjoy your first assignment, but remember: in this citadel, you are an extension of me. You speak with my voice. With that in mind, I expect you always to act in my best interests, and in the best interests of the Seven Seals.’

‘I will,’ I said, feeling as if I was taking an oath.

‘Jaxon, this is Paige’s first time on syndicate business,’ Nick said. ‘What name should she use?’

My palms were clammy.

All of them had aliases. Jaxon was the White Binder, Nick was the Red Vision, and Eliza was the Martyred Muse. I wasn’t sure where Jaxon mined the names from; only that I wanted one more than anything. To be a real part of the gang.

Finally, Jaxon spoke. ‘Keep out of sight of cameras. You wouldn’t want Scion to spy you, darling.’

‘Surely all they’d see is me spending time with Nick,’ I said. ‘My father knows him.’

My voice quaked a little, betraying my disappointment. He hadn’t given me a name.

‘I shouldn’t worry about them seeing that. I would, however, prefer them not to catch sight of you on a surveillance camera if you have to do battle with the poltergeist,’ Jaxon said. ‘That would raise a few eyebrows in Westminster. And lead to you being wanted for immediate questioning, no doubt.’

Good point. The security cameras wouldn’t see us using our clairvoyance – they were blind to spiritual activity of any kind, for now – but they would note any suspicious behaviour, and that alone could be enough to condemn us.

‘And . . . her name?’ Nick prompted softly.

Jaxon considered me. I waited, turning cold under his scrutiny.

‘The Pale Dreamer,’ he said, with the lingering relish of a man who was tasting a fine wine. ‘Yes . . . the Pale Dreamer. A name for all of London to remember.’

Follow the Money

I couldn’t stop smiling as we left the den. It was perishing outside, but receiving my alias had sparked a fire inside me.

Jaxon Hall had bestowed his approval of me as his representative. My lips kept forming the words, testing their shape. The Pale Dreamer. It sounded dangerous and graceful, like a vengeful spirit. The Pale Dreamer. Yes, I could get used to that name. If I meant to keep it, though, I would have to prove myself worthy – and if I meant to prove myself worthy, we had to snare Sarah Metyard.

Over the years, I’ve classified seven orders of clairvoyance, Jaxon had told me on the day Nick introduced us. I believe you, my dear girl, are of the very highest order, making you one of the rarest clairvoyants in the modern world.

It all sounded very impressive. But what if I wasn’t?

What if he had been wrong about me?

The warmth guttered out. I wanted badly to impress Jaxon. I wanted to bring a glint into his eyes, the same glint I had seen on that first day – that sparkle of ambition. To know that I had kindled it again would be a victory, and I’d be damned if I didn’t do it today. Murder most foul, a spirit on the warpath, and the prospect of a windfall at the end – yes, this was the perfect opportunity to step triumphantly on to the stage of London; to become the Pale Dreamer.

We walked to the nearest Underground station and swiped our travel cards.

‘Excited?’ Nick asked. He laughed when he saw my face. ‘Okay, you’re excited.’

‘Eliza won’t mind me doing this, will she?’

‘No. She went through the same thing as you when she first arrived – Jaxon always gave her the paperwork. It’s a test of character.’ He hurried down the steps. ‘Come on. Didion likes punctuality.’

I lowered my voice. ‘Seems a strange concern for a criminal.’

‘Etiquette is his obsession. Don’t tell Jaxon,’ he said, ‘but I can’t blame him.’ His gaze darted about, clocking the Underguards around the station. ‘The syndicate has been getting more and more corrupt since Haymarket Hector became Underlord. We could use a little etiquette.’

We fell silent when we passed one of the Underguards, who gave us a perfunctory look.

‘I don’t want to sound as if I’m ordering you around,’ Nick murmured as we walked, ‘but this is your first time in the field, so it’s important that you do everything as I say. First thing to remember: call me Vision, not Nick. And I’ll call you Dreamer. No one in the syndicate can know about my day job.’

‘You think they’d report you?’

‘Possibly,’ he said, with a nonchalance that had to be feigned. He hitched up a smile. ‘I’ll guide you today – you won’t have to deal with anything alone. In theory, this is a simple assignment. We find the spirit, let Jaxon know where it is, and he comes to bind it.’

‘Couldn’t he just … come with us now?’

‘He’s a mime-lord. He doesn’t do search work.’ Nick stopped when we reached the right platform. ‘I haven’t seen a poltergeist in a long time. Only a handful since the day I met you, actually.’ His hands sank into his pockets. ‘Which feels like a very long time ago.’

Not to me. I remembered that day all too well.

I had only just come to England from Ireland, where I had grown up on my grandparents’ dairy farm in Tipperary. At the tender age of nine, I had some notion that I was different – but my gift was still buried deep within me, yet to be unlocked.

That year, my father had taken me to a tiny village called Arthyen, near the southern coast, where one of his old friends lived. At the time, I had been lonely and homesick, harbouring more than a little resentment towards him for separating me from my grandparents, who had stayed behind to weather the conflict in Ireland. I was wary of the village and its people, but it was better than going to school, where the other pupils spat at me.

There was a field of poppies at the edge of Arthyen. In that field, I had come face-to-face with my first poltergeist. It had sliced the skin of my left arm to ribbons, then thrown me away to bleed.

Nick had been staying near Arthyen at the time, and had gone for a walk that day which took him through the poppy field. He had found me and recognised my wounds as spirit-made, although he saw nothing in me to give him pause. Nothing that had made me think I was clairvoyant. He had treated me himself, and his kindness had left a lasting impression. Once I was stitched up, he returned me to my father and disappeared from my life as quickly as he had entered it, leaving me even more confused about the world than I had been before.

It would be another seven years before our next meeting. We were reunited at my school, by pure coincidence, only a few months ago. He had come to give a speech to the students about careers in Scion’s medical division. I had sought him out after, desperate to ask him what had really happened on that day in the poppy field.

He had remembered me. This time, he had also recognised exactly what I was – a clairvoyant. A dreamwalker. Instead of reporting me for suspected unnaturalness, however, he had asked me to meet him later – and when I had, he had offered me employment with Jaxon to help me control my gift, and to protect me from Scion, who would kill me if they worked out what I was. I had accepted. Once the school year was over, I had gone to live in Seven Dials. It was the best decision I had ever made.

Nick had saved me from ignorance. In doing so, he had saved my life.

All I had left of that encounter with the poltergeist was a trellis of scars on one hand. I traced them now, remembering the white-hot pain as clearly as if it had happened yesterday.

‘So,’ I said, shaking away the memory, ‘what challenges await us today?’

‘The main threats are rival gangs and Vigiles. If we see them, we walk away slowly. We don’t draw any attention to ourselves.’

‘Okay.’

He worked for Scion. His life depended on not drawing attention to himself. A voyant in the employ of an anti-voyant government; they would have him beheaded if they discovered his unnaturalness. I had never understood why he risked the double life. It seemed like something only a mad or desperate man would do, but Nick didn’t strike me as either.

We stood on the platform, staying close to one another. It was busy at this time, when Londoners were on their way home from work – lost in their phones and data pads, unable to feel the spirits that wove and danced around them. Once I had been afraid of my clairvoyance, but today I treasured it. I could sense a world they never would. Their lives would always be half-empty.

In silent agreement, neither of us spoke on the train. Too many people. Too quiet. When we stepped off at the right station, we walked to the derelict church that locals called Bow Bells, which stood, pale and tragic, on Cheapside.

A short whip of a man with heavy jowls was waiting for us by a streetlamp outside it. His clothes looked like genuine eighteenth-century garments, complete with hose – he even wore a powdered wig, which was held back from his face with ribbon. His mouth was tightly pursed.

Beside him was an olive-skinned woman in a leather jacket, whose short auburn hair was a notch too bright to be natural. Her face was dominated by dark eyebrows, and she wore gold-framed shades. Nick stopped and drew in his breath when he saw her.

‘Who is that?’ I asked him.

‘Ognena Maria, mime-queen of this section. She must have found out that Didion made a deal with us.’

‘Is that bad?’

‘Well, it’s not good. Her relationship with Didion Waite is … complicated. His auction house – the Juditheon – is in her section, but she gets nothing from it.’

‘But all voyant businesses have to give a cut to the local mime-lord or mime-queen.’

‘Exactly – the syndicate tax. But the Juditheon was granted immunity from it by the Underlord,’ he said. ‘It was unheard of, before Didion founded it, for anyone to auction spirits – they were just owned by whoever ruled the section they dwelled in, and they could be sold or traded privately at the black market. Didion worked out that organising a bidding could make a lot more money. He’s thought to steal spirits from other sections to auction, which is illegal, but Hector does nothing about it – so long as he gets his cut.’

I was beginning to see why Jaxon hated Didion so much. Probably because he was furious that he hadn’t come up with the idea of an auction house first.

‘That can’t have gone down well with Maria,’ I said.

‘She hates it, naturally. But Didion is still her subject – he’s not supposed to bargain away her property without permission, and Anne Naylor is her property.’ He sighed and kept walking. ‘Jaxon wanted to avoid this. Here’s hoping she’s not too angry.’

Didion was first to spot us. When Ognena Maria turned to see what he was glaring at, she smiled.

‘Well, if it isn’t the Red Vision.’ Her voice was husky, with an accent I couldn’t quite place. ‘Haven’t seen your face at the market in a few weeks, sunshine. We’ve missed you.’

‘Morning, Maria. It’s been too long.’ Nick shook her hand with real warmth. ‘Hello, Didion.’

‘Red Vision.’ Didion dealt me a withering look. ‘And who is this … person?’

Nick laid a hand on my shoulder. ‘This is the Pale Dreamer. Jaxon’s newest employee.’

I lifted my chin. Here, I was no longer Paige Mahoney. I was a mystery.

‘Ah, finally – Binder found a new addition to the Seven Seals,’ Ognena Maria said, chuckling. ‘Maybe one day, you’ll actually make it to seven.’ She tipped down her sunglasses, revealing dark, kohl-rimmed eyes. I held her gaze as she scrutinised me. ‘You know, I’m sure I recognise your aura. Do you ever visit Postman’s Park?’

I looked her up and down, trying to place her.

‘You smoke there,’ I finally said.

‘I always meant to talk to you. Funny old life.’ She cocked an eyebrow at Nick. ‘If she’s a resident of my section, she ought to be reporting to me, not Binder.’

Nick mirrored her smile. ‘Where’s that written?’

‘Don’t test me, Vision. What do you think Binder would say if I sauntered into I-4 and employed a voyant? A rare one, at that.’

‘You had every opportunity to ask Dreamer to work for you, if you’ve seen her. Jaxon got there first.’

‘Ah, so it’s about timing now.’

Maybe I shouldn’t have spoken.

‘We’ll talk about this later,’ Nick said. She grunted. ‘We have a rogue poltergeist to deal with first.’

‘Yes, thanks to someone’s attempt to fill his pockets without my knowledge. Yet again,’ Ognena Maria said dryly, giving Didion a sidelong glance. He bristled. ‘And I understand Binder has decided that you’re just the people to capture the aforementioned poltergeist.’

Nick went on calmly: ‘We think it might be after someone it killed in life – Anne Naylor.’

‘That’s why I’m here. Anne resides in this section – my section.’ The wind knocked a strand of hair into her eyes. ‘Anne is … unusual. She’s a poltergeist, but she seems harmless. Trust me, I’ve tested the theory, or I wouldn’t have let her stay where she is.’

‘What else do you know about her?’

‘Only that she’s a tortured soul. It’s as if her gentle personality is coming into conflict with her anger about her violent death. Consequently, all she does is wail, all day long. Good thing most of us can’t hear it.’ She folded her arms. ‘I have never known Anne to leave Farringdon station. If you’re going to net Metyard, I would go there and keep watch. Wait for her to hunt down her victim.’

Nick nodded. ‘And we have your permission to do that?’

An arch smile played on her lips. ‘I have some conditions.’

‘No conditions.’ Nick never sounded unfriendly, but his tone invited no argument. ‘Didion agreed that Binder would have the right to both spirits in return for—’

Maria cut across him. ‘Vision, I’ve always liked you, but don’t try to pretend that your deal with Didion had any legitimacy – I wasn’t born yesterday. Hector has strong-armed me into accepting the auction house, and I’ve embraced it as best I can – I even bid on spirits myself, when it takes my fancy – but I am mime-queen here, and I’ve never given anyone permission to sell or move Anne Naylor. As both of you are well aware.’

Didion turned up his nose, while Nick dropped his gaze and I tried to look neutral.

‘Now,’ Maria said, softer, ‘I agree that it would be best to keep Hector out of these proceedings. He lives by one rule: follow the money. Sarah Metyard would be worth a significant amount of it, and if he gets involved, none of us will see a penny.’

Nick blew out a breath. ‘Okay, we’re listening. What are your conditions?’

‘This hunt will begin in my territory, so I think it’s only fair that I should be one of the parties that benefits. If you can catch Metyard, Binder transfers ownership to me – but you can claim Anne, free of charge. And nobody says a word to Hector.’

‘Metyard is more valuable.’

‘You have no right to her,’ Maria said. ‘Anne’s a famous spirit. You could sell her for a tidy sum.’

Nick looked frustrated. ‘So we’d essentially be catching Metyard for you. I don’t see how that benefits us. Or what right you have to Metyard, given that she wasn’t found on your turf.’

Ognena Maria smiled. ‘None whatsoever,’ she said, ‘but Anne is on my turf, and she’s your best chance of capturing Metyard. If you don’t agree to my demands, I’m afraid I’ll have to revoke your right to be here. And you’ll walk away with nothing.’

I looked at Nick, who looked none too happy. ‘I’ll need to phone Binder,’ he said.

‘Go ahead. I’ll wait.’

He touched my back before stepping away to make the call, leaving me with the strangers. Voyant strangers.

There was a brief silence.

‘So,’ Ognena Maria finally said, looking me up and down, ‘you’re Irish. Interesting.’

‘You don’t sound English,’ I said, a question in my tone.

‘Bulgarian. We’re both in Scion’s bad books.’ She tilted her head.

‘I’ll confess to being intrigued by you, Pale Dreamer. I’ve never met someone with an aura quite like yours.’

‘A curiosity indeed,’ Didion said, with disdain. ‘Binder is quite the hoarder of treasures.’

‘Last I checked,’ I said, ‘I wasn’t a collectable.’

His mouth popped open.

‘A quick tongue and an interesting aura.’ Ognena Maria grinned. ‘What are you, kid?’

My muscles were tensing. Jaxon had told me to hide the fact that I was a dreamwalker. Fortunately, Nick was already back. I moved a little closer to him.

‘Binder agrees,’ he said heavily. ‘He claims the right to bind Anne Naylor at his leisure – but if you sell Metyard, he wants the opportunity to buy her privately. No auction.’

‘Agreed. I’ll organise the sale myself.’ Ognena Maria shook his hand, cutting off Didion’s protest with a look. ‘You’re welcome to stay in my territory for as long as you need. If you want somewhere to gather your thoughts, go to the teahouse on Turnmill Street. The owner will make sure no Vigiles bother you.’

‘Thank you,’ Nick said. ‘I’ll send word about our progress. Didion,’ he added, ‘I have a few questions about how and where you found Metyard. If you don’t mind.’

Didion sniffed. ‘It seems I have no choice.’

Nick patted him on the back and led him into the derelict church. As I followed, Ognena Maria caught my elbow.

‘A little advice for you, Pale Dreamer. From one stranger in this country to another,’ she said quietly. ‘You seem like a nice enough kid, but you’re also from the highest order of clairvoyance, which means some people will put you on a pedestal. Not everyone in this syndicate gets that luxury. There’s a hierarchy. An order to things.’

I listened, watching her face. There was no trickery or malice in her expression.

‘Being in this syndicate will toughen you up, but don’t let it turn you to stone. Don’t get too big for your boots. And always question what you’re told. Remember what it’s like to be an outsider, a nobody. Don’t look down on the people who end up at the bottom. Give a bit of coin to the gutterlings. Stay humble. And keep your mind open. You might find it repays you one day.’

She looked almost sorry as she spoke. As if she had seen something pure and new that could only be tainted by the world, no matter how much wool she wrapped around it.

‘Thank you,’ I said, and smiled a little. ‘I’ll try not to become a stone-cold killer, at least.’

A short laugh escaped her. ‘That’s a start.’ She grasped my shoulder. ‘Remember, if you ever get tired of Binder’s bad temper, you can always do some work for me on the quiet. I run the voyant parts of the Old Spitalfields market. Ask for me any time.’

‘I’ll keep it in mind,’ I said, already knowing I wouldn’t. Moonlighting was illegal in the syndicate, and I doubted Jaxon would show mercy if he found me doing it.

‘Good.’ She gave my shoulder a squeeze and strode away. ‘See you around, sweet.’

It didn’t take long for Nick to wring all he could out of Didion – where Metyard had last been seen, where she had been going. We needed somewhere to plan the next stage of the hunt, so we took a cab to the teahouse in Turnmill Street, which was conveniently close to Farringdon tube station.

‘I don’t understand,’ I said to Nick. ‘What’s the point in us doing this if you just promised Metyard to Maria?’

He looked grim. ‘Jaxon’s keen for us to continue. Anne will be worth money, too. And Jaxon would still get Metyard for a good price; Maria will honour that.’

It was warm and sweet-smelling inside the teahouse. When we said we were friends of Ognena Maria, the owner gave us a table by the bay window, where we sat on velveteen stools.

The urge to pinch myself when I looked at Nick remained as strong as ever. When you form an image of someone in your childhood, it inevitably blurs and fades over time, but Nick looked almost exactly the same as he had at our first meeting. A little more care-worn; he was clean-shaven now, and wore pomade in his hair in the Swedish style – but otherwise, seven years had hardly touched him.

‘Hungry?’ Nick said.

I shed my coat. ‘Very.’

We took our time perusing the menu, which listed no fewer than forty types of tea. Nick went for ginger and apple, I went for orange blossom, and we ordered a few appetisers to share.

‘Let’s recap what Didion said.’ He took out his notebook. ‘He discovered Metyard at the site of Tyburn, where she was hanged. He hired an amateur binder, who failed to capture her.’

‘Didion is a binder, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, but Jaxon’s right about his cowardice. He never does a hands-on job if someone else can do it for him.’

‘And the attempt to capture her is what set Metyard off?’ I said. ‘She’d never gone on a rampage before?’

‘No. Like I said earlier, spirits don’t tend to pose a threat if they’re left alone – but most poltergeists really don’t like to be approached by voyants, let alone bound. It can spark a dangerous reaction. Like startling an animal.’ He rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘Only a very skilled binder – like Jaxon – could have snared Metyard. Didion should have known better.’

‘Does he always dress like he’s fallen out of an eighteenth-century novel?’

Nick laughed, warming me to my bones. ‘He’s a character, I’ll give you that.’ He took a phone out of his pocket. ‘Let’s see what Eliza has turned up in her research.’

He waited until Eliza answered, then leaned in closer to me, so I could press my ear to the back of the phone. I could hear his breath, feel the warmth of his arm pressing on mine.

‘I’ve found two places that were significant to Metyard in her life,’ Eliza said. ‘The first, of course, is Tyburn, where she and her daughter were hanged.’

‘Turns out that’s where Didion found Metyard,’ Nick said. ‘Any others?’

‘Shit. Well, we’ve had a report that she was in Bruton Street earlier, in our section – that’s where the Metyards used to live – but she’s long gone, apparently. I’ll get back to the files.’

His sigh flickered through my hair. ‘Okay. Let us know if you find more.’

‘Don’t have too much fun without me.’

He hung up. I leaned back into my seat.

‘So no leads yet,’ Nick said. ‘Let’s hope she finds something useful soon.’

‘What if she doesn’t?’

He put his notebook away. ‘Well, my theory is that Metyard will be searching for Anne. Our best option is to wait for her, as Maria suggested – so, stake out Anne’s haunt in Farringdon until Metyard comes. We’ll wait for the commute to die down a little first, though.’

As soon as he finished speaking, a voyant waitron brought the food: eggs poached in milk on crisp, butter-gold toast, with wafer-thin lace cookies and cranberry muffins to follow. I tucked in, famished.

While we ate, I checked my watch. The commute would be over in about forty minutes. Forty minutes with Nick to myself. The thought made my palms tingle.

‘What happened to Metyard’s daughter – Sally?’ I said. ‘Is her spirit still around?’

Nick looked thoughtful. ‘Interesting. I haven’t heard of anyone finding Sally, but … she might be drawn to her mother’s presence, if she is still in the æther.’ He glanced up at me as he sliced into his toast. ‘We haven’t been able to talk much since you joined the gang. I’m sorry I haven’t been around,’ he said gently. ‘My day job is demanding, and Jaxon works me to the bone when I’m back.’

I tucked a flyaway curl behind my ear. ‘Would you ever quit the day job?’

He shrugged. ‘Not unless I have to. Jaxon doesn’t like me working for Scion, but he does like my salary.’

‘You share it with him?’

‘Here and there. Jax is an old friend.’

I sipped my tea, savouring its delicate flavour. ‘An old friend with expensive tastes.’

‘Ah, you noticed.’ He smiled. ‘Well, he doesn’t get it all. I send some to my parents, too.’

‘What are their names?’

His smile widened at my curiosity. ‘Rune Nygård and Bryndís Ingadóttir – Bryn, to her friends. My mother’s from Iceland originally, but she’s lived in Sweden for most of her life. They’re both voyant.’ He dropped his gaze. ‘They’re good people. I miss them.’

Lightly, I said, ‘Anyone special back in Sweden?’

His chuckle was a bit hollow. ‘No. No one here, either, in fact. Jax doesn’t let us have relationships.’

I had already been made aware of this. Jaxon had taken me aside and been quite clear: no liaisons (his word, not mine). I was only allowed to spend one night with another person – no more. I was to be devoted to the Seven Seals and nothing else.

‘What about you?’ Nick said. ‘Nobody special?’

I gave him a wry smile. ‘My heritage isn’t considered an attractive feature here. Took me a while to learn to mimic an English accent, and my surname was hard to hide.’

His own smile faded. ‘I can’t imagine.’

‘I survived.’

‘I’m glad.’

Gooseflesh weaved its way up my arms.

I had to get this under control. Like he said, Jaxon didn’t allow relationships. Besides, Nick was kind to everyone, even people he didn’t like. I wasn’t special.

At school, nobody had looked at me with the same softness he did. Quite the opposite. As the only Irish girl in the place, I had been ostracised at best, harassed at worst. One of the students from the neighbouring boys’ school had once asked me out, but I had known it was part of a scheme to humiliate me and told him I was busy that night. And every night following. One of my few victories during my school years had been watching the smug look slide off his face when he realised the Irish girl had rejected him.

I had paid for it later, of course. My sparks of defiance had always come back for me.

‘Tell me how you met Jaxon,’ I said. Suddenly this conversation was stirring the dust on some very dark memories.

He poured some more tea. ‘I came to Britain when I was seventeen. I was due to transfer to London the next year, to start my job officially with Scion; I thought I’d get to know the place first. When I first arrived, I had a vision of Jaxon. It was like the æther was telling me to find him, but I didn’t know where to start looking … then one day, I was walking through Trafalgar Square, and there he was. Just like that. He stopped dead when he saw me. It was almost funny, how quickly he stopped – like he’d walked into a brick wall.’

I smiled with him. I couldn’t imagine Jaxon losing his composure like that.

‘We went to a coffeehouse. He told me he had never seen a clairvoyant with a red aura, not once. I felt I could confide in him about my vision. It was clear that we were meant to meet.’ His voice softened a little. ‘It turned out that Jaxon had a vision of his own. He wanted six talented voyants to join him to make up the Seven Seals. Preferably rare ones, like me. Like you. I agreed to be his mollisher, to live a double life. The rest is history.’

‘It’s a good friendship-origin story,’ I admitted, ‘but not quite as good as ours.’

‘No, true.’ He winked. ‘I hope Jax finds another mollisher soon. It’s too much, on top of my job. As you saw with Maria, I’m his voice in the syndicate. He doesn’t get his hands dirty.’

‘Can’t Eliza do it?’

‘He wants someone rarer as his protégée.’ He scraped up the last of his meal. ‘He likes you, you know.’

‘He has a strange way of showing it. And I think I’m in his bad books after I refused to make the tea this morning.’

‘Oh, I think that was exactly why he let you come out today. You showed your claws. Jax doesn’t like outright disobedience,’ he said, ‘but he does like spark. He would have been disappointed if you’d kept on doing the drudgework.’

I raised my eyebrows. ‘You think he was waiting for me to speak up?’

‘I do,’ he said. ‘I know him. He wanted you to take control of your place in the gang. Show him you’re a fighter. Let him see that you’re ambitious, and you’ll go far.’

The reassurance took root in my chest and blossomed into pride. I should have known that Jaxon was waiting for me to crack – after all, he hadn’t wanted an automaton to order around. He had wanted a criminal, a rebel. Now I felt like a fool for biting my tongue all these months.

A squadron of armed night Vigiles strode past the teahouse, clad in their black-and-red uniforms and helmets. We both tensed, but they didn’t look in our direction.

It took us a while to unwind enough to talk again. We started on the lace cookies and oven-warm muffins. He told me about the village of Mölle, where he was born. He had often returned to it with his parents and his little sister, Karolina, before her death. They would spend their summers fishing and swimming. Generally being a family.

It wasn’t an image I recognised. It had been years since my father and I had done anything but eat dinner together, and even that formality had been limited to weekends once I had left home.

I hung on to Nick’s every word. When he talked about Karolina, his voice strained at the seams. I didn’t ask how she had died. I hadn’t earned that sort of trust from him.

‘Scion killed her,’ he said, of his own accord. As if he had seen the question on my face.

An old hatred combusted behind my ribs. It was a latent feeling, a beast I kept restrained most of the time, but it had rankled for a decade, eating at me from within – the knowledge of injustice.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Was she voyant?’

‘Yes. But … her gift never really got a chance to develop.’

‘They killed my cousin, too. He wasn’t like us, as far as I remember, but he was hanged for treason.’

He lifted his gaze to mine. ‘I didn’t know.’

Even now, I found it hard to talk about Finn. My throat tightened.

‘If you went out into that street and asked every voyant you saw,’ Nick said, ‘I think most of them will have lost someone to Scion.’

We fell silent for a while. My tea was cold.

This was too raw a topic. Mentioning Finn led me to tell Nick more about my life in Ireland, where I had been raised by my grandparents before my father was enlisted by Scion’s medical division. I told him about how afraid I had been when we landed in England; how I had cried myself to sleep each night; how lonely I had felt. We had come from a war-torn country, straight into the country responsible for the violence.

Nick listened to everything, his expression grave. I felt as though I could talk to him for ever.

I told him about the first time I had given someone at school a nosebleed – without ever raising my hand. I was ten and had no idea I had caused it; I assumed it was coincidence that the girl who had been teasing me suddenly had blood running down to her chin. But as it began to happen more frequently, whenever I felt particularly trapped and powerless, I came to the realisation that I was the source.

‘Surely people were suspicious,’ Nick said, snapping a lace cookie.

‘No one accused me. My father’s Irish, but he’s also a Scion employee. He gave money to the school. The Schoolmistress put it down to “dryness in the classrooms”,’ I said darkly, ‘which was plausible, given all the hot air that came out of her mouth.’

Nick burst out laughing. My whole body warmed up, as if the sun was on it. It was harder not to fall in love with him when he laughed.

Not that I was falling in love with him.

The conversation became a torrent that neither of us staunched. He told me about the day he had found out he was voyant. At the age of twelve, he had received a vision of his best friend, Lasse Ekström, dying in the family car. Unable to warn Lasse without betraying his gift to Scion, Nick had been forced to stay silent. The Ekström family had been killed a week later, when their car had hit ice and ploughed into a tree.

‘I think about that every day,’ Nick said heavily. ‘I’ve never predicted anyone’s death since … I didn’t see Karolina’s. I sometimes wonder if I just … wasn’t listening.’

Before I knew what I was doing, I had laid a hand on his arm.

‘You still might not have been able to stop it.’

He raised a weary smile. ‘Probably not. Lina loved me, but she also loved ignoring my advice.’ With a sigh, he opened his wallet. ‘Well, I think it’s time to find ourselves a poltergeist. We’ll start by paying a visit to Anne Naylor. Ready?’

‘Ready.’

Exit, Pursued by a Poltergeist

We had talked for a long time, but still not long enough. There was so much I wanted to ask him, to tell him. Everything I said, I thought he understood. I wasn’t sure how it was possible for this almost-stranger to unlock parts of my past I had kept hidden for years, but Nick was the sort of person who you wanted to confide in – and I had missed being able to talk to someone. I hadn’t had that since I had been separated from my grandmother.

I had never spoken with anyone outside of my family about Finn. I had never told anyone else in this country about my life in Ireland.

Some people you meet in life, and they just click with you. It doesn’t matter how much you have in common; you just work, somehow. That was Nick to me.

Side by side, we walked into Farringdon station, which was quiet. There were people on the platform, but the flow of commuters had dwindled to a trickle. We sat on a bench, and Nick picked up an abandoned copy of the Daily Descendant – the only newspaper approved by Scion. Best not read, unless you wanted your brain decocted.

I had learned a lot at the teahouse. It was only now I realised how little we had known about each other.

‘Try to sense Anne,’ he said to me.

This must be a test of my ability. I concentrated on my sixth sense, the way Jaxon had taught me.

‘She’s close,’ I whispered.

‘Yes.’

Slowly, I sat back in my seat and tried to look casual – but something had been bothering me all day, and after our conversation, I found I had the confidence to voice it.

‘Why here?’ I said. Nick glanced at me. ‘Why did Anne come to Farringdon?’

‘Nobody knows that. Poltergeists usually return to places that are significant to them, but in Anne’s case she might have deliberately chosen somewhere unrelated, so that Metyard would never think to look there. So … it could be random.’

‘Right. It could be random,’ I said. ‘And if it has no connection to her, surely Metyard wouldn’t think to come here.’

He turned a page, but I could tell I had his full attention. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘I’m thinking Metyard might not come here at all. She’s been dead for hundreds of years – why would she know Anne was here?’

Nick’s brow knitted. ‘I see. We all assumed this would be the obvious place, but … maybe not. Say you’re right, and given that we have no other leads – what do you propose?’

I mulled it over.

‘We could drive Anne from her haunt. Set her off, the way Didion’s binder set Metyard off,’ I said. ‘That might get Metyard’s attention – the prospect of a chase.’

‘That would be a big risk. Creating another rogue poltergeist to catch the first one.’

‘From what Ognena Maria said, Anne isn’t dangerous – but Metyard is. We need to catch her, today.’

An approving glance slid in my direction. ‘You’re a quick thinker, Paige.’ He nodded slowly. ‘It could be worth a try. I’ll need to call Maria and okay it with her, though.’

He discarded the newspaper and headed back to the stairs, taking them three at a time. I followed.

We stepped back into the autumn chill and lingered near the entrance to the station as Nick dialled. Twilight had fallen over London; ice-blue streetlamps were pulsing to life. He was lifting the phone to his ear when someone stopped in front of us.

‘Hello, Red Vision.’

I tensed.

The owner of the unctuous voice had dark, chin-length hair that hung like strings from beneath a bowler hat. Two small eyes – round and black, like a shark’s – sat in a gaunt face. Even his mouth had a whiff of shark about it. A gold pocket watch was in his hand.

A tall woman, who looked to be a couple of years my senior, held his arm with both hands. Her face – sallow and delicate – was framed by hair of deepest rose-red, which came down to her waist. The pair were shadowed by six other voyants, none of whom looked like the sort of people you would want to run into at this time of the evening. Or at any time, really.

‘Hector,’ Nick said coolly.

The silence went on for eternity, until the woman let out a close-mouthed snicker.

The sound jarred my heart. This must be the Underlord, Haymarket Hector, and his gang, the Underbodies.

‘I didn’t realise we were on first-name terms,’ Hector said. ‘Are we on first-name terms, Red Vision?’

Nick looked at the ground.

‘Show me. Show me how you will address your leader properly in future.’

‘I ask for your pardon, Underlord,’ Nick said.

His jaw was tense, but he kept his gaze on the pavement. It nettled me to see him cowed like this.

‘You are pardoned, for the time being.’ Hector’s teeth were lucent and uneven, like chips of blackened seashell. ‘I don’t think you’ve met my mollisher, Chelsea.’

Nick nodded stiffly to the redhead. She didn’t return the gesture – just looked at him with that little smile.

‘And you have company.’ Hector moved away from her and paced around me, coming so close I could smell his sweat and the rot on his breath. I just about quelled a shudder. ‘My dear friend Binder has been keeping secrets from me. He never informed me of a newcomer.’

‘He didn’t think you’d be interested,’ Nick said.

‘Oh, Binder’s business always interests me. As do his belongings.’

My instinct was to physically recoil from this man, to fold into myself, but gone were the days of shrinking away.

‘I’m the Pale Dreamer,’ I said, and looked him dead in the eyes. ‘Underlord.’

A name for all of London to remember.

‘The Pale Dreamer,’ Hector echoed. ‘Elegant moniker. Curious aura. I can see why the White Binder decided to … harvest you.’ Speaking of auras, his was so close to mine that it was making me nauseous. ‘We were just on our way to pay a visit to Anne Naylor. What business brings you to this part of the citadel, I wonder?’ When neither of us replied, he said, ‘I see we’re playing coy, so let us stop beating around the bush. I know you’re here to snare Sarah Metyard, just as we are.’

‘We’re not here for Metyard,’ Nick said too quickly. ‘Maria just wanted us to—’

‘Shut it,’ Chelsea sneered. ‘You think we’re stupid? You think we didn’t know that Metyard would appeal to Binder – that he would send his lapdogs after her?’

I didn’t dare say anything. If we were lapdogs, these people were bloodhounds.

Nick had been edging closer to my side. At first I thought the movement was protective – a subtle display of unity – but behind our backs, out of sight of the Underbodies, he passed something to me. I registered a handle against my palm, the rasp of a blade on the pad of my thumb. He had taught me how to use one, but I had never had practical experience.

My heart shouldn’t be beating this hard. I had drawn blood for years, but there was something about the cold weight of the knife that I knew would make it harder. When I had used my gift to do it at school, it had been easier to divorce the notion of causing pain from my intention – to balance the scales of justice – but a blade gave that desire a shape.

‘Ognena Maria must have struck a deal with you, or you would have been turfed out of this section,’ Hector mused. ‘You know I should have been informed of a rogue poltergeist.’

‘Look, I’ll level with you,’ Nick said. ‘We are here for Metyard. We meant to present her to you once—’

‘You are not a good liar, Red Vision.’ Hector clicked his tongue. ‘No, not at all.’

I could tell from Nick’s eyes that this run-in with Hector was unexpected. He hadn’t reckoned on the Underlord knowing that Metyard was awake, let alone on him having had our idea to stake out Farringdon. And I was willing to bet that we couldn’t come to an arrangement with him in the same way we had with Didion and Maria.

‘Leave,’ Hector said, his voice almost friendly. ‘Both of you. All spirits are mine by right.’

‘I haven’t been in the syndicate long,’ I said, ‘but I know that’s not true.’

Another silence, this one fraught. All the amusement drained out of Hector, turning his face into that of a predator with no understanding of pain, no concept of human empathy. The redhead looked hungrily at the Underlord, wrapping a lock of her hair around one finger.

‘Come with us,’ Hector said.

Nick stiffened. ‘Why?’

‘I hope you’re not questioning your Underlord,’ Chelsea said, staring him out. ‘He’s given you an order.’

The gang split into two. One half mustered behind us, while the other walked in front.

‘Move,’ one of them snapped, shoving me in the small of the back. I moved. My knees felt stiff. As they marched us around the corner, Nick leaned down, so his lips were close to my ear.

‘We can’t fight them in the open,’ he breathed. ‘I’ll get us out of this. Don’t worry.’

Easier said than done.

They were leading us into a narrow passage. FAULKNERS ALLEY was displayed in gold lettering about the wrought-iron gate, which Chelsea shouldered open.

I could only think of one reason for them to take us out of sight. Stone-cold dead on my first assignment. Would Hector actually kill me for implying he was wrong? I could imagine the gravestone: Paige Eva Mahoney, died because she implied that a greasy-haired criminal was wrong. Nicklas Alvar Nygård, died because he had the misfortune to be with her.

They herded us into the seamy alleyway, which stank of urine. Someone closed the gate. We were surrounded.

Hector turned to me, still wearing that placid smile. There was something underneath it that made me even more uneasy than before – a sort of avarice. It was the look of a man who had seen something he wanted, and whose thirst for it would not be easily slaked.

‘Pale Dreamer, I feel that as Underlord, I should welcome you personally into the syndicate.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Underhand, Bloatface. Greet the young lady.’

‘No.’ Nick put himself in front of me. ‘Don’t. Don’t, Hector.’

Two members of Hector’s group pared away from the rest. A powder-white, bald man who looked as if someone had squashed him together from modelling clay, and a taller one who was swollen with muscle. Each of his hands were larger than both of mine put together.

‘She’s sixteen,’ Nick said, quieter. ‘She’s new to the syndicate.’ When this failed to soften any faces, he tried a different tack. ‘Binder won’t be happy if she’s hurt.’

My heartbeat had thickened. It drummed in my ears and the hollow of my throat. Stupid, stupid thing to do. Their looks were bloodthirsty – they meant business. And there was a fine line between using my voice and throwing myself headfirst into danger.

‘I’m quite sure Binder will find it in his heart to forgive me,’ Hector said. ‘We’re such good friends, he and I. All I want is for the Pale Dreamer to understand where she belongs. It’s a lesson all of you have learned, one way or another. Blood now, or blood later, it’s all the same.’

Something gleamed in Nick’s hand, and then he was pointing a knife at them. Its blade caught the blue glow from a streetlamp.

‘Don’t be a fool, boy,’ Hector said very softly.

‘Nick, no,’ I hissed.

Sweat beaded along my nape. I couldn’t let him get beaten or killed for me.

‘I ask your forgiveness,’ I said to Hector, swallowing my pride. ‘I’m sorry. I’m … not used to the ways of the syndicate.’

‘Which is why we are here, Pale Dreamer. To remedy your ignorance,’ Hector said, almost gently. ‘To teach you the rules.’

He nodded to the larger of the two men. A fist sailed, hitting Nick straight in the jaw.

His head snapped to the side. Before I could so much as say his name, a giant hand clapped over my throat and another seized the front of my jacket, lifting me bodily off my feet. Suddenly I was face-to-face with Hector’s muscular henchman, who seemed intent on cold-blooded murder. Choking, I kicked at his knees and scratched at the arm that held me up, to no avail. I had been manhandled before, but not like this.

My vision swam as he squeezed my throat. I was sure I was about to black out, that I was dead – then he slammed me into the wall and let me crumple to the ground.

‘Before we can fight with spirits,’ Hector said, while I heaved and coughed, ‘we must learn to fight with our bodies. We must learn to stomach pain. A few bruises, a damaged bone or two … I doubt it will hurt you in the long run.’ He paced towards his mollisher and wound an arm around her. ‘Bloatface, the Pale Dreamer likes to backtalk. Break her jaw.’

My eyes were watering, my throat on fire. I tried to look defiant, but I couldn’t breathe for fear.

I didn’t want to die today. I had been lonely and afraid for years – now I wasn’t. I had been told by strangers that I should die – I hadn’t.

I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction now.

The bald man bore down on me. Breathing in rasps, I struggled away from him and held up my knife, which seemed comically small in the shadow of this behemoth. Nick had been too soft on me in training. I tried to remember where to stab, where to avoid.

I am the Pale Dreamer. I am the Pale Dreamer.

‘Hector.’ Nick was already back on his feet, his lips like wet ruby. ‘Don’t touch her. She didn’t—’

‘We all spill blood on London’s streets,’ the Underlord said. ‘Fail to do so, and we have no right to walk them.’

Being thrown against the wall had winded me, and I knew I would be bruised, but I stood, my jaw set in resolve. The bald man closed in on me. This time, I was ready. I watched his fists, ducked his first punch that slammed towards me, and twisted away from the second.

‘Look, Hector. This one’s got some fight in her,’ Chelsea said.

Bloatface turned slowly to face me again. I thrust my knife towards his face.

‘Come on, then,’ I breathed.

‘Oblige her, Bloatface,’ Hector drawled.

Bloatface charged. I was conscious of Nick grappling with the Underhand – I was on my own. I lurched out of the way, just in time to avoid being head-butted straight in the ribcage, and slashed at Bloatface with the knife. When his elbow smashed into my cheekbone, all Nick’s training flew out of my head, as if the blow had knocked it loose. I hacked again and again and again – until finally, finally, the blade ripped through a hard-wearing jacket. Bloatface jerked his head around and bared a line of little white teeth. Doll teeth, too small for his mouth. He seized my wrist, wrenching me against him, thumping my breath away. I smelled the alcohol on his breath before his skull cracked into mine.

Bells rang in my ears. Blood burst from my lip as blinding pain erupted between my eyes.

Shock had numbed my sixth sense, but now it crashed and broke over the others like a wave. Suddenly I could feel the same pressure I had felt so often at school: the heartbeat in my temples, the quiver at the corners of my vision. I coaxed it out from hiding, playing myself in a mental tug of war, until it ignited and surged outward, into the alley. Being closest, Bloatface caught the brunt of it. Blood slithered from his nostrils, and his eyes watered.

Hector’s gang reeled away from me. Their expressions flicked from amused to shocked to wary.

Bloatface rubbed his fingers across his lips, smearing the blood away. He stared me out and slowly licked them clean, using the full length of his tongue. My hand shook as I raised the knife again.

That was when the spirit burst out of the station.

Above the gate, a lantern flickered and went out. Like actors at the end of a play, we froze.

A poltergeist was hovering above us. Anne Naylor. Drawn from her haunt – by the commotion, perhaps – she floated ominously at the end of the alley. I could see nothing, but my sixth sense knew it.

It had been seven years since I had encountered a poltergeist, but I remembered the friction in the æther, the flurry of ice through my blood, the way my lungs had forgotten how to take in air.

The glass panes of the lantern iced over. Hector’s lackeys backed away from the presence. Nick was restrained by the Underhand, whose massive arms embraced his throat. Bloatface grabbed me again and dragged me by the hair to the side of the alley, where he pinned me to a wall.

‘Nobody move,’ Hector breathed. ‘Hello, Anne.’

Anne only drifted.

‘There, now.’ Hector took a careful step towards her. ‘No need to be alarmed, sweet Nanny. All we want is for your murderer to get a little whiff of you …’

Anne began to tremble. Nick met my gaze.

Bloatface twisted my hair viciously, but I kept quiet. If we timed this right, we could get Anne on the move, creating enough of a disturbance to attract Metyard – and make our escape at the same time. All we had to do was make her panic and flee, which would distract the Underbodies from us.

There were other spirits nearby. They were always there in London, as thick in the æther as birds in the sky. Nick had taught me how to ‘spool’ them – to gather them together and wield them against other voyants, disorienting them. If you were in a tight corner, a spool was the simplest way to make someone retreat.

It might also cause a skittish poltergeist to bolt.

I concentrated on my aura. Nick had said that in order to make a spool, I had to send out a kind of signal to spirits that I wanted assistance, usually accompanied by a hand motion. My arm was trapped, but I tried crooking a finger. A ghost swirled towards me.

Sensing what I was trying to do, Nick took over. He had years of experience under his belt. With a sweep of his arm, he whirled all five of the nearby spirits into a spool and flung them at Anne.

Her reaction was explosive. I couldn’t hear the æther, but in that moment, I learned that it was possible to feel a scream – a shiver in the bones, a twist in the gut. Windows burst into splinters above us, raining down glass from both sides. I shielded my eyes. As Anne rammed into the Underhand, flinging him off his feet and forcing him to let go of Nick, I sank my teeth into Bloatface’s wrist and thrust my elbow into his stomach, loosening his grip enough for me to writhe free. I dived towards Nick and grabbed his arm, and together we hightailed it out of the alley.

‘Hunt them down,’ Hector howled. ‘I wouldn’t cross me on your first day, Pale Dreamer!’

We crashed through the gate and sprinted up Cowcross Street. My cheek was throbbing.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Fine.’ My voice came out hoarse. ‘You?’

His lip was still bleeding. ‘I’ve had worse.’

Boots thumped on the pavement behind us. Three people. My mouth had already turned dry when I realised that Anne was following us, too.

‘Do all your assignments go this smoothly?’ I called to Nick as we parted around a startled couple.

‘Pretty much.’ There was a laugh in his voice. ‘You sure you’re in?’

In answer, I started laughing, too. Breathless, giddy laughs that sparkled through me like a firework. I had never thought that running for my life from criminals and spirits would be this much fun.

Anne veered off to the right; most of the Underbodies pursued her. We took the next left turn into a lane and cut between the buildings, emerging on a busy road.

‘Follow me,’ I said. I had grown up in this area; I knew it like I knew the lines on my hands, including its tangle of alleyways, which would make for good pockets to lie low in.

It was starting to rain. We barrelled towards a parked car, and had ducked out of sight by the time two of the Underbodies rounded the corner behind us. They argued and swore for a while before they separated. One raced past our hiding spot and inspected several buildings before disappearing beneath the archway at the very end of the road, into the public square beyond.

As soon as he was gone, I tugged Nick’s sleeve and pulled him a little farther, towards what looked, to the naked eye, like a shop. The front of the building was white stone, shifting to red brick from the second floor up. You would assume it had two entrances, but I knew that one of them – the narrow one – led to an alley. Hard to make out with a hasty glance; I doubted the Underbody had even seen it. I had often spied people smoking there during the week. Nick followed me inside, under the engraved name, the only thing that gave it away: PASSING ALLEY.

We stopped to catch our breath. The alley was closed, cool and dark, just about wide enough for us to stand opposite one another without touching.

‘Damn it … I can’t believe Hector showed,’ Nick said. ‘He must really want Metyard.’

I massaged my aching throat. ‘I can’t believe he had the same idea we did.’

‘He’s lazy, but he’s also smart. Did you see where she went?’

‘Took a right back there.’ I motioned to the street. ‘The Underbodies went after her.’

‘She’ll lose them soon enough. But it means we’ve lost our bait for Metyard.’ I could only just make out his face. ‘Paige, we have to work out where Metyard will go next, before Hector does.’

‘Does he have a binder in his gang?’

‘Yes.’ He blotted sweat from his brow. ‘Personally, I think she’ll pick up on Anne’s presence and chase her.’

‘Then we need to start thinking like Anne,’ I said. ‘To work out where she’d run.’

‘Exactly. Consider it: you’re a young girl, an orphan, neglected and abused by the two women you were working for. You come from the workhouse with your sister, but your sister can’t protect you. You’re vulnerable and afraid, and you have a weak constitution, so you’re not physically strong. Nobody helped you. When you died, nobody cared. Where would you go?’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘Personally, I think we should consider the site of the Metyard house in Bruton Street.’

‘The house she died in?’ I said, unconvinced. ‘That’s the last place I’d want to go.’

‘It’s a strong possibility. Poltergeists often are drawn to the place they died.’

I sifted through other possibilities. Tried to think the way Anne would, to put myself in the shoes of a girl who had died almost three centuries ago. A girl with no parents, whose only family – her sister – was trapped in the same prison. She must have been afraid every time she woke up, every time she fell asleep, knowing that the two people who were meant to care for her had absolute power over her being. They had controlled her food, her freedom, her existence.

‘The workhouse, maybe,’ Nick murmured, more to himself than to me. ‘Where she lived before …’

That option didn’t feel right.

Twice Anne Naylor had escaped, and twice she had been brought back to her prison. She had mettle, this girl, to try a second time. Knowing what her employers would do to her if she was caught.

Guilt kicked me in the stomach, fresh and unexpected.

Anne had finally escaped Metyard in death, hidden where she thought she would never be found – and we had just exposed her to her murderer again. Her life and her death had been one long injustice.

Wait.

‘I don’t think Anne will run from Metyard,’ I said quietly. ‘Not this time. I think she’s going to confront her. It’s not a hunt – it’s a final showdown. One they both want, now they’ve been set off.’

‘I don’t know.’ Nick was frowning. ‘You really think they’d go to the same place?’

‘Anne Naylor was braver than we’re giving her credit for. We need to think of somewhere that was important to both of them. And I think I know it.’ I took a deep breath. ‘The gully-hole. The place where Sarah Metyard disposed of Anne’s body.’

‘Why there?’

‘For Sarah, it was where she thought things had ended. She disposed of Anne there, hiding the evidence – it was only her daughter, later, that exposed them. In her mind, it should have ended at the gully-hole,’ I said. ‘As for Anne, the memory of that place must enrage her. Her body was handled with the utmost disrespect – dumped in pieces in human waste, without any way for anyone to identify it. It was also where a chance for justice was missed.’ Rain drummed on the pavement. ‘You said a watchman found what was left of Anne, but assumed it was the work of body-snatchers. Just another pauper’s corpse. Nobody asked questions.’

‘The body was decomposed. After all that time—’

‘I know, but someone should have realised she was missing. Sarah Metyard should have been arrested then – not ten years later. Those were ten years in which she could have hurt or murdered other girls.’

I could see the set of his mouth, the uncertainty. He took out his phone.

‘Muse,’ he said, once Eliza was on the line, ‘it’s us. Listen—’

‘Metyard’s on the move.’ Eliza sounded nervous. ‘We’ve heard reports of windows being broken, streetlamps going out, tables being overturned at the market—’

‘Hector’s involved. Turns out everyone wants a piece of her.’

She cursed under her breath. ‘Where are you now?’

‘Passing Alley.’

‘Ha. You know it used to be called Pissing Alley, right?’

‘Yeah, thanks. Listen – Dreamer wants to know where the sewer was – where Anne Naylor’s body was disposed of.’

‘I was just about to call you about that, funnily enough. Thought it might be a significant place. But you’re going to need to make a choice here.’ The line crackled. ‘According to the sources we have, the gully-hole where Metyard dumped Anne was in “Chick Lane” – but there’s no longer a street by that name in London.’

Nick exchanged a glance with me. ‘Does the street still exist under a different name?’

‘Yes, but here’s the catch: I’ve found two places that were once called Chick Lane.’

We had no time for error. If we turned the wrong way, I would blow my opportunity to impress Jaxon, and I doubted he was a second-chance man.

‘One is very close to you – Charterhouse Street. If it is there, it would explain why Anne haunts Farringdon tube station, which is nearby. She has no other historical connection to Farringdon that I can see.’

‘And the other?’ I said, leaning closer to the phone.

‘West Street.’

Nick’s eyebrows shot up. ‘The same West Street that’s less than a minute from our den?’

‘The very same,’ Eliza said. ‘I’ll leave the choice to you. Do you want me to tell Binder that Hector is involved?’

Nick sighed. ‘He might as well know. Thanks for the help.’

He pushed his phone back into his inner pocket. I waited for his judgement.

This was one hell of a fork in the road. We wouldn’t have time to try both locations, not with Hector on our trail.

‘Hector will have researched Metyard’s life, too,’ Nick said. He sounded as tense as he looked. ‘I say Charterhouse Street. We’ve always wondered why Anne haunts Farringdon – that explains it.’

‘Anne didn’t go in the direction of Charterhouse Street,’ I said. ‘Anyway, the gully-hole couldn’t have been there – Metyard wouldn’t have carried the remains from Bruton Street all the way to this part of London to dump them.’ I held his gaze. ‘It’s West Street.’

Nick let his head fall back against the wall, closed his eyes, and released a long breath.

‘This is your day. It’s your chance,’ he finally said. ‘Let’s hope you’re right.’

No Rest for the Damned

We hailed a cab to get us to West Street. My insides were racked by nerves on the journey back to our district, though I made sure to appear composed. The Pale Dreamer did not show fear. She was confident in her decisions. Her face was a mask.

Nick had said that this was my chance, but it was a chance I could so easily squander. I was trusting my gut, going on what I thought was most logical, but there were so many unknowns, so many mights. Anne and Metyard might not both consider the gully-hole the most important part of their story. The gully-hole might have been in the other Chick Lane. Hector might be one step ahead of us. He might know something we didn’t about Anne or Metyard. In short, I might be wrong about everything.

I felt ill at the thought of botching this. Nick could be putting too much trust in me.

When we got out of the cab, there was no sign of devastation. No hint that two enraged, three-hundred-year-old poltergeists had torn through the district.

‘Tell the others we’re here,’ Nick said. ‘I’ll wait.’

‘Do you know how we’re going to improvise our way to netting Metyard yet?’

‘I’m thinking.’

A dull sickness throbbed in the pit of my stomach. If I was wrong about this … I couldn’t imagine Jaxon’s anger. It would be the end of my career in unnaturalness. Yet again, I envisioned crawling back to my father, stifling my gift as best I could, and counting down the days until Scion apprehended me.

When I knocked on the door of the den, it was a wide-eyed Eliza who answered.

‘There you are.’ She pulled me into the hallway. ‘Where’s Nick?’

‘Outside. Might be an idea to get Jaxon out here.’

‘You chose West Street, then?’ When I nodded, she said, ‘I’ll get him. You stay with Nick. If all goes to plan, you make a spool and work with Nick to keep Metyard in one place – okay?’

Before I could respond, she was already rushing up the stairs, calling for Jaxon. I retraced my steps, letting the door swing shut behind me. I was halfway back to Nick when our quarry arrived.

I felt them in the æther. A creeping darkness, like a spill of crude oil on the surface of water.

They veered around the sundial pillar at the heart of Seven Dials. Anne, weaving and ducking wildly, racing towards me at breakneck speed – and the poltergeist in pursuit of her, Sarah Metyard. Both returning to the gully-hole. I was wary of Anne, knowing she was a poltergeist, but Metyard played havoc with my survival instinct. Her approach made me feel as if the sun had been swallowed.

I had been right.

They had taken me by surprise by coming so soon. I threw myself out of the rogue spirits’ path; my back slammed into a doorway. Metyard and Anne slashed past me, striking the side-mirror off a car, and careered around the corner into West Street. A man on the pavement let out a shout. Not a voyant. He wouldn’t have experienced the same gust of pressure that I had. All he would have seen with his own eyes was the car mirror flying off.

‘Sorry,’ I called to him. ‘It’s been loose for weeks.’

He shot me an uncertain look before walking on. A breath hissed between my teeth. We had to finish this quickly, before someone got suspicious and summoned the Vigiles. I checked that my hood was up before I sprinted after the pair.

I found Nick on his knees, breathing deeply. Light-headed with dread, I crouched beside him, searching his face for the silver slashes that marked the wounds of a poltergeist.

‘I’m okay,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Anne got a little too close for comfort. Where’s Jaxon?’

‘Eliza’s getting him.’

His lips had turned slightly blue. ‘We need to get off the street – take Metyard somewhere where Jaxon can bind her without attracting any unwanted attention.’ His hand went straight to his scarf, ensuring that his face was covered. ‘We’ll try to lure her into the courtyard behind the den.’

‘How?’

‘We get her to chase us instead of Anne.’

I helped him to his feet. ‘In other words, we piss her off?’

‘Exactly.’

Murderer and victim had stopped a little farther down the street, and now circled each other slowly, gracefully, as if they moved in water. A woman walked right past them, oblivious.

Metyard lunged at Anne, making her flinch – tormenting her, even in death. She couldn’t kill the girl again, but she could weaken and hound her. She would never leave her alone, and it was our fault for driving her from her hideaway.

Anne lashed back, driving Metyard away for a moment. I watched as Nick prepared to make a spool.

Movement from down the street. Twelve black-clad voyants, all with the same sort of aura, all wearing necklaces and belts made from what looked like hundreds of sewing needles. When they clapped eyes on us, they started running.

‘The Threadbare Company,’ Nick muttered. He sounded torn between amusement and frustration.

I had heard of them. A gang from another section of the citadel. ‘Gossip spreads fast around here,’ I said. ‘Let me guess. They’re here to claim Metyard, too?’

He grimaced in answer. ‘They’re from the district where Tyburn once stood. So, technically, Didion did steal her from them …’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘she’s on our turf now.’

His face hardened. ‘Right. As soon as we’re through the gate to the courtyard, lock it behind us.’

The other voyants were sprinting towards us now, towards Metyard and Anne. This was chaos. ‘They’re ours, Red Vision,’ one of them bellowed. Nick gathered his breath.

‘Get ready,’ he said.

I braced myself. He released the spool.

The knot of spirits careered between Anne and Metyard like a ball through skittles, knocking them away from each other, before it snapped back into his grasp. I could feel their attention turn to us.

‘Come on,’ he barked, and started to run. I followed, feeling Metyard plunge after us. When we reached the next street, Eliza was stepping out of the den. ‘Muse, the courtyard!’

Eliza retreated without protest.

The Threadbare Company were hot on our heels. We crashed through the wrought-iron gate beside the den, into the shaded passageway that led to the courtyard. Nick cleared the steps in one jump, chased by a furious Metyard and an equally angry Anne, while I turned to lock the gate – just as one of the Threadbare Company’s members slammed into it, his face contorted with such outrage that my hands shook in panic.

‘Let it go,’ he snarled, spewing spittle, ‘or I’ll carve a necklace on your throat.’

‘Can’t if you can’t reach me,’ I bit out, shoving the gate closed with my shoulder.

Sarah Metyard rushed between the bars, turning my skin cold. I twisted the key and ran around the corner and after Nick, leaving the Threadbare Company to scream their threats.

This was absurd. Absolute madness. I would have been laughing if not for the danger.

As I rounded the corner, I sensed Anne nearby, but it wasn’t Anne that scared me. I reached for the handrail and threw myself after Nick. He was standing at the far end of the courtyard with Eliza at his side, feet planted a shoulder’s width apart, both hands outstretched, palms facing Metyard. She had backed them into the doorway on the opposite side to this one, which was blocked by another gate.

Where the hell was Jaxon?

Nick gathered another spool to defend himself. I ran towards him. As Metyard rushed him, the spirits formed a shield, but she was stronger than all of them, older and incensed. He clenched his teeth as he tried to hold the spool together. The hangman had slain Sarah Metyard, but her lust for violence had followed her to the æther.

When I got too close, she lashed out at me. I actually felt the sensation of a hand against my chest, a shove driven as if by living muscle, before I went flying. I twisted just in time to land. The impact was so hard that I lost my footing and staggered into the tree. I caught myself and flung a spool of my own, but I was so new to the art that my efforts were little more than a beesting to Metyard. All her attention was fixed on Nick and Eliza, who were trembling with the effort of keeping her at bay. Eliza had also formed a spool, and they were working together to suspend the poltergeist between them, giving her no way out. Anne lingered behind my shoulder, almost as if she was watching the show.

The back door to the den finally opened. Jaxon Hall stepped on to the bone-pale paving stones.

From his leisurely pace, he had to have been testing us with his absence – for the last few minutes, at least. Seeing how long we could hold on to Metyard.

He carried a knife with a white handle. Nothing else. I had never seen Jaxon use his clairvoyance before. He was secretive about the nature of it – with me, at least. I knew he was a binder, someone able to bend a spirit’s will to his own, but I didn’t know exactly how he did it – only that it involved using a spirit’s name to exert control over them. And a knife, apparently. He levelled an amused gaze on his prize before calmly unbuttoning the cuff of his shirt and pushing it up to the elbow.

Metyard had caught wind of danger. She shook off Nick and Eliza and hurtled towards Jaxon. Before I knew what I was doing, I had sidestepped, putting myself in front of him.

I didn’t have enough time to make a spool.

What I did have was my gift.

It stirred in me again. It opened like a flower, and it grew, too big for me to grasp. It was a mechanism, designed to respond to danger. Metyard met it with a force that I felt in every nerve-end. A poltergeist could interact with living flesh: rend it, scar it.

Jaxon had to be able to imprison her. I had to give him time.

All at once, I was soaked to the bone in icy sweat. Behind me, Jaxon hissed through his teeth as he began the binding.

My hands pushed out – not because I thought I could shove Metyard away, but to convince myself that I was in control of this force inside me. I was a pressure-cooker on the brink of boiling over, brimming with power.

Jaxon muttered under his breath. Agony swelled at the front of my skull and exploded into black and red light. I wasn’t strong enough. A copper taste ran over my tongue and licked down the back of my throat. Blood oozed from my nose and dripped down to my chin, soaking into the collar of my blouse.

‘Jax,’ Eliza shouted. She, too, was trembling under the strain.

‘Keep her there’ was his only reply.

She clenched her teeth. ‘No rush. Really, I’m loving this—’

‘Keep. Her. There.’

He went back to his murmuring. Wisps of hair were plastered to my temples. More and more strength was leaving me, pouring away by the moment. Sensing weakness, Metyard pushed closer, making my muscles tremble. Anne shoved at her, to no avail. If Metyard touched my skin, I would be scarred for life, like I had been as a child. Eliza and Nick brought their spools to bear against her, but it was me she was after, me she had to remove if she wanted to incapacitate Jaxon.

‘More, Paige,’ Jaxon said, low enough that only I could hear. ‘Come, now, Pale Dreamer. Let your spirit fly at last.’

A soft, unbroken ring filled my ears. I wanted to answer, but I couldn’t breathe.

‘Do it. You’re a dreamwalker, darling. I know you can do more than this …’

I tried. Closing my eyes, I pictured all the moments in my life that had made me afraid. The school corridors, lined with mocking smiles and dagger eyes. The streets of Dublin, where I had seen my cousin for the last time. My father in his armchair, hiding behind his newspaper, avoiding my gaze whenever we spoke, never telling me why.

It wasn’t enough. Metyard’s rage had festered and boiled for three centuries – it eclipsed mine. The poltergeist shoved closer, buckling my knees. I didn’t know what he wanted me to do, or how to do it. Jaxon let out a low curse.

‘Someone has made an error,’ he said to us. ‘The binding has had no effect. The name must be incorrect.’

I was too aware of my heartbeat.

‘Try it with another “e”,’ Eliza called, panting. ‘M-E-T-E-Y-A-R-D. Some of the documents spelled it that way—’ Her words slid into a groan. ‘Hurry.’

Nick reeled another spirit into his spool and pushed back against the poltergeist, releasing the pressure on me for just long enough for me to get back to my feet. I thought of how Anne Naylor had been beaten and terrorised, treated like dirt, and how no one had helped her. How that happened all too often. How it still happened now, three centuries later. I would fight this battle with her, even if it killed me. I would help give her the justice she had been denied in life.

Moisture seeped down my cheek from my hairline and soaked the back of my neck. Finally, Jaxon said, ‘No effect.’ Almost lazily, he drew up a spool of his own and added its strength to our labours. ‘Are we quite sure that this poltergeist is Sarah Metyard? It would hardly surprise me if Didion had misidentified it.’

‘It must be.’ Nick’s voice was straining. ‘Who else would want to confront Anne?’

It had to be Sarah. The woman who had starved and neglected the girl to death. The woman who had carried her body in pieces to the gully-hole. Who else could it be?

Suddenly I found myself thinking back to the paperwork, remembering what the frightened children had cried when they found Anne senseless in her bindings.

Miss Sally! Miss Sally! Nanny does not move.

It hadn’t been the old woman they had called for. It had been Sarah Metyard the younger. The daughter. If she does not move, she had answered, I will make her move.

Sally.

Sally, who had been brutalised by her mother – who had beaten the girls in the shop, and been beaten herself. Sally, who had eventually run from the house Anne had died in.

Sally, who had condemned them both when she confessed their crime.

As the pieces slotted together, it began to add up.

I will make her move, Sally had said. But even though she had struck Anne’s corpse, even though they had shaken and screamed at her, Anne had not moved. That stillness continued to mock Sally.

I will make her move. I will make her move.

Now she was here again, to make Anne move. To keep her moving, so she would never have peace.

‘There were t-two Metyards,’ I said. My lips were trembling. ‘This is the daughter.’

Realisation dawned on Nick’s face. ‘But she was called Sarah Metyard, too,’ Eliza said, her voice cracking with frustration. ‘Sally was just a nickname.’

‘I seem to remember a middle name,’ Jaxon said. ‘From the record of the hanging.’

‘Oh! Yes, yes – she did have a middle name. Wait.’ Sounding frantic, Eliza released her spool and pelted past us, back into the den. ‘I need to see the death record. Just hold on for a few more seconds—’

‘Hurry, Eliza,’ Nick said. Sweat was streaming off him, and he was deathly pale.

All I could taste was metal. I thought I would die of the pain in my temples, but I had crossed a line somewhere. I could hold on. I could survive this.

It must have been seconds, but it felt like hours before the shout came from the window above us:

‘Morgan. Sarah Morgan Metyard!’

Jaxon set to work at once. In the final moments of the binding, I fell to my knees again, almost retching at the pain. Another soundless scream went through the æther.

And then, just like that, the poltergeist was calm. She hung between us – passive and still.

The beast had been tamed.

Silence descended in the courtyard. It was as if I had been swimming underwater and my head had finally broken the surface. All the tension in my back and shoulders melted away, and I slumped forward, trembling all over. As I caught my breath, Anne Naylor drifted close to me – as close as she could come without touching my face. Every hair on my arms stood on end.

‘She won’t hurt you any more.’ I couldn’t raise my voice above a whisper. ‘I promise.’

I thought I felt a small glow in the æther. Anne brushed past my aura, turning my skin to ice, and slipped quietly out of the courtyard.

‘Don’t try binding her, Jaxon,’ Eliza said. ‘You’re going to lose too much blood.’

‘Yes. Thank you, Eliza,’ was the curt reply.

Nick crouched beside me and grasped my arms. My eye sockets felt tighter, my jaw too stiff to move, and my vision was furred with black around the edges, but I could still just about see. Spots of ruby dotted the paving stones around Jaxon’s shoes and veined one of his arms. I looked up to see him wiping the blade of his knife with a silk handkerchief.

‘Done,’ he said, his eyes on the docile spirit. ‘Not the Metyard we wanted, but I suppose it is a Metyard.’

‘Maria won’t bargain with you now,’ I rasped. ‘She wanted Sarah, not Sally. So we’ve lost Anne, too.’

His face was blank. ‘Yes.’ He beckoned to the spirit. ‘Maria and I are old friends – we may be able to come to a new agreement. If not … well. I’m sure we can find some way to make this day something other than an abject waste of time.’

As he walked into the den, Sally followed. I was drained, weighed down by the sense that he was disappointed in me, but relief spread through my chest. Let Anne Naylor return to the resting place she had chosen for herself. Let her be still. Perhaps she wouldn’t scream now, knowing that her pursuer was gone. That was a victory, I supposed.

It just wasn’t the victory Jaxon Hall had hoped for.

In the den, it was as if nothing had happened. I washed the blood off my face and changed into a new shirt. Jaxon asked me to kindly make him a black coffee and get back to work on the rent, which I did, but no sooner had I sat down than I succumbed to exhaustion. My head dropped on to the desk, and I knew no more.

When I opened my eyes, I was in my own room, and it was dark. In the moonlight, I could make out a moth on the open window.

I jolted upright, only to reel back to my pillow, swallowing a groan. My head was killing me. When had I gone to bed? Had I finished the paperwork? I shifted on to my side, fighting to gather my thoughts. Gooseflesh washed over my skin.

When I remembered what had happened, I pulled a sheet over my head. I had failed. Jaxon would fire me in the morning. I stifled a weak laugh at the prospect of dismissal from my criminal job. First I had failed to impress him with my gift; then I had fallen asleep mid-task. I might as well pack my bags and go now, save myself the humiliation.

A light switched on outside my room. I kept the sheet over my eyes. A weight sank on to the edge of the mattress.

‘Paige, are you awake?’

‘What time is it?’ I murmured.

‘One in the morning.’ Eliza poked me. ‘I made tea. Dealing with ‘geists always gives me a chill.’

I emerged, pushing my curls back from my face. Eliza was in her nightclothes and a cardigan, and her face was bare. She offered a steaming mug, which I took.

‘Did you fall asleep?’ I asked.

‘No. I had to finish your paperwork,’ she said. When I dropped my gaze, she touched my shoulder. ‘Jaxon did, though. Nick and I were using spools – you two were using your gifts. Yourselves. This is part of what it is to be clairvoyant. There’s a saying in the syndicate: the æther takes as often as it gives.’

Jaxon had been just as burned out by the encounter with Sally, then. It was only a small consolation.

Eliza produced a hand-chased silver pillbox from her pocket. ‘Here.’ She flicked it open and plucked out a pill. ‘Nick said you’d have a headache.’

‘Jaxon’s going to fire me, isn’t he?’ I asked quietly.

No reply. I wasn’t sure whether she hadn’t heard, or was just ignoring me. She busied herself with inspecting my cheek, where Bloatface had caught me with his elbow.

‘That’ll be a nasty bruise,’ she said. ‘And your throat – that will hurt for a while.’

‘Eliza.’

‘We’ll talk about Jaxon later. You’ve been asleep for hours – you need something to eat. I think it’s about time we introduced you to Chateline’s, the best cookshop in London.’

‘Now?’

‘It’s open all night. Rumour has it that the owner never sleeps – he won’t let anyone else cook.’ When I went for my clothes, she said, ‘No need to dress up. I regularly go in my slippers.’

A lump was swelling in my throat. She and Nick often went for supper in the evenings. They had never invited me before. This must be a final kindness before they cut me loose.

I gave my hair a quick brush and shrugged on a jacket. We went into the night – she really did wear her slippers – and I listened to her talk about how wonderful Chateline’s was, and how much she liked the eponymous owner, and how he could turn even the simplest meal into a work of art. She was obsessed with Chat’s honey loaf; the recipe was a closely-guarded secret. As she brought it to life with her words, I felt I was glimpsing a world I would never belong in. If I had just worked out what Jaxon had wanted to see from me, this could have been my life.

We passed the sundial pillar, and she led me into the tiny, inconspicuous alleyway that led to Neal’s Yard, a hidden nook between the buildings of Seven Dials. Inside was a shop – or what I’d thought was a shop – that I’d passed a few times while I was carrying out errands; I’d never had cause to go in. Eliza pushed open the door.

The interior was beautiful in a moth-eaten way, an ode to lost grandeur. Patrons crowded the tables, which were lit by wax candles. Nick was waiting for us in a booth in the corner.

‘Evening, Muse.’ A bald, ruddy man was cleaning the bar. ‘I see you’ve finally brought the newcomer.’

‘I’ve decided to let her in on our haven,’ Eliza said, and he chuckled. ‘Dreamer, this is Chateline.’

‘Chat.’ He held out a callused hand. The other arm ended in a stump below the elbow. ‘Muse and Vision have been telling me all about you.’ I blinked. ‘Seeing as this is your first time eating here, dinner’s on the house. Whatever you want.’

‘That’s kind of you,’ I said, surprised. ‘Thank you.’

‘Ah, if you’re a friend of Binder, you’re a friend of mine.’

We joined Nick at the booth. He, too, looked as if he had just rolled out of bed.

‘Hi, sötnos,’ he said, moving a silk cushion to make room for me. ‘I took the liberty of ordering our usual. We wanted to give you your official Chateline’s initiation.’

‘We have a tradition,’ Eliza chimed in. ‘Breakfast for supper, here, every Friday.’ She leaned closer and laid a ring-clad hand over mine. ‘And from now on, you’re coming, too.’

I tried to smile, with limited success. ‘I’m honoured.’

They chattered away for a while, and seemed content to let me nod and smile in the right places. Chat brought us platter after platter of breakfast food, cooked to perfection, along with a brimming coffee press and a silver tureen of cream.

‘What made you choose West Street?’ Eliza said to me, between mouthfuls of pancake.

I poured coffee. ‘I just … thought Metyard would dispose of the body close to home.’

‘I should have realised, too. The watchman who found the body – his statement says that he was based in Holborn, round the corner. I was reading in such a rush the first time.’ She pulled a face. ‘You saved my skin by guessing right. Jax would have been furious if we’d chosen wrong, with the answer right under my nose.’

‘It was a guess. A lucky one.’

‘Like the lucky guess that Sarah was really Sally,’ Nick said, nudging me. ‘And the lucky guess that Anne and Metyard would confront each other at the gully-hole.’

‘It made the most sense.’

Eliza took the coffee I handed her. ‘You sound down, Paige. Aren’t you happy?’

‘Happy?’ I echoed.

‘With your success.’

I looked between their smiling faces. Confused, I said, ‘But I wasn’t successful. Whatever Jaxon wanted to see from me earlier, he didn’t see it.’ When neither of them replied to this, I put down my cup. ‘Look, it’s lovely of you both to do this for me, but … I’d rather it was a clean break.’ My breath came short. They exchanged quizzical glances. ‘Please, just tell me. Is Jaxon going to let me go?’

‘Let you go?’ Eliza burst out laughing. ‘What?’

‘Oh, Paige – no. Of course not,’ Nick said gently. ‘I’ve come back from assignments empty-handed more times than I can count. Even Jaxon Hall doesn’t always get what he wants.’

‘You held Metyard back on your own. We can only repel spirits with spools.’ Eliza shook her head. ‘You’re a dreamwalker, Paige. Rarest of them all. Jax has always known that, but today, you gave him a taste of what you can do. Maybe you haven’t unlocked your gift to its full extent yet, but that’s fine. You can learn more, in time.’

My heart thumped. ‘Really?’

‘Really,’ they said in unison.

‘You did a great job, as far as he’s concerned,’ Eliza said. ‘You guessed the real identity of the poltergeist. You were the one who suspected the spirits would return to the sewer.’ She reached into her knitted bag and produced the file marked M. ‘Chick Lane was clearly important to everyone involved in the crime. This is the transcript of the Metyards’ trial from the Old Bailey. Take a look at what Richard Rooker – Sally’s lover – said when he was testifying.’

I pulled the folder towards me and peered at where her finger rested. In the transcript, Richard Rooker was recounting a conversation he had overheard between Sarah and Sally.

I heard the daughter say to the mother, Mother, you are the Chick-lane ghost; remember the gully-hole.

‘The Chick-lane ghost,’ I said, and released a long breath. ‘So Metyard was known as that even in life.’

Eliza closed the folder. ‘Right. Both Metyard and Anne had a clear link to that street. Jaxon had a strong suspicion that if those two spirits wanted to confront each other, that was where they would do it. He told me as much when you and Nick set off.’

I shook my head. ‘Why didn’t you tell us? Why send us on a wildgoose chase?’

She bit back a smile. ‘Jaxon asked me to test you, see if you could work it out yourself. He was delighted when I told him you’d asked about the gully-hole.’

‘Were you in on this?’ I said to Nick. When he held up his hands, I turned to Eliza again. ‘Fine. You knew Chick Lane was probably the place – but did you know the right Chick Lane was West Street?’

‘No. I really didn’t,’ Eliza said. ‘We took a gamble on your intuition. You were right.’

I sat in silence for a long time, stunned.

Jaxon wasn’t going to cut me loose. I might not be a full-fledged dreamwalker yet, but I had the ability to hunt and restrain spirits, and I had survived an encounter with the Underlord. Remembering that prompted me to ask: ‘What about Hector?’

‘You’ll have to watch your back for a while,’ Nick admitted, ‘but Jaxon will smooth everything over in the end. We all keep an eye on each other. That’s what the Seven Seals is about.’ He wrapped an arm around my shoulders and squeezed gently. My cheeks warmed. ‘We’re a family, Paige. And you are part of that family now.’

My throat was closing; my eyes prickled. I didn’t know what to say.

‘To you, Pale Dreamer,’ Nick said, and the three of us raised our glasses. ‘And your career in unnaturalness.’

‘Get ready for it.’ Eliza grinned. ‘There’s no rest for the damned.’

And I started to realise: this might really be my life. Things might just be like this for ever.

Epilogue

For a few weeks, nothing changed in Seven Dials, except that I would now join Nick and Eliza every Friday at Chat’s. I still didn’t go out much, and the more tedious paperwork inevitably landed on my desk, but I conquered it with new resolve. When Jaxon asked for coffee, it was the best damned coffee in London. The paperwork was the neatest and most detailed it had ever been.

Jaxon displayed no change in his attitude towards me. Courtesy, occasional charm. Solid indifference most of the time. That was all right. Everything was.

The bruise on my cheek faded. According to reports, Anne Naylor was back in Farringdon station, but she didn’t scream as often as she had before. Most of the time, she was quiet and sanguine. Jaxon thought it likely that Metyard the elder was lurking somewhere, but for now, Anne seemed to have found a little peace.

On the last day of October, I was permitted to join Eliza while she collected the rent from local voyants, including Chat. It was a modest promotion, but to me, it was another sign of my acceptance into the gang. I was stepping into the skin of the Pale Dreamer, and I planned to stay in it for a very long time.

Eliza took me into hidden shops where seers sold the knowledge in their crystal balls; where card-readers offered to map out my whole life with their images. We stopped for coffee. We avoided Vigiles. We were so preoccupied with our underworld existence that we almost forgot about the anti-unnaturalness messages on the transmission screens, and the voyants being executed, and the omnipresent government that loomed above us all, waiting to catch us. I had never thought I would be able to forget about Scion while I lived in it.

Nick told me that this was how we rebelled against their tyranny. Quietly, in the shadows – but by existing, by thriving, by daring to profit from our gifts, we defied Scion. I knew from experience that defying them through other means would only end in all our deaths. This was the way things were, and we were content with this, with our secret mutiny.

We collected the last of the rent before sunset. Back at the den, we sat and talked with Nick and told each other stories about our lives from before we had joined the Seven Seals. Eliza, who had been in the syndicate since she had been abandoned in Soho as a baby, was full of them. When we finally turned in for the night, my cheeks were aching from laughing so hard.

The first thing I noticed was that another moth had landed on my window. The second was the curl of paper on my pillow. Familiar, elegant writing fanned across it.

Meet me now at the sundial pillar.

The old fear stirred again. I steeled myself and pulled on my jacket.

As soon as I stepped out of the den, I saw him. He was standing before the illuminated pillar that formed the centre of the district, holding one of his antique canes. He didn’t move as I approached.

‘Good evening, Paige.’

I stopped beside him and pushed my hands into my pockets. ‘Hello.’

My spine was taut, my stomach roiling. Even after three weeks, a small part of me asked if he had just been biding his time, and now he would get rid of me. Perhaps Eliza and Nick had been wrong.

‘I trust you enjoyed your day.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

His gaze was on the sundials. Seven Dials was where seven streets came together, converging in a junction around the pillar – but it had only six sundial faces at its summit. Nick had told me that the district had originally been designed with six streets, hence the absence of a seventh face. Locals now thought of the pillar itself as the missing dial. I took in the blue faces and golden engravings.

‘I have a matter to discuss with you, Paige. An offer to make.’

The first half of what he said would have frightened me out of my wits, but offer was less threatening. Last I’d checked, you didn’t offer to fire someone.

‘As you have no doubt seen,’ Jaxon said, ‘Dr Nygård has been a great asset to me for the last eight years – but his work in Scion makes it difficult for him to commit as fully as I would like to the lifestyle of the Seven Seals. You’ve seen it now, darling. You know how demanding our work is. How dangerous.’ He tapped his cane against the pavement. ‘Eliza is a medium. Talented, yes, and hard-working, but not quite the calibre of voyant to become the heir and protégée of the White Binder.’

A frown pinched my brow.

‘After they proved themselves, I gave both Nick and Eliza one of these sundial faces. To mark their places in the Seven Seals.’

He swung his cane up to point at the sundial that faced the den, then traced a path between us, indicating the street we were standing in.

‘You see this, O my lovely? This is yours,’ he said. ‘This street, this path, is yours to walk. If you follow it, it will lead you into the labyrinth of London’s underworld, where you truly belong. All you need do is embrace the Pale Dreamer. Let her deep into your soul. Let her take away all the doubt, the solitude, the fear you store as Paige Mahoney, and turn it into riches. Let her draw out the gift that lies dormant within you. Do this,’ he said, ‘and you will make me a fine mollisher.’

Mollisher. Second-in-command. He couldn’t be making me this offer, not after so little time.

‘Mollisher,’ I finally said.

‘Correct.’

He was going to choose me over Eliza, who had been with him for almost exactly a year longer than I had. I couldn’t help but think of what Ognena Maria had told me.

‘It shouldn’t be me,’ I said quietly. ‘Eliza—’

‘—will understand, and respect my decision. My mollisher must be someone rare, someone singular. When you fought Sally Metyard, you proved yourself to be everything I hoped. I know you can do more, but we have years to perfect your technique. We have the rest of your life, if you make the commitment I ask.’

I hesitated.

I hated the thought of usurping Eliza; and yet he insisted that she would understand, and he knew her far better than I did.

‘As my mollisher, you will be heir to my section. Upon my death, you will become mime-queen of I-4 and inherit my home in Seven Dials. You will want for nothing. All I ask for in exchange is your loyalty.’ He looked me in the face. ‘Do you accept my proposal?’

My heartbeat was racing now, faster than it ever had – not in fear, but in anticipation.

I still didn’t know what to make of Jaxon Hall, or what kind of promise I was making. For all I knew, I was striking a deal with the devil – but if it saved me from Scion, so be it.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, I’ll be your mollisher. And you have my loyalty. Now and always.’

The corner of his mouth lifted.

‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Until tomorrow, then, Pale Dreamer.’

With that, he walked away.

A cold wind was rising. I stayed where I was for a long while, too shocked to move.

High above London, the stars bore witness to my oath. In that moment, I almost couldn’t see the darkness that surrounded them. I almost couldn’t hear the sirens in the distance. Taking a deep breath, I turned back to the den and allowed myself the softest of smiles.

Now I was free to be what I pleased.

I am Paige Mahoney. I am the Pale Dreamer.

A Note on the Author

Samantha Shannon was born in West London in 1991. She started writing at the age of fifteen. Between 2010 and 2013 she studied English Language and Literature at St Anne’s College, Oxford. In 2013 she published The Bone Season, the first in a seven-book series. The Bone Season was a New York Times, a Sunday Times, and an Asian Age bestseller, was picked as a Book of the Year by the Daily Mail, Stylist, and Huffington Post, and was named one of Amazon’s 2013 Best Books of the Year. It has been translated into twenty-six languages and the film rights have been acquired by the Imaginarium Studios and 20th Century Fox. In 2014, Samantha Shannon was included on the Evening Standard’s Power 1000 list.

samanthashannon.co.uk/@say_shannon

Also by Samantha Shannon

This electronic edition published in 2016 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

© Samantha Shannon-Jones, 2016

Samantha Shannon-Jones has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Excerpt from the Old Bailey Online, www.oldbaileyonline.org

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