Page 9 of The Dawn Chorus

At this, Warden returned to sit beside me on the daybed. He eased the mantle back over me.

And there it was, so fleeting I almost missed it. The thrum of the golden cord.

The bone-deep sensation caught me unawares from time to time. It was the quick, smooth pull of a bow across a heartstring, a note that never made a sound. A seventh sense. I hated that I could bear it.

At quarter to one, the vomiting started. Warden wordlessly handed me a vase – a priceless antique, by the look of it – and I coughed bile into it. I was going to die of this before I ever started a revolt. The secret behind Scion would never be revealed.

Warden stayed with me. To my surprise, he held my hair away from my face while I heaved and shuddered. When the wrenching finally stopped, I wiped my mouth, exhausted.

‘Thank you,’ I rasped. ‘Sorry. About the vase.’

‘It was serving no other purpose.’

He released my hair, letting it fall back around my shoulders. It had grown too long for my liking.

‘Warden,’ I said as he rose.

‘Yes?’

‘If I die of this, p-plant wild oat on my grave. The flowers are my favourite.’

‘You are not going to die, Paige Mahoney.’

‘You said this could be fatal.’

‘I did not think it would depress you this deeply, since mortals are familiar with the concept of impending death.’

‘I can’t even tell if you’re joking.’

‘I will leave you to wonder.’ He looked towards the window. ‘If I do not return, seek Terebell. She will guide you in the days ahead.’

He took his cloak from the back of the armchair. At that moment, someone knocked on the door.

I tensed. It might be one of the Rephaim, come to tell Warden that his courier had been caught. As soon as the door opened, however, Michael stumbled in, out of breath.

‘Michael.’ Warden shut the door. ‘Are you all right?’

Michael nodded. His cheeks were even pinker than usual. Seeing me on the daybed, he came straight to my side, his brow furrowed.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Slowly dying.’

Michael immediately slid his satchel from his shoulder and handed it to Warden, who emptied it on to the bed. Several boxes of medicine fell out.

‘Scared the hell out of us, Mike,’ I said. Michael pulled a face. ‘You’re not a fan of nicknames. Noted.’

‘Well done, Michael. This is enough to cure most of those who have been stricken.’ Warden placed the boxes in his cabinet. ‘You have returned later than we agreed. Were you seen?’

Still breathless, Michael shed his black coat and signed an answer. Warden watched.

‘There was a meeting in the House,’ he related to me. ‘When Michael attempted to eavesdrop, a red-jacket almost found him. He hid until there was an opportunity to escape.’

‘Did you hear anything at all?’ I asked Michael hoarsely. ‘Anything about us, about a rebellion?’

Michael shook his head and signed again, faster.

‘It seems that Benoît Ménard, the Grand Inquisitor of France, will not be attending the Bicentenary, apparently due to a long-term illness.’ Warden paused. ‘His physician has advised him against all travel until his symptoms subside.’

‘That seems … odd. I’d have thought only death would keep him from answering a summons from Nashira.’