Bryde looked nearly like himself as the sound of Burrito’s engine drew near. The car was still hard to see, but Hennessy guessed that Ronan hadn’t lost a mirror. Burrito was strong. Ronan was strong. Hennessy was strong. They were all very, very strong.

And getting stronger all the time.

The ley line was singing through her even louder than that server farm had, only it was worse, because she knew this feeling meant she could manifest so, so much of the Lace.

Bryde said, in a low voice, “Have you guessed my secret, Hennessy?”

Hennessy studied Bryde. Again, she thought about how unusual a person he was. He was a little like the car, hard to look at. Hard to see. Or maybe she was just thinking that now that she’d seen him screaming, it was hard to look at him the same way. She said, “Is this a game?”

He closed his eyes. He was still hurting a little, she could tell. In a stiff voice, he said, “It’s all a big game. We’re pieces.” Then he opened his eyes again. “You asked for a rest. We are nearly to the end.”

“I didn’t ask for a break,” Hennessy said.

Her secret was this: She was tired of trying.

Chapter 23

Madame X. Madame X. Madame X.

When Declan slept, he dreamt of her, Virginie Amélie Avegno Gautreau, the red-haired beauty who powdered her face and pinked her ears to make herself unforgettable, a painting before she ever showed up on a canvas as John Singer Sargent’s Madame X. Virginie Amélie Avegno Gautreau, her face turned in striking profile, shoulders proud, fingers poised on the table. Virginie Amélie Avegno Gautreau, with her suitable but troubled young marriage, her many affairs, the dress strap slid from her shoulder to subtly imply she lived two lives: a proper, daylight existence and a stolen, shadow existence that was a reaction to the unsuitability of the first. Madame X.

When he woke up, he thought about the circumstances under which she had been painted. When Declan went to sleep, he thought about how she might be similar to El Jaleo. All the hours in between, he thought about how that process might be re-created to make a new sweetmetal. Madame X. Madame X. Madame X.

And by Madame X, he meant Jordan Hennessy.

He couldn’t get enough of her.

Boston suited him. Schedule suited him. Appointments, phone calls, goals—they all suited him. Building an elaborate spiderweb (a proper one, structurally sound on the outermost corners and sticky only in the very middle so that it trapped only the insects he liked to eat and not himself in it) suited him. He was making a plan. It was high stakes and it was dangerous and Jordan was right: He liked it. He liked all of it.