“Wait,” I said. “You taught him?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Silence filled every crevice of the room. Warden reached for his goblet.

“Who are you?” I said. He glanced up at me. “You’re the blood-consort of a Sargas sovereign. You’ve been puppeteering a government since 1859. You’ve supported voyant trafficking, watched a whole system develop around it. You’ve helped them spread lies and hatred and fear. Why are you helping humans?”

“That, I cannot tell you. Just as you will not tell me who your friends are, I will not tell you my ulterior motives.”

“Would you tell me if you found out who my friends were?”

“Perhaps.”

“Have you told Michael?”

“A little. Michael has great loyalty toward me, but I cannot fully trust him in his fragile mental state.”

“Do you think the same about me?”

“I know too little about you to trust you, Paige. But that does not mean you cannot earn my trust. In fact”—he sat back in his chair—“the opportunity will present itself today.”

“What do you mean?”

“You will see.”

“Let me guess. You killed a soothsayer and stole his power, and now you think you can see my future.”

“I am no theif of gifts. But I do know Nashira very well, well enough to guess her moves. I know when she likes to strike.”

The grandfather clock chimed once. Warden glanced at it. “Well, that is one hour,” he said. “You are free to go. Perhaps you should visit your friend, the cartomancer.”

“Liss is in spirit shock,” I said.

He glanced up.

“The red-jackets chucked her cards on the fire.” My throat was tight. “I haven’t seen her since.”

Ask for his help. I struggled with myself. Ask him if he can replace her cards. He’ll do it. He helped Michael.

“A pity,” he said. “She is a gifted performer.”

I forced out the words: “Will you help her?”

“I have no cards. She must have her link to the æther.” He met my eyes. “Amaranth would also be necessary.”

I stayed where I was, watching as he reached for a small box on the coffee table. It looked like an old-fashioned snuff box, made with mother-of-pearl and slivers of gold. In the center of the lid was the eight-petaled flower, like one of his boxes of vials. He flipped it open and withdrew a tiny bottle of oil, tinged with blue dye.

“That’s aster extract,” I said.

“Very good.”

“Why do you have it?”

“I use small doses of the star-flower to assist Michael. It helps him remember his dreamscape.”

“Star-flower?”

“It is the Rephaite name for aster. A literal translation from our language—Glossolalia, or Gloss.”

“Is that what julkers speak?”

“Yes. The ancient language of the æther. Michael can no longer speak it, but he understands. So do whisperers.”

So julkers could eavesdrop on the Rephaim. Interesting. “Are you planning to give him aster . . . now?”