“No, no, Paige. Don’t you dare think like that. None of us are freaks. You’re a miracle. A jumper.” She took the sketchbook from my hands. “I’ll have Jax check this out once he’s finished. He’ll love it. Are you staying with your dad tonight? Weren’t you going to stay with him on Fridays?”

“I’ve got to work. Didion thinks he’s found William Terriss.”

“Oh, fuck. Say no more.” She turned to face me. “Hey, you know what they say about the syndicate. Once you get in, you never get out. Sure you’re still happy with that?”

“Never been happier.”

Eliza gave me a smile. It was a strange smile, almost wistful. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll be upstairs. Need to pacify Pieter.” With a jangle of bracelets, she sidled from the room. I started to shade the rings on my sketch, making each one darker than the last.

I was still working a few hours later, when Jax came down from the second floor. It was getting close to sunset. I’d have to head out and meet Didion soon; but I wanted to transfer my sketch to the computer. Jax looked almost feverish.

“Jax?”

“Unreadable,” he breathed. “O, my lovely, lovely Paige. Our dear Mr. Sáenz is an unreadable.”

21 A Burnt Ship

21

A Burnt Ship

I will never forget Warden’s face when he saw me in the red tunic. It was the first time I ever saw fear in his eyes.

It only lasted a split second. But I did see it, just for a moment, a trace of insecurity, softer than a candle flame. He watched me as I headed for my room.

“Paige.”

I stopped.

“How was your inaugural feast?”

“Enlightening.” I traced the red anchor on the gilet. “You were right. She did ask me some questions about you.”

There was a brief, tense silence. Every muscle in his face was rigid. “And you answered them.” His voice was cold now, colder than I’d ever heard it before. “What did you tell her? I must know.”

He wouldn’t beg. Warden was proud. His jaw was clenched tight, his lips pressed together in a hard line. I wondered what was racing through his mind. Who to warn, where to run. What to do next.

How long could I make him suffer?

“She did say something that caught my attention.” I sat down on the daybed. “That the blood-consort is forbidden from engaging with the Emim.”

“He is. Strictly forbidden.” His fingers drummed the arm of the chair. “You told her about the wounds.”

“I didn’t tell her anything.”

His expression changed. After a moment, he poured his amaranth from the decanter into a glass. “Then I owe you my life,” he said.

“You drink a lot of amaranth,” I said. “Is it for the scars?”

His gaze flicked up. “Scars.”

“Yes, the scars.”

“I drink amaranth for my own reasons.”

“What reasons?”