A path of lanterns had been lit through the city. The Guildhall was situated close to the House, named after the NVD’s headquarters in London. The voyants invited to the Bicentenary were those that had reached their pink or red tunics, or particularly talented harlies. Nashira had advertised it as a reward for their good behavior. They would be allowed to eat and dance with other humans. In return, they had to make it clear not only that they liked spending time with their keepers, but also that they were very grateful for their “rehabilitation.” That they liked being hidden away from society in a filthy penal colony. That they liked having limbs ripped off by the Emim.

Most of them wouldn’t have to pretend. Carl was happy. All the red-jackets were happy. They’d found a place in this colony, but I never would. I was getting the hell out of here.

“Good trick,” David said. “With the wine.”

I didn’t dare look at him.

“Your boy put in a bit too much. I know regal when I smell it. But don’t worry—it worked on most of them. Far be it from me to spoil the surprise.”

Two harlies came rushing down the street. Both looked out of breath. They carried rolls of fabric. They slipped into the street between the old church and the Residence of the Suzerain. That was the route they’d take to burn the Room. They must be putting matches there. Matches and paraffin.

Julian had suggested setting fire to the buildings in the center of the city. Turned out he was a damn good tactician. The harlies would cause the distraction, leaving other streets free for us to go north, to the meadow. They would do it in the early hours, when the emissaries would be growing tired. “They won’t go home much later than two,” he’d said. “If we do it at midnight, we’ll have a solid time to get the ball rolling. We’ll be in control. And better early than late.” I’d had no complaints. Everything was going to plan—but the clever red-jacket beside me had the power to destroy it all.

“Who have you told?” I asked David.

“Let me give you some food for thought,” he said, ignoring the question. “Do you think Scion likes being ordered around by the Rephaim?”

“Of course not.”

“But you believe Nashira when she says they’re under her control. Do you not think one person in the history of Scion would have thought about fighting them?”

“What are you getting at?”

“Just answer the question.”

“They wouldn’t. They’re too afraid of the Emim.”

“Maybe you’re right. Or maybe there’s still a grain of sense left in the Archon.”

“What does that mean?” When he didn’t answer, I stopped in front of him. “What the hell does the Archon have to do with anything?”