“Well, now you can have another one.” I took his glass and sipped from it. “Do you remember the Incursion, Mr. Bell?”

Bell stopped dead. “If you mean the Incursion of 2046, then yes. Of course I do.” His fingers shook. The knuckles were purpled, swollen with arthritis. “Why are you asking? Who are you?”

“My cousin was arrested that day. I want to know if he’s still alive.”

“You’re Irish?”

“Yes.”

He peered at me. “What’s your name?”

“My name doesn’t matter. My cousin’s does. Finn McCarthy. He was at Trinity College. Know him?”

“Yes.” The reply was immediate. “McCarthy was at Carrickfergus with the other student leaders. He was sentenced to hang.”

“And did he?”

“I—I wasn’t privy to the details, but—”

Something dark and violent rose inside me. I leaned close to him and breathed into his ear: “If my cousin was executed, Mr. Bell, I will hold you personally responsible. It was your government that lost Ireland. Your government that gave up.”

“Not me,” Bell gasped out. His nose was beginning to bleed. “Don’t hurt me—”

“Not you, Mr. Bell. Just your kind.”

“Unnatural,” he bit out. “Get away.” I melted into the crowd, leaving him to stanch his bloody nose.

I felt myself shaking. I snatched another glass of mecks and threw it back in one gulp. I had always thought Finn must be dead, but some small part of me had clung to his memory, to the idea that he might still be alive. Maybe he was, but I wouldn’t find out from Cathal Bell.

I caught sight of Nashira, standing below a podium. Beside her was Warden, engaged in conversation with a Greek emissary. After the right bell he’d received his first amaranth in months; a few drops had transformed him. He wore black and gold, with jacinth at his throat, and his eyes were bright as lamps. I recognized the people closest to Nashira: her elite guard. One of them spotted me—Amelia’s replacement—and from the movement of her lips, I guessed she’d informed her boss.

Nashira looked over the heads of her guard. A soft laugh escaped her. Hearing it, Warden turned around. His eyes grew very hot, very fast.

Nashira beckoned me. I approached, handing my empty glass to an amaurotic.

“Ladies, gentlemen,” she said to those assembled around her, “I would like to introduce XX-59-40. She is one of our most gifted clairvoyants.”

There was a murmur from the delegates: intrigued, repulsed.

“This is Aloys Mynatt, Grand Raconteur of France. And Birgitta Tjäder, Chief of Vigilance in the Scion Citadel of Stockholm.”

Mynatt was a small man, stiff in posture, with no distinguishing features. He nodded.