of the upper rooms, side by side, negligent of propriety and drawn to this socially shocking arrangement by virtue of our extreme experiences.
We stretched out, both exhausted.
“I understand absolutely nothing of this,” I said. “The creatures talk complete nonsense. I obviously lost my mind when we left Theaston Vale and am becoming progressively more insane with every hour that passes.”
“Then I’m also a candidate for Bedlam,” Clarissa answered, “which I refuse to believe. Better to regard our circumstances as similar to those of Alice, whom Mr. Lewis Carroll had fall into a rabbit hole.” She reached up to her forehead and touched the little bumps over her goggles. “Wonderland.”
“Almost horns, Clarissa. Have you any idea what they are?”
“No, but they have something to do with the way my mind has been opened to the Yatsill.”
“Opened?”
“Made accessible. The Yatsill are mimics. Incredible mimics. They’re somehow mining my memories and knowledge, and this city is their interpretation of my impressions of London. They wear clothes and speak English because of me. Even the masks they wear come from my recollections of the Hufferton Hall bals masqués. I’m not sure they can help themselves.”
“Yarvis Thayne and Yissil Froon appear to be rather resistant to your influence.”
“Perhaps not as much as they like to believe. They spoke English, after all, and the way of life whose passing they lament was no more authentic than this—it was quite clearly an imitation of the Koluwaian culture. Remember what Yissil Froon said? The Yatsill were akin to animals until the Saviour looked upon them. I suspect that this process of having my mind made accessible by Immersion must, once upon a time, have also happened to a Koluwaian.”
“What! You mean their god, the Saviour, was an islander?”
“I do, which explains why they regard the sea—or Phenadoor—as some sort of heaven, just as the Koluwaians did. What I don’t understand, though, is this business of being ‘taken.’ We need to find out what it means and why the Magicians need to protect themselves and the rest of the Aristocrats from it. To quote Father Mordant Reverie, we have until ‘the Eyes of the Saviour look upon us again.’”
“What do you think that signifies?”
“Tomorrow.”
I sat up. “Tomorrow?”
“The Eyes of the Saviour are the suns, Aiden. When they set, they won’t look upon us again until sunrise. We have until tomorrow.”
“Thank goodness! I feel that we’ve been here for weeks and weeks, but it’s barely even noon yet! Tomorrow isn’t due for ages.”
Clarissa gave a grunt of agreement and murmured, “But the night, Aiden. What happens during the long, long night?”
° °
“Get out of here! Run! Run!”
“Mr. Skin-and-Bones.”
“Please!”
“Mr. Books-and-Bible.”
“I’ll kill you!”
“Mr. Thoughts-and-Theories.”
The blade tore into her, slitting her stomach wide open. Her entrails slopped onto the cobbles. They writhed like tentacles, as if possessed of a life of their own.
I pulled on the sword and watched its blade slide out of her flesh, red and wet and gleaming.
She collapsed. My face was reflected in the black lenses of her goggles.
“No!” I screamed. “Not you! Not you!”
My terrified eyes filled the two dark circles, imposed onto her face as if they were her own—as if she’d just recognised the evil in me and was paralysed by fear of it.
Her eyes. My eyes.
The blackness of her lenses.
The blackness of my soul.
Her corpse suddenly lurched up, hands clutching my shoulders, fingers digging into my flesh.
“Aiden! Wake up!”
“Who will forgive me?” I yelled. “If there’s no God, who will forgive me?”
“Stop it! You’re having a nightmare!”
I pulled away, rolled onto my side, and curled up, my whole body shaking.
“It’s all right,” Clarissa said soothingly. “It’s all right.”
“Nine levels,” I croaked. “This place has nine levels, just as Dante described in the Divine Comedy.”
“We’re not in Hell.”
“I am.”
She put a hand on my shoulder and looked down at me. “I don’t think you’ve ever properly known yourself, Aiden. Hell is for the evil, but I think evil is more properly recognised by those who witness it than by those who commit it. I do not see it it you. Not at all.”
My racing heart and panting respiration slowed. I rolled over and got to my feet, ran my fingers through my hair, and wiped the beads of sweat from my face. “Perhaps you’re right,” I mumbled, but I was not convinced. A terrible self-loathing was upon me—intense, the pressure from it almost a physical sensation.
To change the subject, I asked, “For how long have we slept?”