Free The Mime Order by Samantha Shannon Page A

parlor music floated from the open door of an antiques shop.
    Short alleys twisted off on all sides of the main street, each leading to a small, enclosed court. It was into one of these that I walked, heading for the single doss-house it housed. A sign hung over the door, with letters spelling out BELL INN. When I sensed Nick’s dream-scape, I gave it a nudge.
    After a few moments, a worried face appeared at the garret window. I waited by the streetlight until he came through the door of the doss-house.
    “What are you doing here? What happened?”
    “Hector,” I said, by way of an explanation.
    A shadow crossed his brow. “You’re lucky to be alive.” He kissed the top of my head. “Quickly. Inside.”
    “I need to pay for the rick.”
    “I’ll do it. Go on.”
    I stepped into the hall and shook the rain off my coat. When Nick returned, he led me past the firelit parlor, where a large man was hunched over a book, smoking a pipe. He was perhaps sixty, of sallow complexion. A neat, dark beard, shot with gray, grew out from below his large nose.
    “Evening, Alfred,” Nick said.
    The man started so violently that the chair let out a gunshot crack. “Oh—Vision, my good friend.” His accent was distinctly upper class, oddly so, like he should have been born in the monarch days.
    “You don’t look too good, old man.”
    “Yes, well.” He sank back into his seat. “Minty’s out looking for me, you see. Rather on edge.”
    “You thought I was Minty? I’m flattered.” Nick took his key from the doorkeeper. “You work too hard. Why don’t you get out of Grub Street for a few days, take a break?”
    “Oh, no fear. Your mime-lord would throw a fit, for one thing. He likes me to be available at all hours in case of literary emergencies. Not that he’s in my good books—still owes me a blasted manuscript.” With a gnarled finger, the man forced his pince-nez to the end of his nose. When he spotted me, his eyebrows sprang up. “And who is this fair maiden you’re sneaking into the garret?”
    “This is Paige, Alfred. Jaxon’s mollisher.”
    Alfred looked at me over the tops of his lenses. “My word. The Pale Dreamer. How do you do?”
    “Alfred is a psycho-scout,” Nick said to me. “The only one in London. He discovered Jaxon’s writing.”
    “I hasten to add that the ‘psycho’ is short for ‘psychographer.’ Most of my clients are writing mediums, you see.” Alfred kissed my grimy hand. “I’ve heard a great deal about you from your mime-lord, but he never deigned to introduce you.”
    “He doesn’t deign to do much,” I said.
    “Ah, but he’s the mastermind! He need not lift a finger.” Alfred released my hand. “If I may say so, dear heart, you look as if you’ve been in the wars.”
    “ Hector.”
    “Ah. Yes. Our Underlord is not the most peaceful of men. Why we voyants fight each other so passionately, yet do nothing to fight the Inquisitor, I shall never know.”
    I studied the drooping face. If this man had discovered Jaxon’s writing, he was at least partly responsible for the publication of
On the Merits of Unnaturalness
, the pamphlet that had turned voyant against voyant and caused the terrible fault lines that still divided our community.
    “It is strange,” I said.
    Alfred glanced up at me. His downturned eyes were gunmetal blue, and beneath them hung two swollen pouches of skin.
    “So, Nick. Tell an old man the latest Scion scandals.” He folded his hands on his stomach. “What sort of devious new experiments are they performing? Are they chopping up voyants yet?”
    “Nothing that juicy, I’m afraid. Most of the doctors are testing the new Senshield prototype for SciORE.”
    “Yes, I imagine they are. How is your Danica faring around that?”
    I was certain Danica hadn’t met this man in person; she wasn’t exactly a social butterfly. Jaxon must have told him about us, real names included. “She’s sixth-order,” Nick said. “It can’t detect her