The Burning Page

They broke through the cloud and continued falling, like a lift in a high-speed crash. Irene wished she could think of less dramatic similes, but then it became difficult to think at all. The rain slammed down on her and Kai like a waterfall, oozing under her cape and slashing at her face, making it impossible to see clearly.

Kai’s wings spread with a thud of air like a miniature thunderclap, and their descent abruptly slowed. It was probably a contradiction of the natural laws of inertia and force equals mass times acceleration, or whatever the relevant equations were. But if the universe wasn’t paying attention, Irene wasn’t going to raise the issue. He settled gently on a level stretch of roof, his claws grating on the slate surface. If there were guards up here, then they were all sensibly out of the rain and not watching the roof. Good. First objective achieved.

Irene slid from Kai’s back and peered through the pouring rain, getting her bearings. Over to her right she could see the onion-dome of the Palace Church. That must mean that the nearer crosspiece building, between the Winter Palace and the Hermitage proper, was St George’s Hall. The imperial throne was there – though hopefully they wouldn’t be running into Her Imperial Majesty tonight. Further round to her left was the Great Hall, scene of the night’s reception, its windows blazing with light despite the enshrouding rain. So she and Kai should be directly above some of the unoccupied royal apartments. Well, technically they were directly above the servants’ attics, which were directly above said royal apartments, but servants’ attics never made it onto the official maps.

Next to her, Kai shuddered, and the air rippled around him. And then he was standing next to her, also shrouded in an oilcloth cape. ‘There’s a door and stairs over there,’ he said, pointing to a shadow on one of the roof’s exterior crenellations. ‘Let’s get out of the rain.’

It was close enough, and Irene nodded. She had to hold his arm to make her way across the wet slate, even barefoot as she was. The door was locked, but opened to the Language, and they both breathed a sigh of relief when they were inside and out of the storm.

As expected, these were the servants’ attics, and therefore utilitarian rather than Models of Great Architecture. Irene pulled her bag from under her coat and carried out emergency repairs to her hair. She dried her feet with the towel she’d been carrying, before pulling on stockings and dancing slippers. Then they bundled capes and towel into a convenient cupboard and headed down the nearest flight of stairs, hopefully looking like lost reception guests. They didn’t pass any servants on the way, though Irene heard the odd soft-shoed scuffle in the background.

When they reached the second floor, the decor abruptly changed to luxurious, but not overdone. The floors and walls of rooms were inlaid marble, the corridors were also of marble, and the furniture featured gilt, carving and velvet cushions. The paintings on the walls had probably been commissioned or collected from famous artists. (Visual arts had never been Irene’s best subject. She could barely tell a Rembrandt from a Raphael without a guidebook.)

Kai looked around with clear approval. ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘Quite tolerable. Which part are we heading for now?’ He paused to straighten his cravat in one of the mirrors.

Irene shoved a comb back into a wind-tossed section of her hair and looked glumly at her elegant, though slightly damp reflection. It was a nice dress, a pretty light-green silk-and-tulle affair with puffed sleeves and full skirts (damp around the edges), which left her shoulders and neck bare. She’d accessorized it with arm-length lace gloves and silk slippers and had put up her hair with combs and pins, but despite all that, next to Kai she looked like . . . well, like someone who’d dressed up for the occasion. Kai, in his frock coat, cravat, waistcoat and well-cut trousers, looked like someone who should be at an imperial reception. Even hosting the reception. On him, the clothing looked natural.

She decided it wasn’t worth unpicking that little knot of resentment, and she thrust it aside. ‘Along here and down the staircase at the far end,’ she instructed. ‘Then down two floors. And if we can avoid anyone noticing, so much the better.’ The storm was still crashing down outside, and when she passed the windows she could hear the wind like ripping fabric and the rain rattling against the glass.

They made it to the ground floor without being stopped. As they descended, the architecture became more and more lush, heading towards sheer extravagance, but retaining just enough control to avoid gaudiness. Rich marble sheathed everything, as pale and smooth as cream. Gilt ornamentation gleamed as if it had only been polished within the last hour. The sounds of music drifted very faintly through the corridors.

A servant approached, sleek in his black uniform. ‘I beg your pardon, sir, madam,’ he said, effortlessly identifying the more aristocratic of the two of them and addressing him first. ‘The reception is taking place in the Great Hall. If you require directions . . .’

Kai looked down his nose at the man. ‘You may go about your business,’ he said. ‘The lady and I know our way.’

With a bow, the servant retreated. But Irene knew he’d only be the first in a line of helpful minions trying to herd them towards the other guests. She took Kai’s arm and led him round a corner, into a slightly less-impressive side corridor and through an only moderately impressive doorway, into an unimpressive plain stone staircase leading down.

Kai sniffed. ‘I can smell food,’ he murmured.

‘The kitchens are down here, in the basements,’ Irene replied. It was a narrow staircase, and she had to pull in her skirts so that they wouldn’t brush the walls. ‘They should be over, um—’ She consulted her mental map. ‘West and north-west-ish. Thataway. We need to go north-east from here, heading under the church.’