a glass orb, sparking with volts. It glowed bright enough to light the room, and Enne guessed there were at least a hundred inside. A small fortune on its own, and there looked to be several orbs in the pouch.
“I’ve put up with interviews about Mr. Glaisyer all morning for this voltage, and here I am, giving it to you.” Vianca patted Enne’s hand. “Remember this. Remember how well I treat you.”
“Thank you, Madame,” Enne managed. Volts were hardly enough to forgive how Vianca had quite literally delivered Enne to Sedric Torren, wrapped in a bow and all, but Enne wasn’t so proud that she wouldn’t take them—nor so unintelligent as not to thank the donna of the Augustine Family for such a generous gift.
“Buy yourself whatever you need. And Mr. Glaisyer and Mr. Mardlin, as well. Now take a seat.”
Enne did so, laying the pouch on her lap. Of course she hadn’t come here only to be doted on. Vianca always wanted something. She might give occasionally, but she would always take twice as much.
Vianca slid Enne that morning’s edition of The Crimes & The Times. Enne stared in horror at the wanted sketch of herself below the headline. Séance’s black mask covered most of her features, and although Enne knew it was supposed to be her, it wasn’t an exact match. Her jawline wasn’t wide enough, and her forehead was much too high. No one would pass her on the street and look twice.
Unlike hers, Levi’s adjacent sketch was entirely recognizable. He wore his signature smirk, like he wasn’t the least bit surprised to find himself on the front page.
SENATE CALLS FOR WAR ON THE GANGS
Enne’s stomach dropped as she scanned the article. There were portraits of the lord and second of every gang, as well as the Orphan Guild. She held her breath as she examined Jac’s easy smile and the warrant for his arrest and execution below it. She really hoped he’d listened to her and stayed in her room.
“Have you heard of Worner Prescott?” Vianca asked.
Enne skimmed the page, in case she’d missed his name. He wasn’t mentioned. “No, Madame.”
“And that is precisely the problem.” Vianca sighed and poured herself a refill of her tea, though the drink looked long cold. “There’s an election this November for the seat of the New Reynes representative—one of the most influential positions in the Senate. Worner Prescott is the monarchist party’s candidate.”
Enne knew little of politics. Because Bellamy was only a territory, not a state of the Republic, they didn’t have voting or representation rights. The rivalry of the First and monarchist parties was no concern to them. Most found politics a beastly discussion at salons and parties.
Still, she knew the reputation of the monarchists: violent radicals. Lourdes had devoted her life to their cause, but Enne didn’t know why. She wasn’t sure if this meant Lourdes, too, had been a violent radical, or if the monarchist party was less despicable than she’d always believed. It unnerved her that Lourdes and Vianca had something so fundamental in common.
Malcolm Semper, the late Chancellor of the Republic, had been the father of the First Party. Josephine Fenice, his successor, was another First Party politician, another soulless member of the Phoenix Club. Enne might hesitate to call herself a monarchist, but she did know if the Phoenix Club was on one side, then she was on the other.
“Sedric Torren was running against Prescott,” Vianca continued. “Now that he’s dead—much thanks to you, my dear—the First Party will need to scramble for a new candidate and campaign. For once, we have the advantage.”
The Augustine and Torren Families had rival casino and drug empires, and so Enne had always assumed Vianca had wanted Sedric gone because he was a business competitor. But clearly Vianca had also had political motives since the beginning.
“On top of this, we have this supposed war,” Vianca continued. “Do you know anything about the Great Street War?”
Enne shook her head. She only vaguely remembered it from Levi’s stories and from her guidebook.
“For the South Side, it wasn’t noteworthy. It barely touched them,” Vianca explained. “But for the North, it was bloodbaths and chaos.” Her tongue lingered on those last few words, as if savoring their taste. “We can only hope for history to repeat itself. The monarchist party thrives on troubled times.”
Bloodbaths and chaos. Would that happen again? What must that have meant, by New Reynes’s standards?
“You’ve thoroughly impressed me, Miss Salta. But this new assignment is long-term, and you’ll need more than luck and charm to manage it,” Vianca told her, as if Enne had escaped the Shadow Game solely on her superficial qualities. “Because of it, I’m terminating your role with the acrobatics troupe.”
Enne gaped. “But...but—”
“It’s decided. The troupe takes up too much of your time. And I would prefer our working relationship to remain outside of public knowledge...unlike my relationship with Mr. Glaisyer.”
Acrobatics was the only thing in New Reynes Enne had actually enjoyed. She might not have had her cucumber sandwiches, but at least she had her work as a release. Enne had spent her entire life fighting to achieve mediocrity, and for the first time, she’d discovered that she was naturally talented at something. For once, she could compete. She could excel. And just like that, after only a week and a half, Vianca was taking it from her.
“What is this new assignment?” Enne gritted out between her teeth.
“You’re going to embrace Séance’s newfound infamy and fashion yourself into a proper street lord.” The donna let out an unnatural giggle and sipped her tea.
“You can’t be serious,” Enne whispered. The streets of the North Side had always been dangerous, and now they were even more so, according to the article right in front of her. And Enne might’ve been friends with Levi, but she didn’t know the first thing about being a successful street lord—as if Levi really served as any example.
“Am I ever not serious?” Vianca poured a second cup of stale tea and slid it to her. Enne took it only to have something to fiddle with to soothe her nerves. “I need someone influencing the North Side from the streets, and who better than the famous Séance?”
“The Iron Lord?” Enne suggested.
Vianca scoffed. “Levi’s ridiculous dreams of becoming a street lord are over. Will he be managing a gambling enterprise from Zula’s basement? He doesn’t have the volts or the connections, and with the Scar Lord dead and Mr. Mardlin now an equally wanted man, who will be Levi’s face?” She shook her head, the corners of her lips tilting into a smile. Enne didn’t understand how Vianca could pretend to care about Levi, yet take such pleasure in the mutilation of his desires. “That boy has always had delusions of grandeur. Besides, I intend for Levi to help you. As a consultant, if you will. You’re a more promising criminal than he ever was.”
It was a compliment Enne neither wanted nor appreciated. Lola might’ve called Enne a lord, but Enne wasn’t someone who could command a real gang. She’d hoped that, in a few months’ time, Séance’s name would slowly fade from notoriety to memory. If she had to embrace Séance’s persona and live the life of Enne Scordata, a born criminal, then how much of Enne Salta—the dancer, the lady, the romantic—would remain? She had so little left to surrender to New Reynes.
“This is what you will do. Now listen closely.” Vianca leaned forward and lowered her voice. “First, you must pay a visit to dear Bryce.”
Enne frowned in confusion. “Bryce?”
“The Guildmaster,” Vianca said impatiently. “He’ll help you recruit others. Use the remaining volts I gave you to purchase members.”
The Guildmaster referred to the Orphan Guild. Enne didn’t know much about them. She knew Lola worked for them as a blood gazer—she could read the talents of those who didn’t