The Mime Order by Samantha Shannon Read Free Book Online Page B

their hair or nails to match their auras, though you’d only get the link if you were sighted. I stopped in front of him.
    “Are you busy?”
    He glanced at me. “Depends. You a local?”
    “No. I’m the Pale Dreamer,” I said. “Mollisher of I-4.”
    With that, he turned his head away. “Busy.”
    Eyebrows raised, I stood my ground. His face was carefully blank. Most voyants would have jumped to attention at the sound of the word
mollisher
. I gave him a hard push with my spirit, making him yelp.
    “What the fuck are you playing at?”
    “I’m busy, too, sensor.” I grabbed him by the collar, keeping my spirit close enough to his dreamscape to make him feel nervous. “And I don’t have time for games.”
    “I’m not playing any. You’re not a moll anymore,” he spat. “Word is that you and Binder have had a disagreement, Pale Dreamer.”
    “Is it, now?” I tried to sound unmoved. “Well, you must have heard that wrong, sensor. The White Binder and I don’t disagree. Now, do you
really
want to risk a slating, or do you want to help me?”
    His eyes narrowed a little, assessing me. They were shielded by yellow contact lenses.
    “Get on with it, then,” he said.
    “I’m looking for Agatha’s Boutique.”
    He jerked his collar from my grip. “It’s in the Stables Market, past the lock. Ask for a blood diamond and she’ll help you out.” He folded his copiously tattooed forearms. Skeletons were the theme, wrapping his muscles in painted bone. “Anything else?”
    “Not right now.” I let go of his collar. “Thanks for your help.”
    He grunted. I resisted giving him another push as I walked past, heading for the lock.
    Doing that had been risky. If he’d been a Rag Doll, he wouldn’t have let me push him around. They were the dominant gang here, one of the few to have invented their own distinctive “uniform”: pinstriped blazers and bracelets made of rat bones, as well as the colored hair. Their mime-lord’s name was whispered throughout II-4, but only a handful of people had ever laid lamps on the elusive Rag and Bone Man.
    Jaxon must have put word out on the street that I was no longer his mollisher. He was already destabilizing my position in the syndicate, trying to force me back to him. I should have known he wouldn’t wait long.
    I smelled Camden Lock as soon as I got close. Narrowboats floated on the scummy green water, their sides coated with algae and old paint, each manned by a costermonger. “Buy, buy,” they shouted. “Strings for your boots, two quid for ten!” “Hot pies, toss or buy!” “Five bob for an apple and white!” “Chestnuts baked fresh, a note for a score!”
    My ears pricked at that one. The boat was a deep red, trimmed with plum and swirls of gold. It must have been beautiful once, but now the paint was peeling and faded, the stern disfigured by anti-Scion graffiti. Chestnuts roasted away on a stove, scored with X-shaped cuts through which the innards peeped.
    When I approached, the costermonger smiled down at me with crooked teeth. The glow of the stove scorched in her eyes beneath the brim of her bowler hat.
    “A score for you, little ma’am?”
    “ Please.” I handed her some money. “I’m trying to find Agatha’s Boutique. I was told it was near here. Any idea?”
    “Right round the corner. There’s a hawker selling saloop that way. You’ll hear her when you’re close.” She filled a paper cone with chestnuts and smothered them with butter and coarse salt. “Here you are.”
    I picked at my chestnuts as I traversed the market, letting myself soak up the atmosphere of humans going about their business. There had been none of this vigorous energy in Sheol I, where voices had been whispers and movements had been quiet. Night was the most dangerous time for voyants, when the NVD were on the prowl, but it was also the time when our gifts were at their strongest, when the urge to be active smoldered inside us—and, like the moths we were, we