The Mime Order by Samantha Shannon

just had to emerge.
    The boutique’s windows glistened with fake gemstones. Outside was a girl selling saloop, a petite botanomancer with orchids in her sky-blue hair. I sidled past her.
    A bell tinkled above the door. The owner—a bony, elderly woman, wrapped in a white lace shawl—didn’t look up when I came in. To match her aura, she’d gone fluorescent green in the extreme: green hair in a razor cut, green nails, green mascara, and green lipstick. A speaking medium.
    “What can I do for you, love?”
    To an amaurotic she would have sounded like a chain-smoker, but I knew that rasp was from a throat ill-treated by spirits. I closed the door.
    “A blood diamond, please.”
    She studied me. I tried to imagine what I’d look like if I colored myself to match my red aura.
    “You must be the Pale Dreamer. Come on down,” she croaked. “They’re expecting you.”
    The woman led me to a rickety staircase, hidden behind a rotating curio cabinet. She had a persistent, carving cough, like a chunk of raw meat was stuck in her windpipe. It wouldn’t be long before she became mute. Some speaking mediums cut their tongues out just to stop the spirits using them.
    “Call me Agatha,” she said. “This here is the bolthole of II-4. Haven’t used it in years, of course. Camden voyants scatter all over the place when there’s a scare.”
    I followed her into a cellar, which was lit by a single lamp. The walls were crammed with penny dreadfuls and dusty ornaments. Two mattresses vied for the remaining space, covered by patchwork quilts. Ivy was asleep on a pile of cushions, skin and bones in a button-down shirt.
    “Don’t wake her.” Agatha crouched down and stroked her head. “She needs her rest, poor lamb.”
    Three more voyants shared the second mattress, all with the Sheol look: dead eyes, hollow bellies, faint auras. At least they had clean clothes. Nell was in the middle.
    “So you got away from the Tower,” she said. “We should get a badge for surviving that.”
    In the penal colony I’d hardly spoken to Nell. “How’s your leg?”
    “Just a scratch. I expected more from the Guard Extraordinary. More like the Guard Mediocre, really.” She still winced when she touched it. “You know these two troublemakers, don’t you?”
    One of her companions was the julker boy I’d once helped in Sheol I. He was brown-eyed and dark-skinned, wearing baggy dungarees over his shirt, and his head was tucked under Nell’s arm. The fourth survivor was Felix, nervous-looking and a little too thin for his height, with a shock of black hair and a smattering of freckles. He’d been instrumental in delivering messages during the rebellion.
    “Sorry. I don’t think I ever asked your name,” I said to the julker boy.
    “ It’s all right,” he said in a light, sweet voice. “It’s Joseph, but you can call me Jos.”
    “Okay.” I looked into the corners of the cellar, my heart filling my throat. “Did anyone else escape?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “We got a buck cab from Whitechapel,” Felix said. “We had two others with us, but they’re both—”
    “Dead.” Agatha held a cloth to her mouth and hacked from her throat. When she took it away, it was flecked with blood. “The girl wouldn’t hold down food. The boy jumped into the canal. I’m sorry, love.”
    A cool prickling started along the backs of my legs. “The boy,” I repeated. “He wasn’t mute, was he?”
    “Michael got away,” Jos said. “He ran down to the river, I think. Nobody’s seen him.”
    I shouldn’t have felt relieved—at the end of the day, another voyant boy had died—but the thought of Michael hurting himself was physically painful. Felix scratched the side of his neck. “So you haven’t found anyone else?”
    “Not yet,” I said. “I’m not sure where to look.”
    “Where are you based?”
    “I’m in a doss-house. It’s best you don’t know where. Are you safe here?”
    “They’re safe,” Agatha said,