Page 172 of Twisting Beauty

MIS.

I invoke the Mis Protocol. This was what Bewley was talking about in his letter. This drug.

Oh God. My throat closed up as the pieces fell into place.

There was a tragic Irish myth about a beautiful princess called Mis who went mad.

This drug drove people mad.

Powell had been Deargán’s target. He’d used the vial I’d given him. The vial I’d stolen from Alistair. He had used it to clear Powell out of his way and take the Ravenwood post.

To get to me.

And I’d given him the weapon.

The ground tilted and the lullaby in my head grew muffled. I grabbed at the edge of the desk to keep myself from collapsing.

Freak out later. Cry later. Hate yourself later.

Right now, get the fuck out of here before he comes back and catches you.

My hand shook as I set the vial back down.

This was how Alistair was doing it. He was paid by people to get rid of troublesome girls. Alistair used this Mis drug to drive girls insane.

Then they’d be committed to Magdalene. Under his control.

Like Dervla’s uncle did to Dervla.

Like Bewley had done to Maeve.

And he had done to Bridgit. Bridgit had known too much. The Sons will silence the daughters.

A shiver moved up my spine and out the top of my head.

If Alistair ever caught me, if Alistair ever realized what I knew, I’d be next.

I stumbled back from the desk. I had to get out of here. I spun, ready to sprint for the door.

The singing was broken by a small cough.

I froze.

Synesthesia did not cough.

The soft singing started again.

Not synesthesia.

Human singing.

There was someone down here.

Deargán, the bastard, had gaslit me about the lullaby in the tunnels.

I turned, listening hard, following the sound, my heart rate climbing.

It was coming from the back of the room. From the electrical cupboard, from behind the heavy metal door. Only when I neared it did I see the sliding hatch at eye level.