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“Your question was stupid.”

“Fine.” My fists ball up as they did when I was a sullen child. If she wants a real question, I have those, too. “How did you get to Earth?”

“Planning to return home?”

“Do you remember?” I ask, bypassing her question.

“Of course I do,” she says. “We took a loophole.”

“Were you running to a loophole on the night I was retrieved?” I ask, abandoning any hope of a casual conversation.

“Your parents really failed you that night,” she says, not answering my question.

“Do you remember?” I ask, unsure I want the answer.

“I know what happened,” she snaps. “The retrieval squad came and you were too stupid to warn your parents. They tried to run. There was a slub in Romen. You would have been safe there, but you didn’t warn them, so they couldn’t escape. You killed your parents.”

Her words sting.

“My parents aren’t dead,” I say. “Benn is. But you’re alive, and so is my biological father.”

“So Dante told you?” she asks. “I wondered if he would. I didn’t think he had the courage.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why would I tell you?”

It’s frustrating to sit here and talk with a woman who shares my history and holds the secrets to the past I can’t remember, but who doesn’t see herself as part of it. She looks at her memories from the outside.

“I don’t suppose I’ll be calling him Daddy anytime soon,” I say.

“That child couldn’t be a father,” she says. “He can’t see past himself. He didn’t even realize she was pregnant.”

“You were pregnant?” I prompt.

“Meria was pregnant.” The words are oozed venom on her tongue.

“You are Meria.”

“I am no one,” she says.

And I see the truth of it in the flat deadness of her eyes. I hear the resignation seeping through her voice. I feel it as the words hang between us. It’s true because she believes it.

“Where can I find a loophole?” I can’t keep talking circles around this subject. I can’t listen to my mother denounce me, my family, herself.

“Around,” she says with a shrug.

“That’s so helpful.”

“Don’t you think someone as powerful as your host would know the answer to that question?”

“My host is gone at the moment,” I say. Then it occurs to me that I might be giving her too much information in telling her that Kincaid is away. Maybe it’s a good thing she’s so securely kept.

“And he left you behind?” The question digs at me.

“I’m tired of your games,” I tell her. “I just … just wanted to see you.”

“In the future,” she begins, and my breath hitches, caught on the unexpected hope rising in my chest, “don’t bother.”

It stings, even though I know this is a game. I turn without a goodbye and leave her there. On my way out, I decide:

I’m never going back to her.

Erik is at dinner, alone. I’m not hungry, but I knew he would be in the dining room. When Kincaid left to find the Whorl, I expected meals to become less formal. But even though Valery doesn’t join us and Dante rarely does, the kitchen still serves a full five-course meal.

“Do you know anything about loopholes?” I ask Erik, sipping the last of the coffee that was brought with the dessert tray.

“Like bunny ears for tying your shoes?” he asks.

“Yes, of course that’s what I mean,” I say in a flat tone.

“I guess I don’t know then,” Erik says. He hasn’t touched his coffee, so I steal it.

“I can’t believe you drink that stuff,” he says.

“I can’t believe you don’t.” I slurp a long draft of it for emphasis.

“Why?” he asks.

“It hits me right here,” I say, poking my forehead. “Like tiny explosions.”

“Right,” he says as he fiddles with my old digifile, barely interested.

“Why didn’t you pawn that?” I ask.

“It’s useless down here,” Erik says, but he doesn’t stop playing with it. “Why did you ask about loopholes?”

“Something my mom said.”

That gets his attention.

“At the risk of sounding like my brother, you know it’s a bad idea to visit her, right?” Erik asks. He abandons the digifile and looks at me.

“I know,” I admit. “But it feels like she’s the only connection I have left.”

“You have me,” Erik says.

“Not what I meant. My last connection to a time when life wasn’t confusing.” My words are all wrong, betraying me. I can’t explain it to him. I barely understand it myself.

“And she told you about loops?” Erik guesses.

I nod, trying to sort my thoughts into coherent strings of words. “Dante called them loopholes. There must be one in the Icebox with that many refugees winding up there. Someone in the grey market must know.”

“Do you even know what a loophole is?”

“No,” I say. “But I have an idea.”

“Well, that’s something,” Erik says.

It’s more than I usually have. “But what now?”

“That’s the easy part. We go to the Icebox.”

Most of the house has retired for the evening. There’s no way to procure a security detail to leave the premises at this hour and Kincaid has left strict instructions that I can’t leave anyway. But thirty minutes later we’re sitting in a crawler. I’ve traded my skirt and blouse for one of the few practical outfits Kincaid has supplied me with: a mink coat layered over a flowing silk tunic and close-fitting black trousers with supple black leather boots that reach my knees. There are a few credits crammed in my pocket—the leftovers from the items we pawned upon our arrival here. The Icebox is down through the mountains, and it sprawls around the estate like a metro built on a tributary.

“So you stole a crawler?” I ask.

“I borrowed it,” Erik says.

“Without permission,” I add.

“Flexible morals,” we both say at the same time.

“Jinx,” Erik says.

“Uh-oh, bad luck for me,” I say.

“Nah,” he says. “In Saxun, it means you owe me something.”

“That sounds like trouble,” I say, unsure I want to be further in Erik’s debt. “What do I owe you?”

Erik shoots me a wink from the driver’s seat. “I’ll think of something. So what now?”

“We figure out…” I pause. I have no idea what we need to figure out next.

“Good plan,” he says.

“I’m known for my high-quality planning skills.”

The grey market is as delightful as I remember. But Erik says nothing when I toss a few credits to a refugee begging on the sidewalk.

“I don’t care how he uses it,” I say, suddenly self-conscious of my move. “He needs it more than I do.”

“I’m not judging you,” he says. “He probably does need it more than you do.”

He smiles so genuinely then that my insecurity melts, replaced by something much warmer that tugs at me.

Something that forces me to turn away.

“Wait,” I say, twisting back toward the opposite direction, returning to the refugee.

“Ma’am.” The refugee tips an imaginary hat at me.

“You’re a refugee.” I point to the scrawl of information on his makeshift sign. “How did you get here from Arras?”

The beggar’s eyes dart from me to Erik and back again. “Don’t remember.”

“I promise,” I start, squatting down to him, “we’re only looking for one to use ourselves. We need to go back.”

His eyebrows tilt in surprise and he mumbles a few unintelligible words that sound like oaths.

“Please,” I press, reaching out to touch his hand.

“There’s a depot in the grey market. Find the speakeasy on First,” he says, but he grabs my hand with sudden passion. “You can’t go back. It’s suicide.”

I pull my hand away, managing a smile.

“Come on,” Erik says, offering me his hand. I accept it, thanking the refugee for his information. The man’s face stays gray in the halogen of the fading lighting system. We have enough time to find the bar he’s talking about, on First Avenue, before the streets go dark at curfew.

“Want to grab a drink?” Erik asks, threading my arm around his.

“Erik, you read my mind.”

THE SPEAKEASY IS DARK, LIT BY SMALL solar sconces along the walls. High booths afford their occupants privacy, and a few eyes twitch up to meet my curious gaze as we pass each booth. We both immediately look away, uncomfortable. This isn’t the kind of place you come to make friends. Erik’s hand presses into my upper arm, shepherding me forward until we find an empty booth near the back. I sit down. Erik slides in, hesitating for a second before he scoots right next to me.

“It’s better if we look like we’re together,” he says.

“Better for who?” I ask, cocking an eyebrow, challenging him to come up with a reasonable response.

“For both of us,” he says. “People don’t bother couples on dates.”

“Ahh,” I say with a sigh. “Sure.”

“Plus, you make me look good.”

I frown, but he hangs an arm casually around my shoulder. He’s pretending, but I can’t help but realize I like how his arm feels there. Safe, warm.

“What’s this?” Erik says. He traces the crook of my elbow.

His fingertips sear my skin, and I gasp, shaking my head, trying to focus. Dark flecks pepper my pale arm around a thin red scratch, but I barely notice them since I’m consumed with the fire scorching under my skin.

“Freckles,” I say, pulling my arm away, unsure where the scratch came from.

“Those aren’t freckles,” Erik says. “Are you being careful during training?”

“I don’t remember hurting myself, but it’s nothing. It doesn’t even hurt,” I assure him.

“What’ll ya have?” a waitress asks in possibly the most bored tone ever. She could pass for a stewardess in Arras except her skirt stops too short, revealing more of her lengthy legs than I’m used to. Her head cocks to the side, examining the small platform stage behind her.

“What do you have?” Erik asks.

“Same as everywhere, hon,” she says with a shrug, her eyes still occupied elsewhere. “Gin. Whiskey. Moonshine.”

“Moonshine?” he asks.

“I didn’t make up the name,” she says.

She couldn’t have, I think. She’s probably never seen the moon. I can’t imagine she’s gone exploring past the Interface’s border.

“Gin. Do you have tonic?”

“Sure, sure.” She doesn’t write anything down, but I hear her call out the order to the stubby bartender.

“So what now?” Erik asks, turning his attention back to me. His voice is low.

I take a deep breath. “I’m not sure.”

“You know, your mother was probably toying with you,” Erik says gently.

“I know.” But the words are thick on my tongue. I don’t like thinking of the monster wearing my mother’s face.

The waitress plops down two smudged glasses and asks what else we need.

“There was a place around here,” Erik says. “A loophole. Do you know what happened to it?”

“The refugee shelter? Sure,” she says with a smack of her lips. “It’s gone now.”

“Yes, we assumed that,” Erik says in a measured tone. “Do you know where it was?”

“Yeah, next door, down the stairs. But it got closed up a long time ago.”

“Who closed it?” Erik asks.

“Owner, so far as I know. She still lives there. She rents this place, too. She comes in for a drink now and then, but she keeps to herself.”

“Do you know her name?” I ask.

“Nah, not really my job,” she says, her eyes elsewhere again. “You need anything else?”

“No, thank you,” Erik says.

“If it was next door,” I start, but my thoughts are too jumbled for me to continue speaking. It could still be there, and if the owner is there, we could ask her. I know Erik is thinking the same things.

“It’s risky,” he says.

He’s right. It’s dangerous to go asking around after the loophole, especially knowing nothing about the owner.

“To almost-solutions,” Erik says, raising his glass. We clink, but I don’t take a long draft like he does. It’s too strong for me. I take a small sip and let it burn my throat before setting the glass back down.

“Strong,” I say with a grimace.

“You didn’t have any dinner,” he reminds me. “You should probably take it easy on that—not everyone can handle liquor like Cormac.”

“I have no desire to drink like Cormac,” I say, but the conversation jogs my memory. I hadn’t eaten dinner because Erik was already done with his and playing with the digifile I’d brought from Arras. I stare at him and he responds by raising an eyebrow.

“The digifile,” I say in a quiet voice. “I’ve always wondered where Enora got that program. The tracking program.”

Erik’s arm drops from my shoulders and he leans away from me for a moment.

“It was you,” I say when he doesn’t speak.

“I’m sorry, Adelice. I should have convinced Enora to drop it when she came to me. If I had done more, she might be alive now.”

“You didn’t have anything to do with her death,” I say, but then it strikes me that might not be true. Erik is a Tailor. A fact I keep forgetting.

“I didn’t,” he assures me, as though he can read my mind. “At that point, things were out of control. I think Cormac suspected me after the State of the Guild.”

“You finally made an impression on him,” I say. Cormac had written Erik off early on during my time at the Coventry.

“Adelice,” Erik says, taking a deep breath, “I worked for Cormac.”

“We all worked for Cormac.”

“No,” he says with emphasis, “I worked for Cormac. He had Tailors all over the coventries, spying on the operations and keeping tabs on Spinsters.”

“And you were keeping tabs on me?” He told me that during our last hour in the Coventry, but I haven’t brought it up since then. Now I wish I had.

“Would you let me off the hook if I said it was really complicated?” he asks.