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His arms tighten around me, and for one second I want him to storm the wall we’ve built between us. I want him to help me forget this. But instead he only whispers, “You won’t. I won’t let that happen. I promise I’ll never let you go.”

And even now, wrapped in an embrace, we’re a million miles from each other.

We stay on the observation deck, watching the aeroship pass along the Interface. A series of hooks and pulleys built along the ship’s external skeleton grip and gather the strands of the Interface. We’re not flying, we’re crawling across the web of strands. Dante approaches us as the skeleton’s gears and hooks latch and lock, tethering us to the Interface semi-permanently.

“This is a loophole,” Dante says.

As he speaks, strands of the Interface rotate violently, curling in on one another in rapid and graceful precision until a long funnel of chaotically woven strands extends in a gentle diagonal toward the ship, opening a few feet from the deck. I take the risk and look up into the mouth of the loophole. It’s hollow as I expected, a perfectly round shaft of strands that stretch and swim in a kaleidoscope of color. My eyes squeeze shut and I listen for the music of the strands. It comes in a surge of violins, the notes sharp and lingering. This is all I need. I could climb through there and go back. But back to what?

“How did you do this?” I ask.

“Arras doesn’t control every talented person,” Dante says with a shrug.

That’s the understatement of the century.

“You have people on the inside,” I surmise.

“Of course,” Dante says, “a resistance wouldn’t be much good without spies.”

“What do your spies say about me?” I ask, recalling that Falon recognized my name immediately from her intel.

Falon appears at my side. “It’s my job to keep tabs on what’s going on up there. And girl, you’re all over my stream.”

“They put me on the Stream?” The color drains from my face. There’s no way I’ll ever make it back into Arras safely if everyone there is looking for me.

“A stream of information,” Falon assures me. “I have a web of spies, people who pass info to me from inside the coventries and ministry offices.”

“The same people that pass Kincaid info?” I guess. “You sell it to him.”

“Information is good business,” she says. “I can control what Kincaid hears and use the money he pays me to buy some people off him.”

“Buy people?”

“Refugees don’t come here for free. If they don’t have the credits, they owe their sponsor,” Falon says. I detect a note of disgust in her voice.

“That’s how Valery wound up at the estate,” Dante says.

“Speaking of, how is Deniel?” Falon asks him.

At the mention of his name my stomach constricts as though a wire is coiling tight around it.

Dante hesitates and shakes his head. “Gone.”

“Gone? Where?”

“Not where,” Dante says. “He was unwound.”

“What?” Falon asks, unmistakable anger in her voice.

“He attacked Adelice, tried to alter her. He was a spy,” Dante says.

“A spy?” Falon echoes. “Who authorized his credentials in Arras?”

“I’m not sure,” Dante says.

“Too bad,” Falon says, sighing. “He was talented. I should have known when he asked to go to Kincaid. We could have used a Tailor like him.”

“A crooked Tailor does bad work,” Erik reminds her.

“True. I guess we got lucky,” Falon says.

“How does this work?” I ask, still mesmerized by the tunnel of swirling light and color.

“It’s a convolution of space-time. They’ve twisted the strands of the Interface with those naturally occurring on Earth,” she explains.

“The slub is at the other end,” Dante says.

“Who puts in the slubs?” I ask.

“We make some, but others are pre-existing,” Dante says. “There were slubs in Arras when it was created.”

“We’ve been utilizing this slub for months, but if Deniel was a spy it may have been compromised.”

“What happens if the Guild discovers the slub?”

“Sometimes nothing,” Falon says. “They use it to send spies through. Sometimes they send a battalion of Remnants instead,
if
they want us to know they know. Worst-case scenario is Protocol One. They adjust the whole metro.”

My mind flips back to a hazy memory. The night of my retrieval. “They change the citizens’ memories.”

“Yes,” Falon says. “It’s a combined effort. Spinsters reweave the whole piece, removing the slubs, and meanwhile the Tailors adjust the collective memories of the population. All without ever knowing what the other group is doing. And then the passage is closed. There’s no way for the refugees to get through.”

I turn and stare into the loophole, watching the colors swirl and the light shifting around the twisted strands. It calls to me. But that’s only a space between. Arras isn’t my home anymore, no more than Earth is. If I could, I’d lose myself in the raw beauty, build a life in the very fabric of the universe, among the possibility. But I have plenty holding me here and plenty calling me home. There’s no time for staying in the space in between actions.

“They’re coming,” Falon announces.

I look but see nothing. I shut my eyes and listen. The strands hum and if I strain I can hear the twang of time running tinny through the soft melody of the matter around it. Combined, the sounds are quite lovely, but if I wasn’t paying close attention it would sound like static. I retrain my focus and hear voices. Shadows cast themselves down the convolution of the loophole and a small band of people slide through. There are only five or six of them.

“Evening, Walter, what ya got?” Falon asks, exchanging a salute with the man heading the group.

“Only a few. Five adults. One kid.”

I look closely at the group. I hadn’t seen a child, but then he’s there, clinging to his mother’s leg. He meets my stare, eyes saucer-wide. He’s dressed in a typical academy uniform, but he can’t be too old. He must have started academy this year. I smile at him, but he darts behind his mother’s skirt.

His mother is stoic, looking at us warily. Her dress is worn and I notice that she pulls her thin sweater sleeve up to hide a tear in it. She holds her head high, but I spy a few dark spots by her ear that stretch to her neck. Bruises.

“This is the one with credentials,” Walter says, leading a tall man over to Dante and Falon. The man turns his head so they can observe the hourglass techprint hidden along his hairline.

“What can you do?” Dante asks.

“Me?” the man says. “Nothing. I have intel for Dante.”

Dante doesn’t betray that the man has found him; instead he turns and looks to the woman and child. “And this intel secured your passage for six?”

“I wasn’t leaving her,” the man says. “Not after what’s been done to her. I know what happens to people who come here on credit, but believe me, my intel is worth our passages.”

“Fair enough,” Dante says, “but that still doesn’t explain what you know that’s important enough to grant you passage.”

“That’s for Dante to know,” the man says. He lifts his chin as if to press the point.

“You’re talking to Dante, ole windbag,” Walter calls over.

“Sir.” The man’s stance changes and he bows low, raising his fist to his shoulder. “I apologize. I thought you’d be…”

“Older?” Dante guesses. “I get that a lot.” His eyes flick to mine.

“I need to speak with you privately.”

“You can tell me here,” Dante says.

“No, sir, I can’t,” the man says. “I’m under orders from Alix to tell you alone.”

Dante stiffens at this information, but he inclines his head in agreement and the two return to the empty corridor inside.

“What can that be about?” I wonder out loud, but Erik doesn’t respond. When I turn to repeat the question, there’s a dazed look on his face.

“Erik?” I prompt, touching his arm lightly. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he says, but I notice how he swallows against the words.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spy the female refugee watching us, her son still huddled against her. She shivers in the breeze created by the slow movement of the aeroship.

“Hold on,” I say to Erik.

Approaching the woman slowly, I bend and run a hand over the boy’s finely cropped hair. He smiles at me. I shrug off my coat and move to wrap it around the woman’s shoulders. She steps back and shakes her head.

“I don’t need it,” I insist.

“I couldn’t,” she says simply. “I can’t pay you for it.”

Whatever happened to her in Arras, she’s unwilling to owe other people for favors, but there are going to be a lot of things she can’t pay for on Earth with that attitude. Thanks to Jost, I know the one way to get her to agree.

“I’m not doing it for you,” I tell her. This time she lets me wrap it over her shoulders. Jost taught me a parent’s love trumps everything else, even pride.

The woman swallows hard and mouths, “Thank you.”

I give her a small smile and turn away, tears pricking my eyes.

Warm, scratchy wool falls over my shoulders. “Adelice Lewys, you have a good soul.” There’s a trace of huskiness in the thick words.

I tug the corners of Erik’s jacket closed. “So do you, Erik.”

He shrugs and looks away, but I grab his hand.

“You do,” I say.

Erik opens his mouth to respond, but suddenly a group of men appear on the deck, shouting instructions and dragging the ropes that tether us to the slub in the Interface. They throw the tethers up and stop our progress. I catch Falon’s arm as she rushes past us.

“What’s happening?” I yell over the din of activity around us.

“The estate is under attack,” she calls. “Dante’s ordered us back.”

She doesn’t linger to answer any of the million questions I have. The estate is under attack? Has the Guild come after me? Do Kincaid’s men know I am gone? And then one question stops me cold:

What will happen to my mother?

THE AEROSHIP MOVES TOO SLOWLY FOR MY taste so I pace the length of its deck until Dante appears, with Falon at his side, carrying a stack of vests in his arms. I haven’t seen him since Falon informed us what was going on, but as he approaches he lifts a finger to my lips.

I shake my head. “No, I have to know what’s going on. Who’s attacking the estate?”

“It’s a group of Remnants,” Dante says. “They’re probably after your mother.”

“My mother?” I repeat in disbelief.

“A rescue mission?” Falon asks, holding out a vest for me to slip into. “Remnants aren’t loyal like that, Dante.”

I dare a glance at Dante and his eyes stay cool and distant. He’s lying to Falon—and to me—but why?

“Kincaid can’t know you’re gone,” Dante says. “He’ll have been alerted to the attack, so we can’t waste time. We need to beat him back there.”

“We need to get to my mother,” I add. No matter what’s happened, I can’t stomach the idea of her falling back into a Remnant pack.

“Of course,” Dante says absently.

“And what exactly is your plan?” Erik asks, examining the pockets of his black vest.

“How are you with ropes?” Dante asks as he glances over the side of the deck.

Nothing about that question is comforting.

“But won’t we be walking into an attack?” I ask, taking the offered vest.

“No, we’ll be
dropping
into an attack, but it can’t be helped. We don’t have time.” Dante hands a thick black bodysuit to me and then one to Erik. “You’ll want to be wearing these.”

I can’t bring myself to ask why.

“And we’re going to take the aeroship in over the Icebox?” Erik asks. “That’s risky.”

“We don’t have any other choice,” Dante says, his tone growing weary. From the look on Falon’s face, he’s already tried this argument with her.

“We’ll fly Kincaid’s standard as we approach,” Falon explains. “We can only hope that in the chaos, no one looks too closely.”

“It will be fine,” Dante says. “Kincaid isn’t back yet. Jax and I can deal with any problems that arise.”

“I sure hope so,” Falon responds, but she looks skeptical.

Erik and I change, backs turned to each other. Neither of us speaks, but I’m sure he can hear my heart beating. It’s as loud as a drum, pounding against my chest.

“Zip me up?” I ask, once I’ve shimmied into the tight suit.

Erik pulls my zipper up and then plants a soft kiss on the back of my neck. The world around me stops, strands glimmering, swimming in a vital tangle of life and energy. I live a lifetime in the softness of those lips and the heat of his breath on my skin. I don’t say anything. Instead I shrug on my vest and stride from the room, unable to look at him.

Dante examines my vest and shows me a thin metal carabiner attached to a harness that will hold me to the rope as we rappel. I step into the harness and pull it over my legs. Dante grabs the carabiner. “Fall back.”

I eye him nervously, but allow my weight to shift back. I sway, but my head never hits the floor—Dante grips the carabiner and the harness holds. He grabs my arm and pulls me onto my feet with an approving smile.

“All you have to do is pull this under your leg. One hand here and the other here.” Falon demonstrates gripping the rope above the carabiner and then bringing the rope between her legs. Her other hand grips the rope against her tailbone. “Then push off and fall by slowly letting the rope slide in your hand. Don’t let go though.”

“You make that sound easy,” I say, taking a deep breath and mimicking her demonstration with the rope.

“Don’t overthink it,” she says. “Take these.” She holds out a pair of gloves. “We don’t want to damage your hands.”

“Thank you.” I don’t tell her they’re already damaged—that every bit of me is cracked and broken in some way.

She leans into me, whispering in my ear, “If anything happens, get to the tunnel and find me.”