I glance at Farley, wondering if she knows what the flag means, but she focuses on the officers ahead. As does Harrick. His eyes narrow in concentration, and his trembling hands clench. Quietly, I touch his arm, encouraging him. “You can do this,” I murmur.

He offers me the smallest smile, and I straighten in assurance. I believe in his ability—he’s been practicing whenever he can—but he must believe it himself.

Nix tenses, muscles bulging beneath his shirt. Farley is less obvious, but I know she’s itching for the knife in her boot. I will not show the same fear, for Harrick’s sake.

Security officers man the gate, eyeballing every person who passes through. Searching their faces and through their wares, not bothering to check their identification cards. These Silvers don’t care for what’s written on a piece of paper—their orders are to find me and mine, not a farmer straying too far from his village. Soon, our cart is next, and only the sweat on Harrick’s upper lip indicates he’s doing anything at all.

Crance halts the horse and the cart, stopping at the command of a Security officer. He keeps his eyes down, respectful, beaten, as the officer stares at him. As expected, nothing sets him off. Crance is not a newblood, nor a known associate of ours. Maven will not be hunting him. The officer turns to circle the cart, eyeing the inside. Not one of us dares to move, or even breathe. Harrick is not so skilled that he can mask sound, only sight. Once, the officer’s eyes meet mine, and I wonder if Harrick has failed. But after a heart-stopping moment, he moves on, satisfied. He can’t see us.

Harrick is a newblood of an extraordinary kind. He can create illusions, mirages, make people see what isn’t there. And he has hidden us all in plain sight, making us invisible in our empty cart.

“Are you transporting air, Red?” the officer says with a hateful grin.

“Collecting shipment, bound for inner Delphie,” Crance replies, saying exactly what Ada told him. She spent yesterday studying trade routes. One hour of reading and she’s an expert on the imports and exports of Norta. “Spun wool, sir.”

But the officer is already walking off, unconcerned. “Move on,” he says, waving a gloved hand.

The cart lurches forward and Harrick’s hand grips mine, squeezing tightly. I squeeze right back, imploring him to hold on, to keep fighting, to keep up his illusion until we’re inside Templyn and clear of the gate.

“One minute more,” I whisper. “You’re almost there.”

We turn off the main road before entering the market, weaving through half-empty side streets lined with humble Red shops and homes. The others search, knowing what we’re looking for, while I keep my attentions on Harrick. “Almost there,” I say again, hoping I’m right. In a moment or two, his strength will fail, and our illusion will fall away, revealing us all to the street. The people here are Red, but will certainly report a cart suddenly full of the country’s most wanted fugitives.

“The left,” Nix says gruffly, and Crance obliges. He eases the cart toward a clapboard house with crimson curtains. Despite the sun shining overhead, a candle burns in the window. Red as the dawn.

There’s an alleyway next to the house, bordered by the Scarlet Guard house and two empty, abandoned homes. Where their occupants are, I don’t know, but they probably fled the Measures or were executed for trying. It’s cover enough for me. “Now, Harrick,” I tell him. He responds with a massive sigh. The protection of his illusion is gone. “Well done.”

We waste no time climbing out of the cart and sidling up to the Guard house, using the overhang of the roof to hide as best we can. Farley takes the lead, and knocks three times on the side door. It opens quickly, showing nothing but darkness beyond. Farley enters without hesitation, and we follow.

My eyes adjust quickly to the dark house, and I’m struck by the similarity to my home in the Stilts. Simple, cluttered, only two rooms with knotty plank floors and grimy windows. The lightbulbs overhead are dark, either broken or missing, sold off for food.

“Captain,” a voice says. An older woman, her hair steel gray, appears by the window and snuffs out the candle. Her face is lined with age, her hands with scars. And around her wrist, a familiar tattoo. A single red band, just like the one old Will Whistle bore.

As in Harbor Bay, Farley frowns and shakes the woman’s hand. “I’m not—”

But the woman waves her off. “According to the Colonel, but not Command. They have other ideas where you’re concerned.” Command. She notes my interest and bows her head in greeting. “Miss Barrow. I’m Ellie Whistle.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Whistle?” I say. “Are you related to—”

Ellie cuts me off before I can finish. “Most likely not. Whistle’s a nickname mostly. Means I’m a smuggler. Whistles on the wind, all of us.” Indeed. Will Whistle and his old wagon were always full of smuggled or stolen goods, many of them things I brought myself. “I’m Scarlet Guard too,” she adds.

I knew that, at least. Farley’s been in contact with her people over the last few weeks, those not under the command of the Colonel, who would help us and keep our movements quiet.

“Very good,” I tell her. “We’re here for the Marcher family.” Two of them, to be precise. Tansy and Matrick Marcher, twins judging by their birthdays. “They’ll need to be removed from town, within the hour if possible.”

Ellie listens intently, all business. She shifts, and I catch a glimpse of the pistol at her hip. She glances at Farley, and when she nods her head, Ellie does the same. “That I can do.”