Mrs. Phan dumps two containers of steaming noodles on the counter, along with two bottles of her husband’s home brew and two pairs of disposable chopsticks. She takes my money and I’m out in under two minutes. Success.

Sofia’s eyes light up when I let myself back in, and she practically tosses her palm pad aside, hands extended for the noodles. “That smells incredible,” she whispers, almost reverent, but she’s smiling, and I’m smiling right back. We’re both silent as we pull the lids off our containers and the caps off our beers, sending up clouds of steam as we dig into the noodles with our chopsticks. I shovel up my first mouthful, the spicy sauce burning my tongue. It’s perfect. Beside me Sofia tries her own mouthful, eyes widening, those perfect manners vaporizing as she speaks with her mouth full. “Oh my God.”

“I know, right?” We’re on safer ground with the food, and for a couple of minutes we’re both quiet—no calculation, no consideration, just enjoying the meal. Still riding out the ripples from that kiss. Me trying not to watch, sidelong, as she licks the sauce off the ends of her chopsticks.

“Nobody saw you?” she asks eventually.

“I’m sure,” I reply around a mouthful. “This place is secure. Nobody’s getting in without an invitation.”

“My place was secure too,” Sofia points out drily. “So was yours.”

So was Mae’s.

I’ve had days now to think on what she did. I haven’t dared make contact—if she did what I told her and sold out the Knave to get her kids back, then they’ll have a watch program on everything she touches, and they won’t be letting her out of their sight. There’s no safe way to reach out to her—not for either of us. She knows it too—that’s why she posted the picture of her, Liv, and Mattie on her public profile, I’m sure of it. What I wasn’t expecting was that I really miss talking to Mae. It’s been years since I went even a day without checking in, and there’s an ache that’s part loneliness, part pain that she’d give me up. But really, I can’t blame her. I don’t.

I blame the ones who used her kids to threaten her.

This is my vindication, though I don’t know who it is I’m making my case to, when I lie awake at night, debating some imaginary opponent. Silently pointing out that this—the threat to innocent kids—is just the latest in a long line of reasons that my cause is just, and I’m only doing what’s required to take LaRoux Industries down. I’ve reached inside myself more than once, searching for any sympathy for the woman I’m sending running all over the galaxy, or even just trying to dampen my satisfaction when she’s forced to ditch another disguise and go scrambling all over again. But the truth is, her fear feeds me. I can imagine, just a little, that it’s LaRoux’s fear. That it’s him I’m hounding. And after all, the great Commander Towers opened herself to this when she chose to look the other way for him.

“I guess I hope this place is safer than either of our homes were,” I say eventually, recalling myself to the conversation at hand. “And I’ve got your back, Sofia, I promise.”

“I know,” she says softly. Almost wistfully. “I can’t tell you how long it’s been since somebody said that and I believed them. I haven’t had anyone I could trust.”

I want to dump my food and turn to her again. But I make myself speak instead. “You have me now,” I murmur.

She’s found the little card for the restaurant I got the noodles from, pulling it free from the side of the container. Absently she weaves it through her fingers, moving it back and forth almost too quickly to follow, passing it from hand to hand. Then she lifts one hand to tuck her hair behind her ear, and the card simply vanishes from her palm. She laughs at my expression.

“Remind me not to gamble with you,” I say, tilting my head to try and work out if she tucked it in her hair. “I’d lose my shirt.”

“The drawback being?” She flashes a grin at me.

“I’d rather you lost yours.”

I’ve known girls who would’ve blushed, or glared at me, or even got up and left. But Sofia just laughs again, leaning her chin on her hand. “It seems tricky, the sleight-of-hand stuff, but it’s just practice. Anyone can do it. The real trick is reading people, knowing what they’ll do next. It’s not just about making them do what you want. It’s about making them think it was their idea in the first place. That’s the real skill.”

“She says to the guy who invited her into his den and showed her all his secrets,” I point out, wry. “I’m almost sure that was my idea, right?”

“Of course,” she replies, solemn.

And I haven’t shown her all my secrets, of course, not by a long shot—but the fact that she got inside my den at all sets her apart. That was my golden rule, and I broke it, and now here we are. Still, I can’t help drawing closer to one of those secrets I haven’t told her. “You’d be a match for the Knave,” I try, and sure enough, her smile dies.

“He scares me.” The card reappears in her palm once more, and she keeps her eyes on it, as though the confession costs her. “Someone who can find out all your secrets, even when you try to erase every sign. It’s like somebody reading your thoughts. Your most private memories.” Her expression’s tight as she speaks, the relaxed pleasure of the dancing and the meal and even our kiss overlaid with that weary caution she never shakes entirely.

“Nobody can see everything,” I say softly. And I can’t help it—I reach across to tuck her hair behind her ear for her, press two fingers to her temple. “Some things you never let outside of here.”

“What he does is the closest thing possible,” she replies, picking up her chopsticks again and digging them into her noodles.

“Sofia, can I ask you something?”

My tone tips her off, and she’s wary as she glances up. She tries to deflect by smiling, but it’s the wrong smile. Two dimples, not one. “You can’t have the rest of my food, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

I press on, though I know I’m not going to like the answer. “I was just—the things you say about the Knave. If you could tell me what he’s done to make you so afraid, perhaps I could help.”

She keeps her eyes on her meal. “Nothing for you to worry about.”

“But I do.”

“Gideon, you worked for him,” she says, softer. “I’m not putting you in a position where you need to choose between me and whatever he might ask you to do.”

“I’d choose you,” I say, too fast, and want to bite back the words. Get a grip, Gideon. “I won’t put you in danger, I promise. Please, you’re trusting me all the way to the Daedalus. Trust me with this much more.”

“This has nothing to do with trust,” she replies, curling over her bowl. “If you never give someone a weapon, they can never use it against you.” The hint of heat abruptly goes out of her voice, and she swallows. “It’s enough to say that he made my life a living hell, and I don’t know why. I don’t want to know why.”

I feel like I’m choking on her words. I spent years building the Knave’s name, making my reputation as the best on Corinth—the best anywhere. On my own private time, I do the things that’ll keep me out of heaven. I chase down Antje Towers and hunt for a way to drag LaRoux’s crimes on Avon and Verona into the light. But the rest of the time, the Knave’s the best hacker money can buy, and yet he does much of his work for free. I’m practically Robin Hood. I left my first, angry years behind, when I realized my brother would be horrified by what I’d become. I changed, for the most part.