“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.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

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.