Chapter 34: Exposed — The Key of Oslov

Volume 20: All the Kinds of Broken

Chapter 34 Exposed

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

A few days later, they were back in the city. But instead of bringing Tilrey to the Gym on their first afternoon back, Vlastor drove him all the way out to the Outer Ring. He headed for a low, gray building that loomed from the blue midday dusk, swathed in whirling snowflakes, sprawling across the last few acres before the city ended and the tundra took over.Harsh white lights showed Tilrey an almost windowless façade. “What’s this place?”Vlastor didn’t answer. He moored the car in an underground garage and ushered Tilrey out into a lift.Upstairs, they walked through a seemingly endless series of concrete corridors to an equally vast concrete foyer. The whole place smelled aggressively of disinfectant, reminding Tilrey of Linden’s bedroom. At the far end stood a receptionist’s desk, followed by a checkpoint with armed guards.And there was a sign: Mental and Moral Rehabilitation Facility for Levels R-1-4.Tilrey stopped in his tracks. The gray walls, the white uniforms, the echoing footsteps—it all spun sickeningly around him. He had been threatened so many times with this place that all he could say was “No.”Vlastor tugged him by one arm. “We’re only here for you to see a counselor. I promise.”Counselor? “I don’t need to see anyone. I’m fine.” Then it dawned on Tilrey. “Did you tell the Fir I’m not eating again?”“I had to, okay?” Vlastor slung an arm around Tilrey’s waist and walked him toward the desk. “I said it was a minor setback, and he thought this might help. But if it doesn’t help, next time you might have to stay overnight or longer. You might need to get fed through an IV. You understand?”Tilrey stopped resisting. He could feel the guards’ eyes on him, and he knew they were ready to restrain anyone who got out of hand. “I am eating,” he said fiercely under his breath. “It was just a few meals. I’m not losing weight.”Vlastor didn’t argue, only kept hold of Tilrey’s arm as if he feared he might turn and run. “We have an appointment,” he told the receptionist.They waited for five minutes on hard chairs, until a burly young Laborer in clean white scrubs emerged from behind the checkpoint and said, “The counselor’s ready to see you.”At the checkpoint, the guards scanned both their hand chips and ran another scanner from their heads to their toes. Beyond that, the hallway got narrower and even quieter, if that was possible. The white walls were made of a shiny substance that looked like it would give a little if you touched it. Bashing your head against them would get you nowhere.It all reminded Tilrey of Int/Sec. The hall was lined with doors, and he found himself straining to hear what was happening behind each of them.If people were locked up inside, surely they wouldn’t all be silent? Or were the rooms sound-proofed? Occasionally he thought he heard a distant groan or cry, but it was impossible to tell where it was coming from.Finally the orderly opened a door for them. Vlastor tried to go first, but the orderly blocked the way and said, “You can wait outside.”“Why?” Vlastor looked so annoyed that Tilrey might have laughed if they’d been anywhere else. “I take care of him. We don’t have secrets.”The orderly rolled his eyes and beckoned to Tilrey. “Sessions are one-on-one. I don’t make the rules.”Inside was a small but unthreatening room with two cushioned chairs, soft yellow lights, and a window that showed snow and darkness. In the chair closest to the window sat a young woman wearing a white smock and leggings—a Laborer. She had wispy, dyed-blond hair, a turned-up nose, and an arch smile, as if she had seen hundreds of patients just like him.“Take a seat,” she said as the door closed, leaving them alone. “My name is Ilskund, Marta. And you’re Bronn, Tilhard Edvard?”His real name. She must have it in her database. Tilrey nodded but remained standing, looking around. The room wasn’t an office—no desks, filing cabinets, or books. Another kind of interrogation room.Marta Ilskund had a clipboard on her lap. If she was bothered by what she saw when she looked at him—the earring, the Upstart clothes, the bruises—she gave no sign of it. “I know you’re nervous. Most people are. But I’m here to help.”Bullshit. Tilrey sat down opposite her. Annoyance replaced fear, sending warm blood rushing through his veins. “I don’t need to be helped. I’m here because of a misunderstanding. My Fir’s driver thinks I’m not eating enough, but he frets over nothing sometimes. I think he’s just trying to impress the Fir.”Ilskund looked at him. She had dark, heavy-lidded eyes. “You had an accident, too. So your driver told us. Or was it an accident?”Was she trying to trick him into saying more than he should? “Yeah.” Tilrey allowed himself an eye-roll. “Ski accident.”The counselor leaned forward. “You may not know this, but nothing you or I say here can be reported to anyone else. For the purposes of your healing, we observe absolute discretion.”Tilrey understood discretion—kettle boys observed it, too—but he didn’t believe that for a second. “What if somebody confessed to a crime here? Like shirking, or even murder?”“There are exceptions for crimes that are very serious. Have you committed one of those?”The tone was deadpan, but a quirk of her mouth told him she was joking. She might even be trying to make him think she was flirting, so he would relax his guard. “Of course not. I don’t get why I’m here,” he said. “I relapsed a little, but now I’m eating again. I’m fine.”“What did you relapse into?”“I . . . don’t know.” He couldn’t think of a word for it that wouldn’t make him sound disloyal. “Being a little depressed, I guess. Under the weather.”“Did an Upstart hit you?”That made Tilrey’s head jerk upright. So she was trying to trap him! “Of course not.”“You remember what I told you about confidentiality?”“Councillors aren’t any danger to me.” She clearly wasn’t fooled, but he didn’t have to lie convincingly. He only had to make sure there was nothing incriminating in the recording of their session—there was always a recording. “How could they hurt me? They’re old men, and I’m young and strong.”Ilskund scribbled something on the pad in front of her. “You may think your problems are unique,” she said, “but you’re not alone, Tilrey. Twice a ten-day, I go to the Sanctioned Brothel, where I run a group of about twelve young people. It’s a chance for them to talk freely about their work. Some of them show up there with bruises, too.”“Well, they’re Brothel whores.” That was another fate he had been threatened with, over and over. “I’m not.”“Whore is an ugly term. An insult.” She frowned at him. “You’re a worker like anyone else, Tilrey, serving a purpose. You should respect yourself.”I do respect myself. That’s why I don’t want to be here. It wasn’t safe to tell her the truth, but perhaps he could skirt around its edges. “These lads in your group at the Brothel—did they all choose to be where they are?”Ilskund didn’t look surprised by the question. “Most of them. Some sex workers have second thoughts, though. Some make bad choices that trap them in a posting they don’t like. Is that the case with you?”Tilrey gazed down at the cold concrete floor. In a detached way, he was aware that his lashes looked fetching when he dropped his eyes, and she was probably noticing. “What if someone tells you they don’t like being that kind of . . . worker? Can you help them?”“At the Brothel? Sometimes. It depends on how replaceable they are.”“I’m not replaceable.”She sighed. “No. You’re what the Brothel lads would call a ‘jewel.’”Tilrey knew what that was. Tears swelled, and he blinked them angrily away. “Anyway, why would I want to be replaced? You must know I come from ’Skein. I’m the luckiest boy in the world to be here in Redda. I wouldn’t want to be sent back, would I?” I can never go back. Not after everything I’ve done.“I never said you were lucky. I never suggested you shouldn’t be unhappy, either.” Ilskund seemed to have felt the sarcastic barb he’d aimed at her. “Do you hear that often, Tilrey? That your feelings aren’t valid?”Oh no, she wasn’t getting him that way, either. “Did I say anything about my feelings?”“You implied—”Tilrey raised his head. His knuckles were white on the arms of the chair, and with that same detachment, he realized he was dangerously angry. He should shut up and go blank, right now. It was the only safe way.Instead, he said, “I don’t have feelings. I don’t need feelings!”“We both know that’s not true.” Ilskund angled her head, and he could see in her eyes that she pitied him. “You’re allowed to have feelings here, Tilrey, even negative or destructive ones. You’re allowed to express them. It’s the only way I can help you.”Idiot. Why had he lost control? She’d already confirmed that there was no escape for him. “You say you can help me, but you can’t.”“I can help you! In all kinds of ways.” The counselor’s pretty dark eyes fixed beseechingly on his. “Upstarts don’t do the kind of work you do, so they assume it can’t be difficult. But it can. One thing that often helps my patients at the Brothel is a breathing strategy.”He wondered if he’d heard wrong. “I know how to breathe.”“You’d be surprised how often your body forgets to breathe, actually.” Ilskund’s voice was calm and confident again; this was her area of expertise. “When you let tension or stress disrupt your breathing, you disrupt all the rhythms of your body, including digestion. As a result, you eat less.”That couldn’t really be why, could it? But Tilrey wasn’t sure of anything anymore. “I can breathe fine.”“Sap also disrupts our physiological rhythms. If you’re dependent on it, it’s safe to tell me, just for informational purposes. I won’t try to detox you—that would be your Fir’s decision.”“I’m not addicted!” How could she think he was like Lus, sweet-drowned? “My only problems are ones you can’t help me with.” For instance, figuring out how to bring Magistrate Linden to climax before the man lost his erection. He would have to ask Bror and the others about that. “Have you ever even done this work, Fir’n Ilskund? Do you know what it’s like to be down on your knees?”“So your work embarrasses you?”“No!” He shouldn’t have said that. “Nothing honors me more than sucking off Councillors. Believe me. I just don’t understand what it has to do with my breathing.”The counselor rested her chin on a hand. “Everything has to do with breathing, Tilrey. Would you try taking a deep breath for me? And hold it?”I don’t want to follow your fucking instructions. But what did he even want?He wanted to feel safe enough to tell her how much he loathed Councillor Verán, and how much he missed Malsha, and how much he hated himself for missing someone who had chiseled him apart into tiny, jagged pieces. He wanted not to be here. He wanted not to be this person.She couldn’t give him any of those things. But maybe, just maybe, this breathing thing would help. If he had to let the Magistrate hit him again, just to assuage the old man’s ego, it might be nice to have a distraction.He took a deep breath and held it while Ilskund counted to seven. Then he let it out for a count of eight, and when she said it was okay, he inhaled again.After they’d done that several times, the counselor asked, “How does it feel, being fully present in your body?”“It’s fine. But . . .” Tilrey released one of those deep breaths. It did feel good, like everything was loosening up. “Sometimes I can’t. Sometimes I have to be outside my body.”Ilskund nodded. She looked a little sad. “Even when you’re dissociating, you can continue to regulate your breathing. That’s what I teach my patients in the Brothel. Whatever’s happening to you, you don’t have to let it compromise your wellbeing.”She looked straight at him, and there was an edge on her voice—as if she could guess what kinds of things happened to him. As if she actually cared. “You won’t be doing this forever. You need to look after your health, Tilrey.”I don’t “need” to do anything. But she’d spoken as if he were more than a “jewel” that had to be polished and maintained. As if he were a person. As if he would still have a reason to exist after his looks faded.She was right. He knew these things, too, but he hadn’t been able to hold the knowledge in his head for a while.“Yeah,” he said. “I guess I do need to look after myself.”“Yes. Now, shall we try again?”A few days later, Verán called Tilrey to him in the morning and examined his face carefully, making him move from one light source to another.“Good as new,” he said at last. “Not a trace.”Tilrey could have told him that. But he stayed still, with his hands behind his back and his gaze down. Verán liked him quiet, and it was good practice for when he would have to go live with Linden.He breathed the way the counselor had taught him to. It did help.Verán patted the sofa, and Tilrey sat down and turned his head and allowed himself to be kissed. Not a tender, cruel, intimate kiss like Malsha’s, but a cold ritual—a tongue slipped briefly into his mouth to remind him who he was and whom he belonged to.“Mmm. You’re a dull boy, not like Ansha, but you’re lovely.” Verán laughed softly as if it were a private joke. Then he pushed Tilrey away and said, “From now on, I permit you to walk around the city by yourself. Go to the Café. Have fun. Just be back in Vlastor’s sight by five. Where’s my cane?”Tilrey gave it to him. Verán got up, still smiling as if he were basking in his own magnanimity. “What do you say?” he admonished as he reached the door.“Thank you, Fir.” The words came automatically, but they were still hard to get out.Tilrey took a few hours to leave the apartment. It was still early, not his usual Gym or Café time, and his room felt safer. But he didn’t want Vlastor to come in and start fretting over him again, so eventually he forced himself to bundle up and plunge out into the cold.Vlastor couldn’t say a thing about it. The Fir had given Tilrey permission.The cold—it felt different when he was alone. Waiting for the tram that would bring him the short distance to the Café and Library, he stood outside the heated enclosure, which Vlastor would never have allowed. He enjoyed how the wind stung his cheeks, making his blood pump faster and his senses sharpen. It reminded him of being hit, but without the pain or the humiliation.Everyone was at work. The tram was empty except for a few Laborer functionaries with afternoon shifts, who took no special notice of Tilrey.Stepping off it onto the platform, he dreaded crossing the city’s wide open spaces alone. None of that felt comfortable or natural anymore. But he practiced his breathing again, and the short walk wasn’t so bad. Delicate flurries of windblown snow veiled the looming skyscrapers, making him feel camouflaged, too.The nearly deserted Café was warm, bright, and pleasant after the outdoors. Tilrey had planned to go straight to the Library and bury himself in the stacks. But it was such a novelty to be alone here that he decided to pause and drink a foamy tea.Lersh, a weathered man with a scowl, was staffing the counter alone. According to kettle boy gossip, Lersh had worked at the Sanctioned Brothel when he was younger—“Just as a Mouth,” Lus had said. “But he was a lot better looking then, I have to assume.”Tilrey wondered if Ilskund’s group was full of younger versions of Lersh. What did it do to a person to be designated a “Mouth” and forced to suck cock after cock every night? Surely his own life was better than those lads’—physically easier, anyway. He was fussed over and taken care of. He wouldn’t end up looking like that.“The usual, Rishka?”“Yes, please.” Lersh wasn’t friendly, but he wasn’t unfriendly either, and he knew Tilrey’s name.Rishka. Sometimes he almost forgot how, growing up, he had refused to let anyone but his mother use the extra diminutive. Tilrey was already a nickname, he told Dal and Pers whenever they tried to shorten it. But when his mother said Rishka, caressing the sh, all her love for him was in those consonants, along with her love for his dead father—whose name, Edvard, was Tilrey’s middle name.Varsha, she’d called her husband. Tilrey remembered a day like this, cold and snowy, when he and his mother were shuffling around the outdoor track on cross-country skis. He was about eight, and the distance seemed enormous. His mother matched her pace to his and cheered him on. Varsha could do this track in two hours by the time he was your age—or so he claimed. C’mon, Rishka. Just a little farther and we can go in.He wasn’t supposed to think about Thurskein or his mother. But the Café was so welcoming, with its golden wood floors and bright track lights and wide windows. Maybe it was safe to remember, just for the time it took Lersh to prep and serve his drink.If his mother could see him now, would she forgive him? She didn’t think much of this kind of work, but surely she would understand that he was lucky in the grand scheme of things. He lived in Redda, and he was not a Mouth. Everyone agreed that him being here was for the best, even Bror and angry Celinda and Marta Ilskund, who had told him to take care of his health for the future.The tea had a thick, perfect cap of foam. Tilrey tried to scan his chip, but Lersh waved his hand away—I know you. He thanked Lersh and made his way to his favorite window table, only to find someone already sitting there.Adelbert Verán.For a moment, Tilrey couldn’t move. Like a prolonged electric shock, memories of the last few months jolted his body—dread and uncertainty and shame.Breathe. One, two, three, four. This was his fault. He shouldn’t have allowed himself to loosen his control, even for a minute.He turned away, hoping Adelbert hadn’t noticed him. But of course the young Verán leapt up and intercepted Tilrey before he could settle somewhere else. “I swear, I didn’t know you’d be here. Could we talk for a second? Please?”The look on Adelbert’s face was so guilty and anguished that Tilrey’s stomach turned over. “Not sure we have anything to say to each other, Fir.”“Please. Please.” Tears glistened in Adelbert’s blue eyes. He really would have been a good stream actor, Tilrey thought as he allowed the young man to lead him back to the window table.A Verán had given him an order, and he didn’t want to make a scene by disobeying. He would slip away soon enough.Adelbert ushered him into a chair with a view. Such perfect manners, these Veráns, Malsha would have said sarcastically.“I just wanted you to know one thing. One thing.” Adelbert propped his skinny elbows on the table, black hair in his eyes. His worried gaze probed Tilrey. “Who really hurt you, anyway? I know it wasn’t an accident.”Tilrey took pleasure in staring past the young Upstart at the city, which was lightening to dusk as solar noon approached. It wasn’t safe for him to tell the truth or even to mention Magistrate Linden—though he wished he could ask Adelbert something.Linden had spoken regretfully, strangely of Adelbert—had the young man slept with him? Tilrey could imagine an Upstart with a perverse streak being attracted to Malsha, but Linden was a stretch.He didn’t ask. Instead, he turned Adelbert’s question back on him: “Are you wondering how well I get on with your uncle, Fir? Are you worried I might tell him what we did together?”“I’m not worried about that! I know you wouldn’t tell him. I was just hoping Uncle didn’t . . . well, I didn’t think he would hurt you. But maybe he would?”Tilrey felt a prickle of empathy despite himself. It must be hard being a Verán. “It wasn’t your uncle, Fir,” he admitted. “You know I can’t give you a name. What would you do—report that person to the Judiciary? Just like you did with Malsha?”Adelbert’s lip wobbled, and his eyes glistened. “You’re harsh. But I guess I deserved that.”You certainly did. “So, what’s this one thing you want to tell me, Fir?”“I need you to know none of it was my idea.” Adelbert spoke quickly, contemplating his delicate hands on the table. “I was curious about you, and I liked talking to you. But I didn’t want to trap you for revenge or any other reason. I didn’t want to sleep with you. Well, I mean, I didn’t not want to, but I didn’t want to pressure you into it. It was just the only way I could think of to keep you from going back to Malsha’s villa, and I had to do that because . . .” He sighed. “I didn’t want Malsha to see the complaint you wrote against him, either. I really didn’t. I hope he didn’t hurt you too badly.”Tilrey drew himself up in the chair, his jaw clenching as his whole body went tight. Was Adelbert enjoying his pain? Or didn’t he realize that Tilrey had worked diligently to bury certain episodes in his life?“I’m fine now, Fir.” The words were almost as difficult to say as thank you to Adelbert’s uncle earlier today. “If it wasn’t your idea to trap me, whose was it?”“He hasn’t told you? I thought he might want to gloat, now that he doesn’t have to worry about Malsha. But I guess he doesn’t want my uncle to know, either.”“Know what, Fir?” Tilrey searched his brain for someone who could have plotted Adelbert’s twisted scheme. Someone who wanted something from Malsha enough to abduct his kettle boy as leverage. “Who are you talking about? Do I even know him?”Adelbert hung his head. “It’s not safe for me to say. This person is close to my uncle. If he told Uncle it was all my idea, Uncle would believe him. And he might use it as an excuse to pack me off to moral rehab until I marry the match of his choice.”Again Tilrey felt a momentary desire to throttle Adelbert. How could he be so fixated on his own interests? How could he tease Tilrey with this information and refuse to reveal it?Then he remembered moral rehab, and he understood. Adelbert feared the same things Tilrey did: being restrained, imprisoned, drugged, force-fed. He would never have to endure what Tilrey had endured, but even he could be taught how it felt to have no control over any aspect of your life. He lived in dread of that possibility.Tilrey leaned toward Adelbert. He softened his voice. “Please tell me whose idea it was, Fir. I swear I won’t say a word to your uncle—he wouldn’t believe me anyway. I’m not stupid enough to try to play different Councillors against each other. I just want to know, for my own sake.”Adelbert shook his head. “You’re scaring me a little. Again. When you insisted on leaving my father’s villa that night, I thought you might shove me down and make a run for it.”And I should have. There was a certain pleasure in seeing Adelbert squirm. Had Malsha done this to Adelbert? Had he enjoyed it, too?But Tilrey wasn’t Malsha, and he couldn’t afford to savor Adelbert’s fear if he wanted an answer. He said, “When Malsha’s driver brought me back to the villa that night, he gave me vexonil—enough to make me sick for days. I couldn’t walk or even sit up. Malsha read me the Judicial complaint that you or someone else had passed to him. He got a chuckle out of it. The whole episode convinced him that I needed to be broken, once and for all. So that’s what he did.”The blood had drained from Adelbert’s face. His great blue eyes looked haunted. “I’m sorry. I never meant . . . he tried to tell me Malsha wouldn’t really hurt you. I should have known better.”“Too late for that now, Fir.” Tilrey made his voice a lash. “You did what you did. All I’m asking is for you to tell me who masterminded your scheme so I can watch out for him in the future. Is he an Islander?”“He won’t try to hurt you again! You were just a pawn. He wanted something from Malsha—I never understood what. He wouldn’t tell me.” Adelbert sighed heavily, as if he were in pain. “Swear to keep it to yourself, for both our sakes. He’s a Councillor now, and he has a lot of power. My uncle favors him.”That narrowed it down. Only a handful of Islanders had been elected in the last cycle. And, all at once, Tilrey knew: “Besha? Fir Linbeck?”Besha, who had given Tilrey a glass of water during the Spring Fling. Who hadn’t taken a turn. Who had been kind enough to tell him that Malsha wasn’t dead, but alive in Harbour.Besha, who leered but was sometimes helpful. Who distracted Verán with his bad jokes and fawning. Who entertained the inner circle with his eager moans while Tilrey sucked his cock.Besha had trapped Tilrey into writing that complaint. Besha was the reason he had thrown himself at Adelbert. Adelbert was responsible, too, of course, but Tilrey had been blaming the wrong person.A shudder ran over him. He felt incredibly tired.“You won’t say anything, will you?” Adelbert pleaded. “Not to my uncle, not to Besha, not anyone. He could hurt both of us.”“I won’t say anything.” Not now, anyway.Adelbert was right—Besha could hurt both of them. Verán liked Tilrey enough to call him a “good lad,” but he didn’t like him enough to listen to much he had to say. Accusing his favorite would only get Tilrey in trouble. Anyway, Tilrey couldn’t make a case against Besha without knowing what he’d extorted from Malsha in the first place.No, there was no point in trying to get Besha in trouble with Verán. But now he knew that Besha had secrets, and he could watch and wait and learn what they were. One of these days, the knowledge might come in handy.He felt wrung-out and lightheaded, as if he had climbed a mountain. Maybe manipulating Upstarts wasn’t so hard, after all.“Thank you, Fir,” he told Adelbert. “I appreciate your telling me. Now, will you please leave me alone?”*Tilrey didn’t go to the Library or the Gym. He sat where he was, staring out at the lights of the city, watching the feeble dusk give way to darkness again. Then he realized with a start that Bror and the others would arrive soon. He couldn’t face them right now.At least Bror and Ansha hadn’t seen the bruises. He was grateful for that. Bror would have been really worried, while Ansha might have thought it was Tilrey’s fault somehow.Was it his fault? As he pulled on his boots in the coldroom, he tried to remember the strange things Linden had said that night, insulting him and Verán and Malsha almost in one breath. None of it made sense.What he did know was this: He had enjoyed Adelbert’s anguish and the whole process of squeezing the truth out of him. He knew something incriminating about Besha now, even if it wasn’t enough to hurt him, and the knowledge felt warm and good. The thinnest sliver of power was better than nothing.What had the Magistrate said? I don’t abide gaudy-feathered birds here. If Tilrey wanted to survive the Island Party, he mustn’t speak out of turn, stand out, even look an Upstart too closely in the eye. He needed to be as dense and impervious as a block of wood—or seem that way.It was a simple, solid plan. So why couldn’t he face Bror and the others? Why couldn’t he go home, either? Why was he leaving the Café and walking outside past the tram platform until he found a little ledge that jutted from the building into the darkness?The ledge was encrusted in layers of snow and ice. It was tucked out of sight, but standing there, he could look up at the bright windows of the Café.The tables were starting to fill. Lower Sector functionaries and Uni students chattered over their steaming pots of tea and games of four-square.Hidden by darkness, Tilrey sat down carefully. The ledge was narrow, and it was eight stories down to the street. But he didn’t plan to jump—he wouldn’t even swing his legs over the edge. He would just sit here a moment and enjoy his freedom.He knew in an abstract way that it was dangerously cold. But the snow had tapered off, the wind was low, and he had his thick coat, hat, boots, gloves, and a scarf knotted securely over his face.Through a gap between two tall buildings, he saw a last streak of twilight blue in the west. Watching it fade by degrees made him think of rambling in the woods with Malsha. And before that, of returning from a ski race with his mother and Dal, seeing a crescent moon rise.A tram pulled up to the platform, twelve or so yards to his right. People got off and packed themselves into the building. Others got on, shivering and rubbing their gloved hands.Was it that cold? He closed his eyes and focused on the wind against his cheeks—yes, it was stronger now. Stinging, bracing, like Linden’s slaps. His eyes watered. His fingers were numb inside the heavy, padded gloves, so he rubbed them the way the commuters had.He had no intention of risking frostbite or any kind of injury. He just didn’t feel like getting up.“It’s nice out here,” he said quietly to Malsha as the sky cleared and the stars shone. “Much better than that room where they hide me so no one can see. I think I want to stay here.”Malsha was sitting beside Tilrey now. You need to go in, love.I will, but not yet. I don’t know what to do about the Magistrate. I can’t please him, and he scares me.Nothing should scare you if you’re clever enough.

I know. But . . .

He had no words to explain, so he let the images flow through his head in vivid color, knowing Malsha could see them, too.He saw himself bruised again. He saw Bror concerned, raging, powerless. He saw himself enduring Linden’s blows—stoically at first, then beginning to enjoy the pain. He saw himself craving the adrenaline rush of a beating. Provoking it, even begging for it, because anything was better than being a senseless block of wood.I can’t become that person. CAN’T. But I’m so weak.You’re stronger than you know, Malsha insisted.I don’t want Mom to know. She should think I died.

You could still make her proud.

“I can’t! I can’t!”He shouted the words aloud. Malsha was pulling on his arm, trying to get him to stand up and walk, and he was shoving Malsha away. When had Malsha turned from a memory into a physical presence? “Stop it! Let me be!”“Get up, you fool kid! You’re gonna lose your fingers and toes!”A familiar voice—not Malsha’s. Tilrey opened his eyes—when had he closed them? He saw Lersh from the Café, all bulked up in a parka.The older man was yanking violently on Tilrey’s arm. He bent and tried to lever him upright with a broad shoulder, barking, “Help me!”Another pair of arms grasped Tilrey in a bear hug, tugging him to his feet. He tried to lash and kick—then stopped, because he didn’t want to send anyone off the ledge.Anyway, he felt woozy and weightless, as if he were sapped. His perceptions came in flashes sandwiched with darkness. One moment, Lersh and the other man were holding him upright against the wind. The next moment, he was indoors sitting on a hard chair, and Lersh was bending over him and chafing his hands.“He’s okay, I think. Get a pan of lukewarm water.” The Café manager spat out a couple of oaths, then asked Tilrey, “What the fuck did you think you were doing? Want to end up in moral rehab? Or dead?”Tilrey shook his head, but it took a while to push words out of his frozen throat. By that time, they had his boots off and his hands in the pan. Lersh held a cup of steaming tea to Tilrey’s lips. The other employee rubbed his toes with a warm cloth, careful not to heat them too quickly.He didn’t resist. They were just doing their jobs. But he did say, “You won’t tell?”Lersh began cussing again, quietly and methodically. “You know what would’ve happened if you froze to death down there? Fir Verán would’ve fucking gutted me, that’s what. I’m just lucky Jas spotted you from the window.”“Damn lucky,” agreed the other employee, a sturdy younger man.The tea felt good going down. Tilrey was sorry to have made so much trouble for two fellow Laborers who were just trying to do their jobs. He hadn’t meant to, but there was no use in explaining.“It was the sap,” he lied. “Fir Councillor gives me a lot, and I took a nip too many while I was sitting there. I promise it’ll never happen again.”Lersh gave him the cup now that he could hold it steady. “It better not. You drink that, and then Jas’ll take you home on the tram. I see now why Fir Councillor had the driver babysitting you.”Tilrey opened his mouth to say that wasn’t Verán’s reason at all. What came out was “I’m sorry.”“I hope so,” Lersh said. “Jas, don’t let him out of your sight till he’s safe inside the Fir’s apartment. That’s the party’s jewel. I gotta get back to work.”

Harsh white lights showed Tilrey an almost windowless façade. “What’s this place?”

Vlastor didn’t answer. He moored the car in an underground garage and ushered Tilrey out into a lift.

Upstairs, they walked through a seemingly endless series of concrete corridors to an equally vast concrete foyer. The whole place smelled aggressively of disinfectant, reminding Tilrey of Linden’s bedroom. At the far end stood a receptionist’s desk, followed by a checkpoint with armed guards.

And there was a sign: Mental and Moral Rehabilitation Facility for Levels R-1-4.

Tilrey stopped in his tracks. The gray walls, the white uniforms, the echoing footsteps—it all spun sickeningly around him. He had been threatened so many times with this place that all he could say was “No.”

Vlastor tugged him by one arm. “We’re only here for you to see a counselor. I promise.”

Counselor? “I don’t need to see anyone. I’m fine.” Then it dawned on Tilrey. “Did you tell the Fir I’m not eating again?”

“I had to, okay?” Vlastor slung an arm around Tilrey’s waist and walked him toward the desk. “I said it was a minor setback, and he thought this might help. But if it doesn’t help, next time you might have to stay overnight or longer. You might need to get fed through an IV. You understand?”

Tilrey stopped resisting. He could feel the guards’ eyes on him, and he knew they were ready to restrain anyone who got out of hand. “I am eating,” he said fiercely under his breath. “It was just a few meals. I’m not losing weight.”

Vlastor didn’t argue, only kept hold of Tilrey’s arm as if he feared he might turn and run. “We have an appointment,” he told the receptionist.

They waited for five minutes on hard chairs, until a burly young Laborer in clean white scrubs emerged from behind the checkpoint and said, “The counselor’s ready to see you.”

At the checkpoint, the guards scanned both their hand chips and ran another scanner from their heads to their toes. Beyond that, the hallway got narrower and even quieter, if that was possible. The white walls were made of a shiny substance that looked like it would give a little if you touched it. Bashing your head against them would get you nowhere.

It all reminded Tilrey of Int/Sec. The hall was lined with doors, and he found himself straining to hear what was happening behind each of them.

If people were locked up inside, surely they wouldn’t all be silent? Or were the rooms sound-proofed? Occasionally he thought he heard a distant groan or cry, but it was impossible to tell where it was coming from.

Finally the orderly opened a door for them. Vlastor tried to go first, but the orderly blocked the way and said, “You can wait outside.”

“Why?” Vlastor looked so annoyed that Tilrey might have laughed if they’d been anywhere else. “I take care of him. We don’t have secrets.”

The orderly rolled his eyes and beckoned to Tilrey. “Sessions are one-on-one. I don’t make the rules.”

Inside was a small but unthreatening room with two cushioned chairs, soft yellow lights, and a window that showed snow and darkness. In the chair closest to the window sat a young woman wearing a white smock and leggings—a Laborer. She had wispy, dyed-blond hair, a turned-up nose, and an arch smile, as if she had seen hundreds of patients just like him.

“Take a seat,” she said as the door closed, leaving them alone. “My name is Ilskund, Marta. And you’re Bronn, Tilhard Edvard?”

His real name. She must have it in her database. Tilrey nodded but remained standing, looking around. The room wasn’t an office—no desks, filing cabinets, or books. Another kind of interrogation room.

Marta Ilskund had a clipboard on her lap. If she was bothered by what she saw when she looked at him—the earring, the Upstart clothes, the bruises—she gave no sign of it. “I know you’re nervous. Most people are. But I’m here to help.”

Bullshit. Tilrey sat down opposite her. Annoyance replaced fear, sending warm blood rushing through his veins. “I don’t need to be helped. I’m here because of a misunderstanding. My Fir’s driver thinks I’m not eating enough, but he frets over nothing sometimes. I think he’s just trying to impress the Fir.”

Ilskund looked at him. She had dark, heavy-lidded eyes. “You had an accident, too. So your driver told us. Or was it an accident?”

Was she trying to trick him into saying more than he should? “Yeah.” Tilrey allowed himself an eye-roll. “Ski accident.”

The counselor leaned forward. “You may not know this, but nothing you or I say here can be reported to anyone else. For the purposes of your healing, we observe absolute discretion.”

Tilrey understood discretion—kettle boys observed it, too—but he didn’t believe that for a second. “What if somebody confessed to a crime here? Like shirking, or even murder?”

“There are exceptions for crimes that are very serious. Have you committed one of those?”

The tone was deadpan, but a quirk of her mouth told him she was joking. She might even be trying to make him think she was flirting, so he would relax his guard. “Of course not. I don’t get why I’m here,” he said. “I relapsed a little, but now I’m eating again. I’m fine.”

“What did you relapse into?”

“I . . . don’t know.” He couldn’t think of a word for it that wouldn’t make him sound disloyal. “Being a little depressed, I guess. Under the weather.”

“Did an Upstart hit you?”

That made Tilrey’s head jerk upright. So she was trying to trap him! “Of course not.”

“You remember what I told you about confidentiality?”

“Councillors aren’t any danger to me.” She clearly wasn’t fooled, but he didn’t have to lie convincingly. He only had to make sure there was nothing incriminating in the recording of their session—there was always a recording. “How could they hurt me? They’re old men, and I’m young and strong.”

Ilskund scribbled something on the pad in front of her. “You may think your problems are unique,” she said, “but you’re not alone, Tilrey. Twice a ten-day, I go to the Sanctioned Brothel, where I run a group of about twelve young people. It’s a chance for them to talk freely about their work. Some of them show up there with bruises, too.”

“Well, they’re Brothel whores.” That was another fate he had been threatened with, over and over. “I’m not.”

“Whore is an ugly term. An insult.” She frowned at him. “You’re a worker like anyone else, Tilrey, serving a purpose. You should respect yourself.”

I do respect myself. That’s why I don’t want to be here. It wasn’t safe to tell her the truth, but perhaps he could skirt around its edges. “These lads in your group at the Brothel—did they all choose to be where they are?”

Ilskund didn’t look surprised by the question. “Most of them. Some sex workers have second thoughts, though. Some make bad choices that trap them in a posting they don’t like. Is that the case with you?”

Tilrey gazed down at the cold concrete floor. In a detached way, he was aware that his lashes looked fetching when he dropped his eyes, and she was probably noticing. “What if someone tells you they don’t like being that kind of . . . worker? Can you help them?”

“At the Brothel? Sometimes. It depends on how replaceable they are.”

“I’m not replaceable.”

She sighed. “No. You’re what the Brothel lads would call a ‘jewel.’”

Tilrey knew what that was. Tears swelled, and he blinked them angrily away. “Anyway, why would I want to be replaced? You must know I come from ’Skein. I’m the luckiest boy in the world to be here in Redda. I wouldn’t want to be sent back, would I?” I can never go back. Not after everything I’ve done.

“I never said you were lucky. I never suggested you shouldn’t be unhappy, either.” Ilskund seemed to have felt the sarcastic barb he’d aimed at her. “Do you hear that often, Tilrey? That your feelings aren’t valid?”

Oh no, she wasn’t getting him that way, either. “Did I say anything about my feelings?”

“You implied—”

Tilrey raised his head. His knuckles were white on the arms of the chair, and with that same detachment, he realized he was dangerously angry. He should shut up and go blank, right now. It was the only safe way.

Instead, he said, “I don’t have feelings. I don’t need feelings!”

“We both know that’s not true.” Ilskund angled her head, and he could see in her eyes that she pitied him. “You’re allowed to have feelings here, Tilrey, even negative or destructive ones. You’re allowed to express them. It’s the only way I can help you.”

Idiot. Why had he lost control? She’d already confirmed that there was no escape for him. “You say you can help me, but you can’t.”

“I can help you! In all kinds of ways.” The counselor’s pretty dark eyes fixed beseechingly on his. “Upstarts don’t do the kind of work you do, so they assume it can’t be difficult. But it can. One thing that often helps my patients at the Brothel is a breathing strategy.”

He wondered if he’d heard wrong. “I know how to breathe.”

“You’d be surprised how often your body forgets to breathe, actually.” Ilskund’s voice was calm and confident again; this was her area of expertise. “When you let tension or stress disrupt your breathing, you disrupt all the rhythms of your body, including digestion. As a result, you eat less.”

That couldn’t really be why, could it? But Tilrey wasn’t sure of anything anymore. “I can breathe fine.”

“Sap also disrupts our physiological rhythms. If you’re dependent on it, it’s safe to tell me, just for informational purposes. I won’t try to detox you—that would be your Fir’s decision.”

“I’m not addicted!” How could she think he was like Lus, sweet-drowned? “My only problems are ones you can’t help me with.” For instance, figuring out how to bring Magistrate Linden to climax before the man lost his erection. He would have to ask Bror and the others about that. “Have you ever even done this work, Fir’n Ilskund? Do you know what it’s like to be down on your knees?”

“So your work embarrasses you?”

“No!” He shouldn’t have said that. “Nothing honors me more than sucking off Councillors. Believe me. I just don’t understand what it has to do with my breathing.”

The counselor rested her chin on a hand. “Everything has to do with breathing, Tilrey. Would you try taking a deep breath for me? And hold it?”

I don’t want to follow your fucking instructions. But what did he even want?

He wanted to feel safe enough to tell her how much he loathed Councillor Verán, and how much he missed Malsha, and how much he hated himself for missing someone who had chiseled him apart into tiny, jagged pieces. He wanted not to be here. He wanted not to be this person.

She couldn’t give him any of those things. But maybe, just maybe, this breathing thing would help. If he had to let the Magistrate hit him again, just to assuage the old man’s ego, it might be nice to have a distraction.

He took a deep breath and held it while Ilskund counted to seven. Then he let it out for a count of eight, and when she said it was okay, he inhaled again.

After they’d done that several times, the counselor asked, “How does it feel, being fully present in your body?”

“It’s fine. But . . .” Tilrey released one of those deep breaths. It did feel good, like everything was loosening up. “Sometimes I can’t. Sometimes I have to be outside my body.”

Ilskund nodded. She looked a little sad. “Even when you’re dissociating, you can continue to regulate your breathing. That’s what I teach my patients in the Brothel. Whatever’s happening to you, you don’t have to let it compromise your wellbeing.”

She looked straight at him, and there was an edge on her voice—as if she could guess what kinds of things happened to him. As if she actually cared. “You won’t be doing this forever. You need to look after your health, Tilrey.”

I don’t “need” to do anything. But she’d spoken as if he were more than a “jewel” that had to be polished and maintained. As if he were a person. As if he would still have a reason to exist after his looks faded.

She was right. He knew these things, too, but he hadn’t been able to hold the knowledge in his head for a while.

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess I do need to look after myself.”

“Yes. Now, shall we try again?”

A few days later, Verán called Tilrey to him in the morning and examined his face carefully, making him move from one light source to another.

“Good as new,” he said at last. “Not a trace.”

Tilrey could have told him that. But he stayed still, with his hands behind his back and his gaze down. Verán liked him quiet, and it was good practice for when he would have to go live with Linden.

He breathed the way the counselor had taught him to. It did help.

Verán patted the sofa, and Tilrey sat down and turned his head and allowed himself to be kissed. Not a tender, cruel, intimate kiss like Malsha’s, but a cold ritual—a tongue slipped briefly into his mouth to remind him who he was and whom he belonged to.

“Mmm. You’re a dull boy, not like Ansha, but you’re lovely.” Verán laughed softly as if it were a private joke. Then he pushed Tilrey away and said, “From now on, I permit you to walk around the city by yourself. Go to the Café. Have fun. Just be back in Vlastor’s sight by five. Where’s my cane?”

Tilrey gave it to him. Verán got up, still smiling as if he were basking in his own magnanimity. “What do you say?” he admonished as he reached the door.

“Thank you, Fir.” The words came automatically, but they were still hard to get out.

Tilrey took a few hours to leave the apartment. It was still early, not his usual Gym or Café time, and his room felt safer. But he didn’t want Vlastor to come in and start fretting over him again, so eventually he forced himself to bundle up and plunge out into the cold.

Vlastor couldn’t say a thing about it. The Fir had given Tilrey permission.

The cold—it felt different when he was alone. Waiting for the tram that would bring him the short distance to the Café and Library, he stood outside the heated enclosure, which Vlastor would never have allowed. He enjoyed how the wind stung his cheeks, making his blood pump faster and his senses sharpen. It reminded him of being hit, but without the pain or the humiliation.

Everyone was at work. The tram was empty except for a few Laborer functionaries with afternoon shifts, who took no special notice of Tilrey.

Stepping off it onto the platform, he dreaded crossing the city’s wide open spaces alone. None of that felt comfortable or natural anymore. But he practiced his breathing again, and the short walk wasn’t so bad. Delicate flurries of windblown snow veiled the looming skyscrapers, making him feel camouflaged, too.

The nearly deserted Café was warm, bright, and pleasant after the outdoors. Tilrey had planned to go straight to the Library and bury himself in the stacks. But it was such a novelty to be alone here that he decided to pause and drink a foamy tea.

Lersh, a weathered man with a scowl, was staffing the counter alone. According to kettle boy gossip, Lersh had worked at the Sanctioned Brothel when he was younger—“Just as a Mouth,” Lus had said. “But he was a lot better looking then, I have to assume.”

Tilrey wondered if Ilskund’s group was full of younger versions of Lersh. What did it do to a person to be designated a “Mouth” and forced to suck cock after cock every night? Surely his own life was better than those lads’—physically easier, anyway. He was fussed over and taken care of. He wouldn’t end up looking like that.

“The usual, Rishka?”

“Yes, please.” Lersh wasn’t friendly, but he wasn’t unfriendly either, and he knew Tilrey’s name.

Rishka. Sometimes he almost forgot how, growing up, he had refused to let anyone but his mother use the extra diminutive. Tilrey was already a nickname, he told Dal and Pers whenever they tried to shorten it. But when his mother said Rishka, caressing the sh, all her love for him was in those consonants, along with her love for his dead father—whose name, Edvard, was Tilrey’s middle name.

Varsha, she’d called her husband. Tilrey remembered a day like this, cold and snowy, when he and his mother were shuffling around the outdoor track on cross-country skis. He was about eight, and the distance seemed enormous. His mother matched her pace to his and cheered him on. Varsha could do this track in two hours by the time he was your age—or so he claimed. C’mon, Rishka. Just a little farther and we can go in.

He wasn’t supposed to think about Thurskein or his mother. But the Café was so welcoming, with its golden wood floors and bright track lights and wide windows. Maybe it was safe to remember, just for the time it took Lersh to prep and serve his drink.

If his mother could see him now, would she forgive him? She didn’t think much of this kind of work, but surely she would understand that he was lucky in the grand scheme of things. He lived in Redda, and he was not a Mouth. Everyone agreed that him being here was for the best, even Bror and angry Celinda and Marta Ilskund, who had told him to take care of his health for the future.

The tea had a thick, perfect cap of foam. Tilrey tried to scan his chip, but Lersh waved his hand away—I know you. He thanked Lersh and made his way to his favorite window table, only to find someone already sitting there.

Adelbert Verán.

For a moment, Tilrey couldn’t move. Like a prolonged electric shock, memories of the last few months jolted his body—dread and uncertainty and shame.

Breathe. One, two, three, four. This was his fault. He shouldn’t have allowed himself to loosen his control, even for a minute.

He turned away, hoping Adelbert hadn’t noticed him. But of course the young Verán leapt up and intercepted Tilrey before he could settle somewhere else. “I swear, I didn’t know you’d be here. Could we talk for a second? Please?”

The look on Adelbert’s face was so guilty and anguished that Tilrey’s stomach turned over. “Not sure we have anything to say to each other, Fir.”

“Please. Please.” Tears glistened in Adelbert’s blue eyes. He really would have been a good stream actor, Tilrey thought as he allowed the young man to lead him back to the window table.

A Verán had given him an order, and he didn’t want to make a scene by disobeying. He would slip away soon enough.

Adelbert ushered him into a chair with a view. Such perfect manners, these Veráns, Malsha would have said sarcastically.

“I just wanted you to know one thing. One thing.” Adelbert propped his skinny elbows on the table, black hair in his eyes. His worried gaze probed Tilrey. “Who really hurt you, anyway? I know it wasn’t an accident.”

Tilrey took pleasure in staring past the young Upstart at the city, which was lightening to dusk as solar noon approached. It wasn’t safe for him to tell the truth or even to mention Magistrate Linden—though he wished he could ask Adelbert something.

Linden had spoken regretfully, strangely of Adelbert—had the young man slept with him? Tilrey could imagine an Upstart with a perverse streak being attracted to Malsha, but Linden was a stretch.

He didn’t ask. Instead, he turned Adelbert’s question back on him: “Are you wondering how well I get on with your uncle, Fir? Are you worried I might tell him what we did together?”

“I’m not worried about that! I know you wouldn’t tell him. I was just hoping Uncle didn’t . . . well, I didn’t think he would hurt you. But maybe he would?”

Tilrey felt a prickle of empathy despite himself. It must be hard being a Verán. “It wasn’t your uncle, Fir,” he admitted. “You know I can’t give you a name. What would you do—report that person to the Judiciary? Just like you did with Malsha?”

Adelbert’s lip wobbled, and his eyes glistened. “You’re harsh. But I guess I deserved that.”

You certainly did. “So, what’s this one thing you want to tell me, Fir?”

“I need you to know none of it was my idea.” Adelbert spoke quickly, contemplating his delicate hands on the table. “I was curious about you, and I liked talking to you. But I didn’t want to trap you for revenge or any other reason. I didn’t want to sleep with you. Well, I mean, I didn’t not want to, but I didn’t want to pressure you into it. It was just the only way I could think of to keep you from going back to Malsha’s villa, and I had to do that because . . .” He sighed. “I didn’t want Malsha to see the complaint you wrote against him, either. I really didn’t. I hope he didn’t hurt you too badly.”

Tilrey drew himself up in the chair, his jaw clenching as his whole body went tight. Was Adelbert enjoying his pain? Or didn’t he realize that Tilrey had worked diligently to bury certain episodes in his life?

“I’m fine now, Fir.” The words were almost as difficult to say as thank you to Adelbert’s uncle earlier today. “If it wasn’t your idea to trap me, whose was it?”

“He hasn’t told you? I thought he might want to gloat, now that he doesn’t have to worry about Malsha. But I guess he doesn’t want my uncle to know, either.”

“Know what, Fir?” Tilrey searched his brain for someone who could have plotted Adelbert’s twisted scheme. Someone who wanted something from Malsha enough to abduct his kettle boy as leverage. “Who are you talking about? Do I even know him?”

Adelbert hung his head. “It’s not safe for me to say. This person is close to my uncle. If he told Uncle it was all my idea, Uncle would believe him. And he might use it as an excuse to pack me off to moral rehab until I marry the match of his choice.”

Again Tilrey felt a momentary desire to throttle Adelbert. How could he be so fixated on his own interests? How could he tease Tilrey with this information and refuse to reveal it?

Then he remembered moral rehab, and he understood. Adelbert feared the same things Tilrey did: being restrained, imprisoned, drugged, force-fed. He would never have to endure what Tilrey had endured, but even he could be taught how it felt to have no control over any aspect of your life. He lived in dread of that possibility.

Tilrey leaned toward Adelbert. He softened his voice. “Please tell me whose idea it was, Fir. I swear I won’t say a word to your uncle—he wouldn’t believe me anyway. I’m not stupid enough to try to play different Councillors against each other. I just want to know, for my own sake.”

Adelbert shook his head. “You’re scaring me a little. Again. When you insisted on leaving my father’s villa that night, I thought you might shove me down and make a run for it.”

And I should have. There was a certain pleasure in seeing Adelbert squirm. Had Malsha done this to Adelbert? Had he enjoyed it, too?

But Tilrey wasn’t Malsha, and he couldn’t afford to savor Adelbert’s fear if he wanted an answer. He said, “When Malsha’s driver brought me back to the villa that night, he gave me vexonil—enough to make me sick for days. I couldn’t walk or even sit up. Malsha read me the Judicial complaint that you or someone else had passed to him. He got a chuckle out of it. The whole episode convinced him that I needed to be broken, once and for all. So that’s what he did.”

The blood had drained from Adelbert’s face. His great blue eyes looked haunted. “I’m sorry. I never meant . . . he tried to tell me Malsha wouldn’t really hurt you. I should have known better.”

“Too late for that now, Fir.” Tilrey made his voice a lash. “You did what you did. All I’m asking is for you to tell me who masterminded your scheme so I can watch out for him in the future. Is he an Islander?”

“He won’t try to hurt you again! You were just a pawn. He wanted something from Malsha—I never understood what. He wouldn’t tell me.” Adelbert sighed heavily, as if he were in pain. “Swear to keep it to yourself, for both our sakes. He’s a Councillor now, and he has a lot of power. My uncle favors him.”

That narrowed it down. Only a handful of Islanders had been elected in the last cycle. And, all at once, Tilrey knew: “Besha? Fir Linbeck?”

Besha, who had given Tilrey a glass of water during the Spring Fling. Who hadn’t taken a turn. Who had been kind enough to tell him that Malsha wasn’t dead, but alive in Harbour.

Besha, who leered but was sometimes helpful. Who distracted Verán with his bad jokes and fawning. Who entertained the inner circle with his eager moans while Tilrey sucked his cock.

Besha had trapped Tilrey into writing that complaint. Besha was the reason he had thrown himself at Adelbert. Adelbert was responsible, too, of course, but Tilrey had been blaming the wrong person.

A shudder ran over him. He felt incredibly tired.

“You won’t say anything, will you?” Adelbert pleaded. “Not to my uncle, not to Besha, not anyone. He could hurt both of us.”

“I won’t say anything.” Not now, anyway.

Adelbert was right—Besha could hurt both of them. Verán liked Tilrey enough to call him a “good lad,” but he didn’t like him enough to listen to much he had to say. Accusing his favorite would only get Tilrey in trouble. Anyway, Tilrey couldn’t make a case against Besha without knowing what he’d extorted from Malsha in the first place.

No, there was no point in trying to get Besha in trouble with Verán. But now he knew that Besha had secrets, and he could watch and wait and learn what they were. One of these days, the knowledge might come in handy.

He felt wrung-out and lightheaded, as if he had climbed a mountain. Maybe manipulating Upstarts wasn’t so hard, after all.

“Thank you, Fir,” he told Adelbert. “I appreciate your telling me. Now, will you please leave me alone?”

Tilrey didn’t go to the Library or the Gym. He sat where he was, staring out at the lights of the city, watching the feeble dusk give way to darkness again. Then he realized with a start that Bror and the others would arrive soon. He couldn’t face them right now.

At least Bror and Ansha hadn’t seen the bruises. He was grateful for that. Bror would have been really worried, while Ansha might have thought it was Tilrey’s fault somehow.

Was it his fault? As he pulled on his boots in the coldroom, he tried to remember the strange things Linden had said that night, insulting him and Verán and Malsha almost in one breath. None of it made sense.

What he did know was this: He had enjoyed Adelbert’s anguish and the whole process of squeezing the truth out of him. He knew something incriminating about Besha now, even if it wasn’t enough to hurt him, and the knowledge felt warm and good. The thinnest sliver of power was better than nothing.

What had the Magistrate said? I don’t abide gaudy-feathered birds here. If Tilrey wanted to survive the Island Party, he mustn’t speak out of turn, stand out, even look an Upstart too closely in the eye. He needed to be as dense and impervious as a block of wood—or seem that way.

It was a simple, solid plan. So why couldn’t he face Bror and the others? Why couldn’t he go home, either? Why was he leaving the Café and walking outside past the tram platform until he found a little ledge that jutted from the building into the darkness?

The ledge was encrusted in layers of snow and ice. It was tucked out of sight, but standing there, he could look up at the bright windows of the Café.

The tables were starting to fill. Lower Sector functionaries and Uni students chattered over their steaming pots of tea and games of four-square.

Hidden by darkness, Tilrey sat down carefully. The ledge was narrow, and it was eight stories down to the street. But he didn’t plan to jump—he wouldn’t even swing his legs over the edge. He would just sit here a moment and enjoy his freedom.

He knew in an abstract way that it was dangerously cold. But the snow had tapered off, the wind was low, and he had his thick coat, hat, boots, gloves, and a scarf knotted securely over his face.

Through a gap between two tall buildings, he saw a last streak of twilight blue in the west. Watching it fade by degrees made him think of rambling in the woods with Malsha. And before that, of returning from a ski race with his mother and Dal, seeing a crescent moon rise.

A tram pulled up to the platform, twelve or so yards to his right. People got off and packed themselves into the building. Others got on, shivering and rubbing their gloved hands.

Was it that cold? He closed his eyes and focused on the wind against his cheeks—yes, it was stronger now. Stinging, bracing, like Linden’s slaps. His eyes watered. His fingers were numb inside the heavy, padded gloves, so he rubbed them the way the commuters had.

He had no intention of risking frostbite or any kind of injury. He just didn’t feel like getting up.

“It’s nice out here,” he said quietly to Malsha as the sky cleared and the stars shone. “Much better than that room where they hide me so no one can see. I think I want to stay here.”

Malsha was sitting beside Tilrey now. You need to go in, love.

I will, but not yet. I don’t know what to do about the Magistrate. I can’t please him, and he scares me.

Nothing should scare you if you’re clever enough.

I know. But . . .

He had no words to explain, so he let the images flow through his head in vivid color, knowing Malsha could see them, too.

He saw himself bruised again. He saw Bror concerned, raging, powerless. He saw himself enduring Linden’s blows—stoically at first, then beginning to enjoy the pain. He saw himself craving the adrenaline rush of a beating. Provoking it, even begging for it, because anything was better than being a senseless block of wood.

I can’t become that person. CAN’T. But I’m so weak.

You’re stronger than you know, Malsha insisted.

I don’t want Mom to know. She should think I died.

You could still make her proud.

“I can’t! I can’t!”

He shouted the words aloud. Malsha was pulling on his arm, trying to get him to stand up and walk, and he was shoving Malsha away. When had Malsha turned from a memory into a physical presence? “Stop it! Let me be!”

“Get up, you fool kid! You’re gonna lose your fingers and toes!”

A familiar voice—not Malsha’s. Tilrey opened his eyes—when had he closed them? He saw Lersh from the Café, all bulked up in a parka.

The older man was yanking violently on Tilrey’s arm. He bent and tried to lever him upright with a broad shoulder, barking, “Help me!”

Another pair of arms grasped Tilrey in a bear hug, tugging him to his feet. He tried to lash and kick—then stopped, because he didn’t want to send anyone off the ledge.

Anyway, he felt woozy and weightless, as if he were sapped. His perceptions came in flashes sandwiched with darkness. One moment, Lersh and the other man were holding him upright against the wind. The next moment, he was indoors sitting on a hard chair, and Lersh was bending over him and chafing his hands.

“He’s okay, I think. Get a pan of lukewarm water.” The Café manager spat out a couple of oaths, then asked Tilrey, “What the fuck did you think you were doing? Want to end up in moral rehab? Or dead?”

Tilrey shook his head, but it took a while to push words out of his frozen throat. By that time, they had his boots off and his hands in the pan. Lersh held a cup of steaming tea to Tilrey’s lips. The other employee rubbed his toes with a warm cloth, careful not to heat them too quickly.

He didn’t resist. They were just doing their jobs. But he did say, “You won’t tell?”

Lersh began cussing again, quietly and methodically. “You know what would’ve happened if you froze to death down there? Fir Verán would’ve fucking gutted me, that’s what. I’m just lucky Jas spotted you from the window.”

“Damn lucky,” agreed the other employee, a sturdy younger man.

The tea felt good going down. Tilrey was sorry to have made so much trouble for two fellow Laborers who were just trying to do their jobs. He hadn’t meant to, but there was no use in explaining.

“It was the sap,” he lied. “Fir Councillor gives me a lot, and I took a nip too many while I was sitting there. I promise it’ll never happen again.”

Lersh gave him the cup now that he could hold it steady. “It better not. You drink that, and then Jas’ll take you home on the tram. I see now why Fir Councillor had the driver babysitting you.”

Tilrey opened his mouth to say that wasn’t Verán’s reason at all. What came out was “I’m sorry.”

“I hope so,” Lersh said. “Jas, don’t let him out of your sight till he’s safe inside the Fir’s apartment. That’s the party’s jewel. I gotta get back to work.”

Chapter End Notes

Happy new year, everyone! Work deadlines are weighing on me these days (as in, no holidays for me!), but I wanted to get this chapter up because it was mostly done. And once I get out from under this stuff, I’ll start posting the new story, as well as more chapters of this. Thank you so much for reading, now more than ever. <3

Chapter End Notes