I sagged against the wall when the doors closed. I could feel sweat wandering down my spine and chest and rib cage. I couldn’t think of anything to say that wasn’t swearing.

Frances had a pistol in her hands; she was mounting a silencer on it with quick motions. “If I were you, I’d save my emotional collapse for later. That was the easy part.”

“For you, maybe.”

“Could they have seen you drop the box?”

“Upstairs, you mean? No. The camera only covers the area right around the front door.”

“Then there isn’t anything to connect with the snow on their monitor. Good.” She seemed to be content with the pistol, but she didn’t put it away in her vest. “How likely is it that we’ll be met at the top by another guard?”

She was right: that had been the easy part. I’d forgotten. “Fifty-fifty. There hasn’t been one the last few times. I’m hoping I’m considered trustworthy.”

“Fine. When the door opens, don’t run out, but don’t dawdle.”

For the first time it occurred to me that if it went to hell, I could say Frances forced me to do this. I wondered if I would. If I asked Sherrea, what would she recommend? Would she say that life was precious, and that I should save mine if I could? Or would she say things about honor, and commitment, and the greater good?

Or would she say, in a voice that wasn’t hers, You gotta learn to serve, and let your own self be fed by the spirits! She’d said I had to do something about my evil ways. Well, Sher, here I am. I wished I could have found something less drastic.

“Get ready,” Frances murmured, and I tried desperately to remember, and re-create, what leaving this elevator had been like when it wasn’t a matter of somebody’s life or death.

The doors opened, and I strode out. No one. No one at all. All this relief would be the ruin of me. Frances moved up and touched me on the shoulder. No talking now; we’d talked the floor plan to pieces back on the island. I nodded. She disappeared down the hall while I knocked on the familiar door, dark wood, heavy and polished. A voice called from beyond it, and I turned the cool chrome knob and stepped through.

The room was the same, dark and close, with its desk and draped window and high-backed chair. The light fell, neat and constrained on the desktop. The white hands in the light were Albrecht’s, and the pale, fleshy face dim above them.

How had I done this before? Had there been a routine, a series of actions that made up the dance of trade? I stood with the box in my hand, my mind blank, my heart slamming in my ribs. The box, the box. I lifted it, set it on the desk, and with my index finger slid it across the wood to Albrecht.