As the white flakes drifted down, Finch on a hunch looked back. The white dome of the farthest camp had disappeared, replaced by an impression of billowing whiteness. An outline of what had once been. Realized that bits of fungus were raining down on them.

Raindrops followed, thick but sparse. Finch blinking them away. He laughed then. A wide laugh. Showing his teeth.

The “snow” still coming down. Falling onto Wyte’s slack face. Melting away. Into him.

5

By the time Finch made it back to the hotel, he was almost asleep on his feet. Keeping him awake: left shoulder on fire. A bullet hole through the right arm of his jacket. Would’ve nicked him if he’d been a fatter man. A sharp pain in his ankle when he climbed the steps to the lobby. Stomach empty and complaining. Even after he bought some sad-looking plums. On credit. With a threat. From a woman who’d set them out on her stoop like a row of Bosun’s carvings. Ate them on the way back to the hotel. Slowly.

Passed the Photographer inside. Grunted a hello. The Photographer just stared at him.

Lots of love to you, too.

He turned left in the courtyard, descended. Stopped at Rathven’s door. Knocked.

A slow, reluctant opening. Long wedge of light. When Rathven looked up at Finch he thought he saw the secret knowledge they shared shining through her eyes.

A frown hardened her face. “What do you want?” She had one arm behind her back, hiding something. Wore severe pants and a shirt that almost made her look like an Irregular.

“You called me. Remember?”

She seemed to consider that. Almost as if she couldn’t tell if he was lying. That she couldn’t remember making the call.

“Can I come in?” Finch said, pressing.

“No. I mean, not now. You look like a wreck. What happened to you?”

Felt exposed there, in the hallway.

“Just let me in,” he said, pushing at the door. Seeing if it would give. Seeing if she would give. “Of course I look rough. It’s been a rough day.”

“Stay where you are,” Rathven said. She was stronger than she looked. The door hadn’t even trembled. Or she’d wedged something behind it. “Are you drunk?” she asked.

Brought up short by the question, he shook his head. “No, of course not. At least tell me why you called.” Felt like he had stone blocks attached to his legs. His vision was swimming. The words he said came both fast and slow. Didn’t wait for her hesitation, said, “Don’t tell me it was nothing. Something’s obviously wrong. You’re not yourself.”

A fire in her hazel eyes. A kind of scorn in the set of her mouth. Her rigid stance. “Do you blame me?” she spat out. “And you—you’re not ‘yourself’ either. I don’t know who you are. You work for the gray caps but you help me get someone out of the camps. You help people in this building but then you go off and do Truff knows what during the day. For them. For them. You’re in a good humor. You’re in a bad mood. Sullen. Distant. Suddenly friendly. You like coffee, then suddenly you like tea. Why wouldn’t I be wary?”