He checked the table in his bedroom, with the maps on it. On the floor. The overlay was torn and had a boot print on it. Of the Partial? The one he hated? Much as he’d hoped during Wyte’s mad charge, he hadn’t seen the man.

The map his father had given him was intact. Still on the table. The bed was tossed. Pillows on the floor, sheets pulled back. Mattress had knife marks in it.

Finch considered that for a second. Then went into the bathroom. Shower didn’t work. A thin trickle of water from the sink. He took off his clothes slowly, knees creaky. Like an old man. Washed himself clean with a washcloth. Waiting patiently for the water. Cold. Bracing. A lot of sandy dirt. Especially on his feet. He put on clean clothes. Same jacket. Bullet hole and all. Found some socks and an old pair of boots. Felt a little bit more human. Still, the face in the mirror looked defeated, pinched. Eyes he didn’t know stared back at him.

He walked into the living room to find Rathven with a broom, sweeping up broken glass in the kitchen. She’d already wrestled many of his books back onto their shelves.

“Rath, you don’t need to do that,” Finch said.

“No, I don’t,” she said. Kept sweeping.

Whoever had trashed the apartment had left Finch’s whiskey alone. He found a glass. A generous pour. Let the taste burn in his mouth. Sterilize me. Grimaced as his shoulder tightened. Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been the right shoulder. Interfered with drawing his gun. Or his sword.

He picked up a chair with his good arm, righted it. Sat, watching Rathven in the kitchen. Admired how she could focus so single-mindedly on the ordinary.

“Seen Feral?” he asked her.

“No. I’m sure whatever happened scared him.”

“Was the door open when you brought me up here?”

“No, it was closed. And locked. I had to get your key out of your pocket.”

Relief. Sintra. Though how many hours had just anyone been able to walk in?

“Do you know a man named Ethan Bliss?” Had to ask the question.

A break in the rhythm of her sweeping. “Bliss? No.”

Finch wasn’t convinced. “Ethan Bliss. Smaller than me. Dark eyes. You might have known him as a Frankwrithe & Lewden supporter before the Rising.… He was the one in my apartment last night.” Although he didn’t have time to trash the place then.

No reaction. Which was a kind of reaction.

“We fought,” Finch continued. “It’s part of why I look this way.”

Rathven leaned on the broom. Eyes narrowed. “How does he look?”

“I don’t follow y—”

“Because I wouldn’t know. I’ve never met him.”

“Never even seen him? He used to be a powerful man for Frankwrithe before the Rising.”

“No.”

Hard to read her. Had, for that reason, sometimes been tempted to request her file from the gray caps. Resisted the urge. Didn’t want to have Heretic asking him why.