From behind Finch’s desk, from a thousand miles away, from behind a thick wall: Heretic. Saying, “A skery is not as bad for you as what I could bring with me.”

The skery curled back down Finch’s body. Released him. He stumbled forward, hands on the desk to stop from falling. The field of stars so bright he almost passed out. Then the desk came into focus. Prickles of sensation came back into his legs. Neck already sore and throbbing.

“Do you understand me, Finch?” Heretic said. “We can make it quite clear who you really are. To everyone. Or we can just put you in the camps. Or we can do much, much worse.”

Finch had killed a gray cap once. As an Irregular. Before the Rising. Out in the confusion of civil war. With a knife and a gun. He thought about that now, looking at Heretic.

Heretic: “How did Bliss manage to escape you? I expect that in your report by tomorrow night. You will leave your report on your desk. I will read it. If I am not satisfied, I will visit you. Find ways to convince me that you are more valuable alive than as a memory bulb. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Finch managed after a moment. Throat sore. Burying his anger deep. Just wanting to be away from there. Just wanting to be somewhere he might fool himself into calling safe.

The gray cap rose. “You’ll find Bliss’s information in the ‘memory hole’ by your desk in a few minutes.”

Heretic walked toward the back, holding his skery. Rivulets of golden spores swirled up from his footfalls. Sparkled in the murk like tiny blinking eyes.

Against all good judgment, against his shock at the skery’s touch, Finch spoke. “What happened when you took the dead man’s memory bulb?”

Heretic half turned, the look on his face murderous. “I did not eat the memory bulb. That was another fanaarcensitii. He saw nothing. He died within minutes, in horrible pain. Apparently, you are very, very lucky, Finch.”

A long peal of that awful laughter before Heretic disappeared behind the curtain.

Afterward, Finch couldn’t sleep. Stomach churning. Couldn’t get rid of a crawling sensation. Half his mouth felt numb. The other half tingled like a faint electric shock. His legs moved slowly, a deep ache in both muscle and bone.

Had returned to his apartment to find a note from Sintra shoved under the door: Can’t make it tonight. Tomorrow night. Found that a bad mood could get worse.

He went up to the roof of the hotel, a fifth of whiskey retrieved from his kitchen, and let a nagging Feral come with him. Carried the cat’s comforting weight, like a purring loaf of bread, in the crook of his left arm. In his other hand, the file on Bliss.