“Clean yourself up. Find someplace safe to be, Finch.”

“What about Feral? Where is he?”

“I’ll bring him later, if the boat doesn’t spook him.”

Outside, he could lose himself in the fight. Could join the rebels. Could join the militias. Could do something. But, overnight, he had become a broken-down old man. A pensioner well past the days of pensions. Waiting for better days.

I am not a detective.

“What about the towers? Has anything changed?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry—I’ll let you know.”

“What is this place?”

“It’s an old library,” she said. “From above it’s just rubble. You can’t get to it. But this one room I found intact. Although it didn’t have many books in it to start.”

“Found the rest?” he managed.

“Yes. I brought them here from all across the city.”

“Why?”

She had the look of the true believer, of someone who still had hope, as she said, “Finch, here you’ll find every book I could salvage about the city. Every book by any Ambergrisian author. Every book of history, of politics. Biographies. Novels. Poetry. They’re all here. Much of it knowledge that was lost in the wars, because of the Houses. Because of the gray caps. But someday, Finch, when all of this is over…”

Finch looked away. Ashamed by her passion when he had so little left.

“Ever afraid of being found out?”

“All the time.”

“The cots?”

“Before they disbanded the camps, I’d shelter escapees here. Or people who had been released but were injured.”

“And now?”

“Apparently, this is now a haven for cynical detectives.”

That made him smile. A little.

She stood. “You lost a lot of blood. But I stopped the bleeding. It’s your other injuries I need to work on now. I’m not strong enough to turn you over. I’ll need your help.”

She got gauze, bandages, and other supplies. Water from the underground channel. A kind of ritual and finality to the way she set the supplies on the table next to him. That made him shudder. Thinking of the Partial with his knives and scalding water.

She saw his look as she set a pot to boil on the little stove. “I have to clean the wounds, Finch,” she said.

He nodded. “I know.”

She began wiping away any blood that hadn’t already come off.

Ignored him when he winced. Stopped only if he cried out.

She looked different in that light. Older. Tougher. More experienced.

“I think two of my ribs are broken,” he said.

“Or bruised,” she said. “You might be lucky.”

Tried not to scream when she washed the places where his toe and finger had once been. Replaced Sintra’s field dressings with proper bandages. Cleaned his swollen eye. His broken nose.

He stared at the ceiling as she pulled the towel back and gently dabbed at his thighs. Past modesty.

“Oh, Finch,” she said, betraying tenderness that had been disguised by action before. “Who did this to you?”

“A Partial.”