“Your ‘brother’ sell you that relic?” Contemptuously brushed past her, the image of her as a girl dulling his anger a bit. Brought his gun forward, into the shelter of his body. Holstered it. Found a seat by the table. Facing the door. Didn’t like the tunnel behind him, but liked the sound of the water. Figured he’d hear someone long before they came creeping up out of it.

Still holding the gun, she turned to him. In the flickering light. The cavern lit up in faint cascades of green. Made him think of the Lady in Blue. In a boat. Crossing an underground sea. Ethereal. A faraway kingdom, too delicate to exist in the real world.

“Wyte’s dead,” Finch said. Each time he said it, it seemed more remote. Then came back to him fast and unbearable. Like something rising suddenly out of the dark that was both friend and foe.

“You said that.” Rathven knew Wyte as someone Finch had talked about. Maybe half a dozen times. Had kept Wyte from her. Why? “What happened to you. You’re covered in blood.”

“Sit down, Rathven,” Finch said. “Try to relax.” Talking to himself.

“What happened?”

“Stark gave Wyte a mushroom that put him over the edge. I had to take care of Wyte.” Said as calmly as he could manage. Give her something to think about.

It surprised Finch when she lowered the gun. Some part of him had thought she would shoot him.

Rathven sat down opposite him. Rested the gun on her knee.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Why?” Finch asked. “You had nothing to do with it, right?”

A fire in her eyes. “No, of course not.”

A feeling of hurt came over Finch. A sense of betrayal. It fascinated him. Worried at it like a piece of gristle between his teeth.

“You should’ve been a detective,” Finch said. “Down here with all of your books. With that tunnel as an escape route.”

“I should have been,” she said, dutifully. But there was nothing playful in her expression. “What do you want from me, Finch? The city is falling apart. They’ve even disbanded the camps.” Said it with a mix of regret and wonder. “I might have to—”

“What? Leave? Like your ‘brother’?”

She had the grace to look away. “I’m in a different place than you. You never went to the camps. You don’t really know what they were like. It was a white lie. You wouldn’t have helped him otherwise. He was still a friend.”

“You mean, if I knew he worked for the rebels.”

“Everyone works for the rebels,” she snapped.

“Even Sintra?” Even me?

“Sintra I know nothing about,” Rathven said. “Nothing. Except what I told you.”

“Who else do you work for?” Finch asked.

“No one. Everyone. You. Myself.” Wriggling in the trap. She softened her tone. A kind of misdirection: “I did check out those aliases for you. The Bliss aliases.”