Wren groaned, curling into a smaller ball. She considered ignoring her, but then she saw her flat through Una’s eyes and understood at least some of her concern. She was always away on missions or buried in her research, mapping out the paths of the fola to perfect her surgical techniques, or studying the poisonous plants the apothecary down the street saved for her. She was here so infrequently that she’d never bothered to decorate the place. Only dried herbs bound with twine hung from the ceiling, sprigs of clustered lavender, jagged bundles of nettle, and orange calendula. Below the chipped cornice was peeling floral wallpaper, stained from candle smoke and spattered with the exploded remnants of some failed tincture.

Wide windows, although caked with dust, overlooked a view of her busy street, which glittered with fog-muffled lamplight. From her desk, she could watch the woman across the street hang clothes to dry on the line in the mornings; and by night, she saw the soil men cart off reeking wicker baskets from the cesspools. Although she had the luxury of a military salary, she owned little but an unmade bed shoved close to the iron stove, on which rested a dented kettle. Its sparseness made its disarray starker, more pathetic. At least it would be easy to pack up tonight.

Una pulled a loose thread on the ratty chaise. In the sickly evening light sneaking past the blinds, Wren could see the cracks in her facade and the exhaustion lurking underneath. “I’m not here to make you feel worse. I thought you’d want some company.”

She did. She always wanted Una’s company, even though it was a special brand of torture to have her here, on this chaise again, taunting her with the memory of what they could never have again.

Wren pressed her knuckles into her stinging eyes. “Goddess above, Una. What were you doing back there? You could have ruined everything you’ve worked for.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Why?”

“It’s my responsibility to keep my subordinates safe and out of trouble.” Although her face was as stark as ever, the strain in her voice betrayed her. Wren didn’t have to push to know Una was thinking of Byers. “And I— Oh no. Don’t. Don’t do that.”

“Sorry. I can’t help it.” Wren scrubbed her face to hide any evidence of her tears. When she looked up again, the world was still soft and hazy. “I’ve got to cry enough for the both of us.”

“Save it. You’ve troubles enough of your own, and I can handle mine.”

“I’m well aware.” Wren pulled the blanket back over her head. “I still don’t understand what I have to do to get her to respect me—or at least not despise me.”