The party wears on. My cheeks ache from the effort of appearing cheerful and flirtatious, uncaring and unaware of the precariousness of my situation. I dance with people. I sip more champagne, nibble at the decadent treats. There’s still no Nazarin. I can’t help but feel he’s thrown me to the wolves. The shiny, silvery distraction.

Nazarin finally returns. He has a pretty man next to him, who’s flirting shamelessly, and he’s flirting in turn with considerable skill. I feel an unwelcome flare of annoyance at the display. With a start, I recognize the other person: he’s Leo, the young man Tila mentioned in her notes. The potential ally. I make my way toward them.

“Good evening. Great party, right?” I sound inane.

Nazarin gestures to me. “Leo, I believe you’ve met Tila.”

“How could I ever forget?” he says, taking my hand and kissing the back of it.

I wonder what sort of impression Tila made.

Leo seems composed, but his eyes keep darting about the room. Perhaps he’s uncomfortable with eye contact. He moves with the grace of someone who knows how to fight.

He meets my eyes. “The party’s only just getting started, isn’t it? Lots more entertainment to come, I’m sure.”

I smile, though something makes me uneasy. Nazarin narrows his eyes at Leo.

“Leo,” Nazarin says. “You’ll have to excuse us, but I want to steal Tila for a dance.”

Leo smiles. “Of course. I might have to steal her after, if you don’t mind that is,” he says to me. Smooth. Very smooth.

“That’d be lovely,” I say, thinking it would be no such thing. “Excuse me, I’m going to find another drink, first.” Nazarin reaches out to touch my elbow. He wants to tell me something, but there’s no way he can. The crowd is thicker than at the start of the evening. Too many ears to overhear a whisper. Ocular and auditory implants have been blocked by tech dampeners.

Nazarin’s eyes follow me as I take another flute of champagne I will not drink from a droid servant.

I turn around and a woman stands right before me, flanked by two guards. She looks me up and down, smiling in recognition. She knows me and has seen me before.

And I recognize her, though it takes me a moment to realize who she is, with her hair up.

It’s Malka. The Queen of the Ratel.

She has the tightness around her eyes that speaks of facelifts. Her brows are high and arched, her full lips curl at the edges. She has skin of a deep brown, her hair in a slick updo, with a web of metal and crystals holding the hair in place.

“Tila,” Malka says. She reeks of power. The two bodyguards at her sides are droids, their blank faces twisting from side to side for danger.