I pulled my helmet on, to avoid saying anything else, and to dodge her eyes. As we pulled away from the not-a-cooking-school, I thought about how it might work. If I had the nerve. I wouldn’t have the nerve. Stopping on the sidewalk in front of my building, inviting her to come up for a beer—did I have any beer? Damn it, no, I didn’t, and I couldn’t invite her up for one and stop at Yoshi’s on the way to bum some more beer. Well, tea. I could offer her tea. I wondered if the apartment was marginally clean. I should have said I was staying at the Ticker’s, where there was something in the icebox.

Someone sprang up off the stoop of the Ticker’s building as we drew near in the street. I almost recognized her. I stopped the bike and tugged off my helmet, and it came to me. Small, with a long brown braid—she was the one who knew history at the Daughters of Brede. The temperature around me seemed to have dropped ten degrees.

“Orient? You’re Orient, right?”

I nodded. Sunny had her helmet off, too, and was watching me. I didn’t look at her.

“Can you go to the care hostel right away?”

That was all she said. I could have asked why, but that would only have been stalling. Sunny pulled the helmet back on, and I put the bike in gear.

Chapter 11. Paradise Lost

At the door to room 24, I looked at the bed with Tick-Tick in it and had two thoughts at once: The Daughters were wrong—she was sleeping; and I was too late—she was dead. I was wrong on both counts.

A Daughter I hadn’t seen before was in the room. She wasn’t bustling around, or measuring things, or taking a pulse. She was just sitting, keeping watch, keeping the Ticker company. Now she stood up and touched Tick-Tick on the shoulder, and said, “Your friend is here. Is there anything you want?”

The Ticker’s eyes were closed, but she smiled. “Not now.”

The Daughter nodded as she passed me, and left the room.

I sat in the chair she’d vacated, which was in hand-holding distance. I didn’t take advantage of that.

“How goes the quest?” the Ticker whispered.

“We’re winning, I think. We found the source, anyway.”

She opened her eyes a little, just enough to squint at me, and I remembered her complaining that the light hurt them. The light in the room was already low, but I leaned over and blew out the lamp nearest the bed. “Too late,” she said, with a dry, windy chuckle. “I got a look at you. Was this source in a midden?”

I’d forgotten the state of my grooming. “It’s sort of a long story. But we had to borrow your bike. Sunny’s car got blown up.”