At the base, she docked her bike to charge and went straight to her room. There was socialising to do in the mess hall, important ties to maintain and strengthen, but she had to put that on hold for now. Any progress she’d made in the Order was barely relevant except inasmuch as it could be used for leverage, now that there was a bigger goal than her survival and a bigger question than who had threatened it. More important, even, than whoever had taken her blood and why.

The Archivist turned out to be easy to find once she started searching. Rivasoa was higher in Eldergrove society than Orfeus had thought, though not as important as Margaux or even Significance. Her role seemed almost spiritual: the keeper and recounter of tales, holding ancient facts in her hands.

It was at least worth trying Rivasoa before Orfeus burned her way through any of the people who actually cared about her. Rivasoa had resources. It was the clever thing to do.

Orfeus still sat on her bed frowning wrinkle-nosed at the portable Hub for nearly five minutes with Splodge asleep on her feet before she swiped across to compose a message.

She went with the simplest things to start with. Hail, she sent. It’s Orfeus. I live still.

And then she got up to water her plants. She was hardly halfway through watering her burgeoning collection, grapevine and mint but not yet the basil and carrot, when her porter pinged gently.

Good Rivasoa sent back.

Orfeus dried her hands and frowned at the single, enigmatic word. Rivasoa, always writing in her book, didn’t quite seem the kind to skip punctuation.

A second later, the porter pinged with another message, so that in total it read:

Good

?

Orfeus threw back her head and laughed.

To business, then, dear Archivist, she sent. I could use your knowledge in something I’m pursuing, an instance where I think our morals may align for once. Even if you’re not still meant to be shadowing me, I’m sure I can think of some other incentive to bargain with. Let me know.

She finished watering her plants and chewed on some jerky. No response yet.

Orfeus sat, turning it over in her head. What could she offer a long-lived, married woman with magic at her fingertips and access to a whole city full of libraries? What did she have that Rivasoa wanted?

Nothing, but she was thinking about this the wrong way. They were very different people. Orfeus was driven by what she wanted. Rivasoa could not possibly want for anything. Rivasoa…Rivasoa, perhaps, was driven by questions.

Orfeus sent, Is anyone in your town missing?

And she went and ate a solid meal to put it from her mind, then sparred with the Wasp, from whom, Tide willing, Orfeus would greatly like to learn a vast many things involving knives and poison.

When she came back, she smiled.