“He wanted more, just like the kids. And I still want to get out of here.” She shot a hopeful glance at a passerby, a bearded man wearing boxer shorts, a bathrobe, sandals, and dark glasses. The man dug into his robe pocket, withdrew a folded slip of paper, and dropped it into her cupped hands. Izza said, “Thank you,” waited until he moved on, and looked at what he’d left: an expired library card.

The man waved to Izza from the corner, grinning. She flipped him off in return.

“What did you do when he asked?”

Izza tore the library card into thin strips. “I left him.”

“You’re here,” Cat said, “because you don’t know if you made the right choice.”

Izza waited for the man to leave before she replied. “That’s part of it.”

“What’s the rest?”

“I told you Margot’s name, yesterday, while we talked. I never gave you his address.”

Cat folded the sports section and laid it on top of the funnies. “Plenty of possible explanations for that.”

“You recognized his name. You know where he lives. What’s going on here that I don’t know?”

“Begging’s the wrong line of work for you. Should have been a cop. Or a spy.”

“I never had a chance to choose.”

Cat leaned back against the wall. Her skull met brick with a heavy sound. She closed her eyes, laced her fingers together, and squeezed. “Look. I came here because the local priests don’t let other powers near Kavekana’ai. If you’re on the run from gods and Deathless Kings, this is a great place to hide. That suited me fine: I could lie low, get clean, and leave. Thing is, my old … well. My people back onshore have a, let’s call it a professional interest in this island. There’s not much crime here by mainlander standards because of the Penitents, but the lack of gods and extradition treaties makes Kavekana a spa for all the better kinds of criminal. Those guys who live out on West Claw, puttering around in sandals and flower print shirts, drinking rum punch and playing bad golf—you ever wonder how they got the soulstuff to support that lifestyle?”

“What does that have to do with Margot?”

“He attracted our attention, back onshore. A bard like him, a nobody, a third-rate scrivener, moves to this island of all places and suddenly produces top-flight work. Inspired stuff. That’s a surprise, and surprises are suspicious. I recognized his name when you said it.”

“And remembered his address.”

“I’m good at my job.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Izza said. “He writes a few poems, and gets the gods’ attention?”