That lightness faded as she climbed the stairs to Margot’s apartment. Blank windows watched her from across the street. The sky hung close and blue above, as if only palm fronds supported it, and those might any moment give way and let the heavens crash. When she reached the second floor, the railing’s dust had stained her fingers black.

Knocking on the purple door yielded no answer. She tried again, louder. Still nothing. Wiped a patch of the door clean of storm scum and pressed her ear to the wood: heavy, slow breathing inside. Margot, asleep.

She should leave. Go to work, and try to corner him later at the Rest, if not tonight then tomorrow or the day after. But the Rest was a public place, and she couldn’t ask him the questions she wanted in public. Might not even be able to ask them in the privacy of his room. Besides, she was fed up with waiting. She struck the door, leaving dirty handprints on the bright purple paint. “M. Margot? Are you in there?”

A groan, a grunt, a cry, a scream. Thrashing amid sheets. The sound of flesh and bone striking a wall. Cursing in Iskari. Kai’s Iskari was rusty, but she thought most of the things he was saying weren’t physically possible, at least for unmodified humans. “M. Margot?”

“Go away.”

“Mako sent me.” A little lie, but Mako would forgive her. “My name is Kai Pohala. We met a few weeks back, at the Rest.”

The door shuddered, and opened a few inches, jerked short by the chain. Margot stared through the gap, one green eye bloodshot, swollen lips pursed. He had the crushed-flower look of a man hung over. “I remember you,” he said. “Go away.”

“I want to talk about your poems.”

“You accused me of stealing.”

“I think you’re in danger.”

He slammed the door. She blinked from the wind of its closing.

“Margot.” She pounded on the door again. “I won’t leave.”

He moaned from the other side. “Enjoy the balcony. Gets hot in the sun. Be careful about the flies. Their bites itch.”

“You treat all your fans this way?”

“You’re not a fan. You look like a Craftswoman.” Scorn on that last word. Typical poet. Typical Iskari.

“Howl, bound world,” she said. “Margot, I know where you got those words.”

“Go away.”

“You’re in danger,” she said. “You’re caught in something bigger than you know.”

“Leave me alone.”

“I know why you’ve stopped dreaming.”

The door jerked open again, and again the eye appeared.

“I just want to talk.”

“About poems.”

“About poems,” she said, and nodded.

He closed the door, softer. The chain rattled, and this time the door swung all the way open. “Come inside.”

*   *   *