“Is that her fault, or yours?” He said it with a smile so she couldn’t snap back. “She’s ripe, Kai, ripe. I spoke with her during the intake process. She needs what we offer. You’ve rejected her twice now, and still she returns. The woman has a true need.”

“You’ve been talking with her behind my back.”

“We watch all new pilgrims, to ensure the quality of our service.”

Damn. “She doesn’t like me.”

“You don’t like her. I understand. This process would not be a trial of your faith and skill otherwise. And it is meant as a trial.”

She needed out of this conversation, not to mention this department.

“If you want to progress among us,” Twilling said, gentler, “you will need to work with pilgrims. Understand them. Develop them. Consider their needs, and how they may be guided. I know you’re reluctant, but she is a fine young woman. An ideal first project.”

“She complained to you,” Kai said.

“Not at all. She asked if I could assign her another guide. I said you were an excellent fit, and that I’d encourage you to speak with her again. She has nothing but praise for you.”

This was a distraction. She had so much else to worry about. Dying idols. Secret notebooks. Mara. Claude. “Okay.”

“Good, good, good. Thank you. Thank you.” Twilling bobbed his head twice more. If he heard her skepticism, he didn’t mention it. “Jace dropped by to ask me how you were doing, you know.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him you were wonderful. Performing far above expectation.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll leave it to you to arrange your next meeting with Ms. Batan. Go with the gods.” He smiled, and swept out of the room. His words hung on the air after he left, faint but sharp.

“Go with the gods,” she said.

Chapter 35

35

Izza found Nick curled up under a cleaning cart near a park two blocks away. Groundskeepers had piled the cart with fallen palm fronds, then retired to a nearby cafe for drinks. Nick slept in the shade between the wheels, hands behind his head, dirty shirt pulled up to reveal his thin stomach. Save for the scar his face was smooth and soft, the way mainlanders painted kings asleep or saints dead. She climbed under the truck and punched him in the ribs.

He darted up, and she winced when his forehead struck the underside of the wagon. Nick awake resembled no king or saint Izza’d ever heard of. He cursed.

“Language.”

Confusion vanished when he heard her voice. “Izza.” He lay back on the cobblestones, and the top of his head grazed the cart’s undercarriage.

“That all you have to say?”

“I knew you made it out of the Plaza. I heard, from Ivy.”

“Ivy has a big mouth,” Izza said. “You’re welcome, by the way.”