“Don’t say that—you’ve got all the makings of an archaeologist.” Daisy nodded at his chest. “Look at your T-shirts!”

“I feel like such a fraud! People know me as Archaeology Dude—”

“They do?”

“—and if I left this course, then who would I be?”

The middle of the bone lab was not the best place to have an existential crisis, but it seemed now that Reggie had opened the trapdoor to the void, he was determined to hurtle through it.

“I’m no one!”

“That’s not true.”

“What would I wear? Who would I be? You don’t know—I don’t even know.”

Daisy snapped her fingers sharply in front of Reggie’s face. It was a trick she’d learned during Girl Guides whenever one of the younger members started to panic in the middle of camp.

“That’s enough. You need to calm down.”

“How? How can I calm down when everything is chaos?”

Daisy closed her eyes, and when she opened them, she knew what to do.

“Reggie. Have you ever tried yoga?”

“Is that what you’re wearing?” Esther gave a critical up-down sweep of Susan’s attempt at an outfit.

“You mean clothes?” Susan crossed her arms and adopted the kind of glare that Esther knew better than to challenge. And yet . . . this was important. She needed Susan to make a good impression. For all Esther wanted to believe that it should be enough for her to like people for them to like each other, these were two tricky customers. All the variables had to be right.

Reflecting that it was a shame she hadn’t been able to persuade Susan to buy something more than a coat when they went shopping, Esther selected a better ensemble: black T-shirt, black cardigan, gray jeans, cuffed to look a lot less tattered and a little more fashionable. To drown out Susan’s grumbles about cold ankles as they trudged their way down the hill, Esther filled her in on the rules of engagement when interacting with Vectra, even more elaborate than the ones she’d written in her notebook just over a week ago.

“. . . and whatever you do, don’t try to pretend you know anything about music.”

“Is that something I do?”

“You pretend you know everything.”

“Because I do.” Susan’s voice had lowered to a growl, but Esther was resolute.

“Not music. You think just because you’ve been to one or two gigs—”

“Seventeen gigs and two festivals.”

“—that you’re entitled to an opinion.”

“It’s art, Esther. The whole point is to have an opinion.”

“I can’t risk you having a wrong opinion. Stow it.”

They’d arrived at the S.U., and Esther stopped to check everything over. Black lipstick, best boots, leather trousers, massacred T-shirt . . .