Kit was up and walking on the third day, though she was cautious about putting weight on her left foot, and her first expedition tired her more than she would have believed possible. Sereva’s doctor had come twice and pronounced her well on the way to mending, though he warned her to watch for headaches and come instantly to see him if any became too intense. When she asked him what limitation she should put on her activity, he smiled somewhat sardonically and said, “You’ll know.” Which had proved to be true.

Late in the afternoon of that third day, while the boys were still in school, Sereva was at the office, and Jayson had left on errands, a maid came to find Kit in her bedroom.

“Hela, there are people here to see you,” the girl said. She spoke so oddly that Kit felt a sudden flush of alarm. There had been any number of visitors in the past few days—Emron Vermer and his cousin, Aliria, Carvon, even Corzehia Mallin and her husband—all bringing flowers and condolences to the downed heroine. Kit had told Sereva that she absolutely refused to see any of them, so Sereva had merely carried reports of Kit’s condition to her well-wishers. But none of the servants would seem so unnerved at the arrival of more of these high-caste callers.

“What kind of people, Catie?” Kit asked.

“They say they’re from the mayor’s office. They look like security officers.”

Ah. Kit had not expected this, but she should have—in fact, she was surprised it had taken so long. “Well, bring them up to see me. And bring us all some kind of refreshments. Be polite.”

“Of course, hela.”

A few minutes later, Catie had opened Kit’s bedroom door to show in a man and a woman dressed in the shapeless khaki uniforms of the city police. Kit had managed to arrange herself on a quilted chair so they didn’t find her lying helplessly on her bed, and she graciously indicated that they could seat themselves on a small sofa nearby. They complied, glancing around the room with expressions that were meant to be blank. Kit could read them, though: These were low-caste indigo unused to the luxuries of the Higher Hundred, and they were awed.

Something in her favor. One of the few things. She must be careful.

“I’m Kitrini Candachi,” she introduced herself, though they knew damn well who she was. “Won’t you tell me your names?”

“I’m Hoyla Davit, and this is Berkin Star,” the woman said. She was middle-aged, somewhat paunchy, with skin so dark that the folds of her neck looked painted on in black. Her fingers were broad and stubby, but her arms, even enclosed in the formless cotton, looked powerful. “We’re investigating the explosion in the Centrifuge that occurred four days ago.”

“I thought you might be. Have you figured out yet what caused it?”