Glain Wathen stood there, looking dangerously still, despite the mild tone. A superior officer.

It broke the tension like a hammer on glass, and Wu and Bransom stepped back. “Squad Leader,” Wu said, but the look he gave Glain was chilly. “Just working something out.”

“Then do it where I can’t see you,” she said. “If any of you start something here in the Serapeum, you’re all on report, and I promise you, you do not want to see my temper just now. Are we understood?”

Her fingers tapped the seam of her trousers, and Jess knew that particular tic of hers; it meant she really was spoiling for a fight. The others must have known it, too, or at least they were aware of the dangerous light in her eyes. Bransom nodded and stepped away from Jess, and after a slight hesitation, Wu followed. “No problem, Sergeant,” Bransom said. “We’ll . . . catch up later.” When Wathen’s not around was strongly implied, but Jess didn’t much care. At least they gave fair warning.

Jess watched the other two walk out, and when they were out of earshot, he said, “Do I really look so feeble I need help, Squad Leader?” As he said it—snarled it, really—he realized that he’d been ready to fight. Eager, even.

So was she, because in three long strides Glain was across the room, grabbing him by the collar and dragging him upright from the chair. He knocked the Blank off the table, and the thump of impact froze them both for a moment as they looked down.

Then she shook him. Hard. “Go on, Brightwell, test me today. See how far you get!” He looked into her eyes, and his own restless anger and frustration faded because he saw it mirrored in hers. He slowly held up his hands, and she let go and stalked a few steps away. Paced. After a moment, she bent and picked up his book to pass it back to him.

“Should I even ask what’s put you in this mood?” he said. She cut him a look so sharp it had edges on it.

“Captain Feng. He made it abundantly clear that I have some choices to make,” Glain said. “Hard ones.”

“Your career or your friends,” he said. “You knew that was coming, didn’t you?”

“I never wanted any of you as friends! I came here to succeed, and that requires focus. You know that. I know you do.”

He did. He was capable of the same ruthlessness when required. Achievement here at the Library was an altar on which one sacrificed many things . . . friendship being the least of them. To go on up the ranks, knowing what he did now—that would require sacrificing his morals. Ethics. His soul.

He also knew that Glain wanted—no, needed—to succeed. She tried not to show how much it meant to her, but it was as clear as the Lighthouse’s beacon. “Do what you have to do,” he told her quietly. “No one will blame you. Least of all me. I’m a selfish bastard, anyway.”