Dyeawan’s first and most powerful instinct is to set her arms to moving the rest of her as fast as they possibly can, as if that voice belonged to an Aegin. Then she remembers there are no Aegins here, and even if there were, she has nowhere to run. So instead she forces calm over the hornet’s nest in her veins, and stays her hands and arms atop the paddles before they run away on their own.

Taking a deep breath, Dyeawan halts the tender and spins it around.

It’s the Man in Black, striding toward her with his black-gloved hand clutching the bone handle of his dagger.

“Do you have permission to visit the archives?” he more demands than asks.

“Not in particular,” she answers honestly, “but Edger told me to carry deliveries wherever I’m instructed to.”

He glowers down at her, his yellow eyes and close-cropped white hair seeming starker and almost otherworldly as they completely fill her gaze. She’s never been this close to him before, and Dyeawan doesn’t care for it one bit. He smells like oiled leather and death, and every line in his face seems to frown at her.

“Oisin.”

There’s no mistaking Edger’s voice-that’s-not-a-voice. The Man in Black (who must be Oisin) turns from Dyeawan, and they both watch Edger approach them calmly. He’s wearing a simple crimson tunic with a wide belt. The sticks of several of his most common silk expression masks are sheathed through that belt.

The one Edger is holding to his face at the moment is harsher than even the stern face he showed Dyeawan during their first meeting.

This expression is blatant disapproval.

“Does this one have permission to enter the archives?” Oisin asks him.

“This one’s name is Slider, and she’s one of my finest helpers. There is no part of the Cadre forbidden to her.”

This is all, of course, news to Dyeawan, though she says nothing. She imagines Edger is overstating the case simply to rebuke the Man in Black.

Oisin looks down at her, not even attempting to mask his displeasure. He looks back at Edger with the same expression.

“And I would remind you, Oisin,” Edger continues, “that it is not your place to soldier the halls of this edifice interrogating my staff. Frankly, I’d expect a high-ranking member of the Protectorate Ministry to have larger concerns.”

Oisin draws in a deep, steadying breath.

“I do,” he says through clenched teeth, then stomps away.

He strides past Edger without a further look.

Once he’s passed, Edger sheathes his disapproving mask and replaces it over his slackened face with his laughing mask.

Despite the tension and her slowly dissipating fear, Dyeawan finds herself stifling a giggle.

Edger walks over to her. “I’m sorry about him. I’m afraid even here we have to live with our version of Aegins now and then.”