If I passed him a message, could he find a way to get it to Jack?

Doug and Lixue whisper in urgent tones, arguing over some incident in the south portal. I slip quietly into the bedroom and shut the doors. Dumping the clothes on the bed, I tear open the drawers of an antique secretary, rummaging through them for a notepad and a pen.

I write a hurried note to Boreas and fold it into a tight square. Then I change into the slacks and blouse Lixue brought for me and shrug on Gaia’s overcoat. The clothes all fit me, even the low heels, and suddenly I want to tear them off.

I turn away from the mirror, tucking the note in my palm before I open the bedroom doors.

Doug’s back is to me, his voice clipped as he quietly tears into Lixue for whatever security slip her team must be responsible for. My hand brushes the cart as I pass, sliding the paper under the fruit plate a moment before Lixue comes to retrieve it.

My eyes trail after the cart as she pushes it into the hall.

Doug snatches his jacket off the couch and tucks the cracked potted plant under his arm. “You wait here,” he says, not bothering to look at me as he strides to the door.

I rush after him. “You said I was going with you.”

“I have something I need to take care of first.”

He slams the door behind him, and I kick it, fingers itching at my side. This is the first time he’s left me alone in this apartment, and I turn, taking inventory of anything I can use to my advantage. No phone. No computer. No way to communicate with anyone outside. Just a faux window and a stupid . . . TV.

I grab the remote, remembering the black-and-white images of Chill’s holding cell. I don’t know as much about technology as Poppy does, but if the TV is connected to a network, there must be a way to get a message out. I flip channels . . . weather, global news, closed-circuit feeds of the Control Room, the Crux, the gallery, and there—Chill’s cell.

I click on the menu button and scroll through the options, pausing on the word “camera.” The arrow keys seem to control the camera’s angle. But there’s no audio. No speaker or way to communicate with . . .

Three figures enter the holding area and approach Chill’s cell. Doug leads the way, carrying his scythe, and my breath punches out of me as I move closer to the screen. There’s something strange about the staff—something wrapped around the head, like a scarf or a sash. Doug glances up at the camera as he talks into his phone. It’s as if he’s staring right at me.

The image flickers and static fills the screen.