I climbed into the empty cab and set my bag down on the seat beside me. Through the window, I saw that Finn had vanished.

I wouldn’t bother you if this wasn’t important.

I drummed my fingers against the bench. It had to be something to do with the Resistance. The Resounder’s illustration of Zenza’s murder loomed large in my memory, and I shook my head vehemently. No. Not possible. If the Resistance were responsible for the murders, Finn or Millie would have told me sooner. My friends had grievances against the Order, but they would never stoop to that.

I opened my bag and delved around for my presentation notes. I was overthinking the situation; tomorrow, I would talk to Finn and find out what had really happened.

The cab door opened. I looked up and found myself face-to-face with Jesane Olberos.

“Oh,” she said. “It’s you.”

The Herald was red-eyed and dishevelled, her robes rumpled like they had been slept in. She clutched a brown folder to her chest, and her fingers left sweaty marks on the leather stitching.

“You’re still presenting?” I asked in disbelief.

“Apparently no one else could give the talk.” Her voice came out husky and thick. “May I share this cab with you?”

“Of course.” Flustered, I crammed my papers back into my bag. “Of course, please do.”

She climbed inside and sank onto the opposite bench. Her nails were bitten down to the quick, but she seemed more exhausted than anxious—as if she had worn through her stress and now sat hollow and ill.

“Listen,” I said. “The presentation can’t be that important, and I could help you to apply for compassionate leave? Maybe a stress pass—”

“Tried that. Denied.”

My confusion must have shown on my face, because she offered a weak, humourless smile in response.

“I was also surprised by my supervisor’s decision,” she said. “But I suppose it was well-known that Ilva and I had broken off our engagement.”

I hesitated, unsure of myself. Whoever Jesane’s supervisor was, I felt that they had badly misjudged the situation. The Herald looked like a wreck.

“I think you should go home,” I ventured. “Stress pass or not.”

The cab rolled forward. Jesane shrugged.

“Better to get it over with.” Her voice faltered, and she quickly brought her hand to her forehead, hiding her face. “Sorry to burden you. We barely even know one another.”

“Can I do anything to help?”

She fell silent. We passed below the South Gate and out into the yellow afternoon of the Fields. The farmhands looked up from their work to watch us ride by. A flock of crows circled over the stunted grain, cawing.

“I had to explain to my daughter that Ilva is dead,” said Jesane softly.

“Oh.”

“She’s five. And Ilva’s daughter is only two. They’ve taken her into communal care.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“Yeah.” Jesane stared fixedly out the window. “I’m probably overthinking something, but will you hear me out?”