“She’s very intense and has a way of making you question your decisions. Also, well, we used to…”

“Oh.”

“It was a long time ago.”

The awkwardest of pauses.

“Do you still have feelings for her?”

“Yes, but it’s not… like that.” His gaze is far away. “You’ll see what I mean. You’ll love her too.”

Who said anything about love?

Soon, the Atlas arrives in Morocco, where we catch an airplane that takes us somewhere very sandy. Michael has arranged for a jeep, and he drives us through stretches of desert and in and out of poverty-stricken towns. The areas we pass look completely foreign, and for the first time I think about the fact that most of the provincial world is just as much a mystery to me as the world of the Makers.

After a lot more desert, the jeep stops when a small camp comes into view. As I climb out, hot, dry air engulfs me, and I’m instantly thirsty and itchy.

A girl in dirty cargo pants trudges over from the camp.

“Let me guess,” she says to Michael. “You’re here to present me as a cautionary tale?”

She looks incredibly familiar, though I’m sure I’ve never met her before. I try to puzzle out where I could have seen her. She has a unique kind of loveliness, a blending of varied ancestries that I’ve noticed in many Makers. Sun-bleached loose brown curls frame a russet face with a liberal sprinkling of freckles.

“Hills.” Michael walks to her and wraps her in an embrace. She doesn’t reciprocate, but she doesn’t draw away, either.

Once he releases her, he holds her at arm’s length and examines her. “Are you well?”

“Of course not.”

Michael sighs and drops his arms. He waves me over. “Hilde, this is Ada. She’s a recent Sire recruit.”

Hilde nods curtly to me, then moves on without missing a beat. “Listen, Michael, I need you to speak to Ari and tell her to stop her games.”

“What?” Michael asks, clearly perplexed.

In a swift motion that has Michael sucking in his breath and me freezing in place, Hilde lifts her shirt.

There’s a tattoo on her abdomen, words scrawled in a spindly script. The skin around each letter is pink and sensitive. The words are flipped in mirror image, so it takes me a moment to decipher what it says.

Hildegard, go home!

“I’d recognize Ari’s handwriting anywhere. We exchanged pigeons during class all our years as apprentices,” Hilde says. “This hurts to perdition, mind you.”

But Michael isn’t looking at the tattoo. A sour feeling churns in my gut as his gaze roams over her exposed figure. However, it’s only concern that fills his eyes.

“You’re not eating enough,” he says tenderly. “What happened to the nutrition loaves I sent you?”