“No,” I said.

He cuffed me. I lurched to the side, caught the wall. A prisoner’s cinema staggered past my eyes. “Ask your master for forgiveness, XX-59-40.”

“You’ll have to hit me a lot harder than that.”

He raised his hand to oblige. Before he could strike, Warden blocked his arm. “I will deal with her in private,” he said. “It is not for you to punish her. Wake the Overseer and deal with the commotion. I will not have the sun-hours disturbed by this turn of events.”

They stared at each other. Suhail let out a soft snarl, turned, and was gone. Warden looked after him. After a moment, he took me by the shoulder and steered me into the chamber.

His home was the same as it always was: drapes drawn, fire in the hearth. Gramophone chirping out “Mr. Sandman.” The bed looked so warm. I wanted to lie down, but I wouldn’t show weakness in front of him. I had to stay on my feet. Warden locked the door and sat in his armchair. I waited, still unsteady from the blow.

“Come here.”

I had no choice. Warden looked up at me; only a short distance—even sitting, he was almost my height. His eyes were dim and clear, like chartreuse liqueur.

“Do you have a death wish, Paige?”

I didn’t answer.

“I do not care what you think of me, but there are certain rules you must obey in this city. One of them is the curfew.”

I still didn’t speak. He wouldn’t have the satisfaction of scaring me.

“The red-jacket,” he said. “What did he look like?”

“Dark-blond hair. In his twenties.” My voice was rough. “There was a boy that looked a bit like him—16. And a girl, Kathryn.”

A cold spasm racked my stomach as I spoke. Snitching to a Reph felt criminal. Then I pictured Liss’s face, her grief, and my resolve strengthened.

“I know them.” Warden looked into the fire. “The two men are brothers, both mediums. XIX-49-16 and 17. They have been here since they were considerably younger than you.” He clasped his hands. “I will ensure that they are never allowed to harm you again.”

I ought to have thanked him, but I didn’t.

“Sit down,” he said. “Your aura will renew itself.”

I sank into the opposite armchair. My ribs were beginning to ache, and my legs hurt. Warden watched me.

“Are you thirsty?”

“No,” I said.

“Hungry?”

“No.”

“You must be hungry. The gruel the performers make does far more harm than good.”

“I’m not hungry.”

It wasn’t true. Skilly was little more than water, and my stomach yearned for something thick and warm. “A pity.” Warden motioned to the nightstand. “I had something prepared for you.”