My father intercepted me in the hallway.

“Paige, wait.”

I stopped.

Irish by birth, with a scalding head of red hair, my father worked in the scientific research division of Scion. When he wasn’t doing that, he was scribbling formulas on his data pad and waxing lyrical about clinical biochemistry, one of his two degrees. We looked nothing alike.

“Hi,” I said. “Sorry I’m so late. I did some extra hours.”

“No need to apologize.” He beckoned me into the living room. “Let me get you something to eat. You look peaky.”

“I’m fine. Just tired.”

“You know, I was reading about the oxygen circuit today. Horrible case in IV-2. Underpaid staff, dirty oxygen, clients having seizures—very unpleasant.”

“The central bars are fine, honestly. The clients expect quality.” I watched him lay the table. “How’s work?”

“Good.” He looked up at me. “Paige, about your work in the bar—”

“What about it?” I said.

A daughter working in the lowest echelons of the citadel. Nothing could be more embarrassing for a man in his position. How uncomfortable he must have been when his colleagues asked about his children, expecting him to have sired a doctor or a lawyer. How they must have whispered when they realized I worked in a bar, not at the Bar. The lie was a small mercy. He could never have coped with the truth: that I was an unnatural, a criminal.

And a murderer. The thought made me sick.

“I know it isn’t my place to say this, but I think you should consider reapplying for a place at the University. That job is a dead end. Low money, no prospects. But the University—”

“No.” My voice came out harder than I’d intended. “I like my job. It was my choice.”

I still remembered the Schoolmistress giving me my final report. “I’m sorry you chose not to apply for the University, Paige,” she’d said, “but it might be for the best. You’ve had far too much time away from school. It’s not considered proper for a young lady of quality.” She’d handed me a thin, leather-bound folder bearing the school crest. “Here is an employment recommendation from your tutors. They note your aptitude for Physical Enrichment, French, and Scion History.”

I didn’t care. I’d always hated school: the uniform, the dogma. Leaving was the high point of my formative years.

“I could arrange something,” my father said. He’d so wanted an educated daughter. “You could reapply.”

“Nepotism doesn’t work on Scion,” I said. “You should know.”

“I didn’t have the choice, Paige.” A muscle flinched in his cheek. “I didn’t have that luxury.”

I didn’t want to have this conversation. I didn’t want to think of what we’d left behind.

“Still living with your boyfriend?” he said.

The boyfriend lie had always been a mistake. Ever since I’d invented him, my father had been asking to meet him. “I broke up with him,” I said. “It wasn’t right. But it’s okay. Suzette has a spare place in her apartment—you remember?”