I would not tell him anything more about myself. He already knew too much about my personal life—and he could discover nothing about my involvement with Jax. Nashira was already looking for the gang. If she found out I was one of his closest allies, she’d probably make me arrest him myself. I’d just pretend to be traumatized by the Buzzer, pretend I could hardly talk.

I could hear it again, the breath sawing its throat. I closed my eyes. The memory subsided.

A thin robe hung over my filthy clothes. They smelled of sweat and death. I went through to the bathroom and tore them off. A fresh pink uniform was waiting. I scrubbed at my skin with soap and steaming water. I wanted to remove even the faintest memory of that smell.

When I glanced into the mirror, I realized I was still wearing the pendant. I pulled it off. A fat lot of good it had done me.

When I returned to the chamber, Warden was sitting in his favored armchair. He gestured toward the opposite seat. “Please.”

I sat. The chair seemed enormous. “Did you sedate me?”

“You had a kind of seizure after the possession.” He watched me. “Did you try to possess the Emite?”

“I wanted to see its dreamscape.”

“I see.” He reached for his goblet. “A drink?”

I was tempted to ask for something illegal—real wine, perhaps—but I didn’t have the energy to keep pushing him. “Coffee,” I said.

He tugged on a scarlet tassel. It was connected to an old-fashioned bell pull. “Someone will bring it shortly,” he said.

“An amaurotic?”

“Yes.”

“So you treat them as your butlers.”

“Slaves, Paige. Let us not be delicate.”

“But their blood is valuable.”

He took a sip from his goblet. I sat with my arms crossed, waiting for him to start the conversation.

The gramophone was on again. I recognized the song—“I Don’t Stand a Ghost of a Chance with You,’’ the Sinatra version. It was on the Scion blacklist simply because it had the word ghost in its title, even though it had little or nothing to do with ghosts. Oh, how I’d missed Ol’ Blue Eyes.

“Do all the blacklisted records come to you?” I asked, making a supreme effort to sound casual.

“No, they go to the House. I go there occasionally and take one or two for my gramophone.”

“Do you like our music?”

“Some. Mostly from the twentieth century. I find your languages interesting, but I dislike most modern music productions.”

“Blame the censor. If not for you, there wouldn’t be one.”

He raised his goblet. “Touché.”

I had to ask. “What is that?”

“Essence of the amaranth flower, mixed with red wine.”

“I haven’t heard of amaranth.”