My shivering intensified. Classic me, killing someone that important without even knowing who he was. I’d end up as a death mask if Nashira got wind of this. I looked up at him.

“What did the pollen do to Kraz? His eyes—his face—”

“We are not what we seem, Paige.” He held my gaze. “How long was there between the application of the pollen and the shooting?”

The shooting. Not the murder. He’d said the shooting, as if I’d been a bystander. “Maybe ten seconds.”

“What did you see in those ten seconds?”

I tried to think. The room had been thick with vapors, and I’d hit my head. “It was like—like his face was—rotting. And his eyes were white. Like they’d lost all their color. Dead eyes.”

“There you have it.”

I couldn’t think what he meant. Dead eyes.

The fire crackled, warming the room. Too warm. Warden lifted my chin, exposing my cut to the light. “Nashira will see this,” I said. “She’ll know.”

“That can be remedied.”

“How?”

No reply. Every time I asked how, or why, he would seem to get bored of the conversation. He went to his desk and took out a metal cylinder, small enough to fit into a pocket. The word SCIONAID was printed in red across the side. He unwrapped three adhesive Steri-Strips. I stayed still as he applied the—

“Does it hurt?”

“No.”

He took his hand from my face. I touched the strips. “I saw a map in the House,” I said. “I know there’s a train on Port Meadow. I need to know where the entrance to the tunnel is.”

“And why would you need to know that?”

“Because I want to leave. Before Nashira kills me.”

“I see.” Warden returned to his armchair. “And you assume I will let you go.”

“Yes, I do assume.” I held up his snuff box. “Or you can safely assume that this will find its way to Nashira.”

The symbol caught the light. His fingers drummed on the chair. He didn’t try to bargain; he just looked at me, his eyes burning softly. “You cannot take the train,” he said.

“Watch me.”

“You misunderstand me. The train can only be activated by the Westminster Archon. It is programmed to come and go on particular dates, at particular times. Those times cannot be changed.”

“It must bring food.”

“The train is used only for human transportation. The food is delivered by couriers.”

“So it won’t come again until”—I closed my eyes—“the next Bone Season.” In 2069. My dream of an easy escape unraveled. I’d have to cross the minefield after all.

“I urge you not to attempt a crossing on foot,” he said, as if he’d read my thoughts. “The Emim use the woods as a hunting ground. Even with your gift, you will not last long. Not against a pack of them.”