“I can’t wait.” I gripped the arm of the chair until my knuckles blanched. “I have to leave. You know she’s going to kill me.”

“Of course she is. Now your gift has matured, she hungers for it. It will not be long before she strikes.”

I tensed. “Matured?”

“You possessed 12 in the citadel. I saw you. She has been waiting for you to reach your full potential.”

“Did you tell her?”

“She will find out, but not from me. What is said in this room will not go beyond it.”

“Why?”

“An overture to mutual trust.”

“You went through my memories. Why should I trust you?”

“Did I not show you my dreamscape?”

“Yes,” I said. “Your cold, empty dreamscape. You’re nothing but a hollow shell, aren’t you?”

Abruptly, he got to his feet, went to the bookshelf, and took out an enormous old tome. My muscles drew into taut bars. Before I could say another word, he removed a thin booklet from inside and tossed it onto the table. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. On the Merits of Unnaturalness. My copy, plastered in evidence of the syndicate. He’d had it all along.

“My dreamscape may be starved of its old life, but I do not see people in ranks, as the author of that pamphlet does. There is no oneiromancer in there. No Rephaim. I do not see things in that light.” He looked straight at me. “I have lived with you for several months now. I know your history, even if I have learned it against your will. I did not intend to invade your privacy, but I wished to see what you were like. I wished to know you. I did not wish to treat you as a mere human—lower, unworthy.”

That was unexpected. “Why not?” I said, not taking my eyes off him. “Why do you care?”

“That is my concern.”

I picked up On the Merits and pressed it to my chest, like a child might hold a toy. It felt as if I’d saved Jaxon’s life. Warden watched me.

“You truly care about your mime-lord,” he said. “You want to return to that life. To the syndicate.”

“There’s more to Jaxon than this pamphlet.”

“I imagine there is.”

He came to sit beside me on the daybed. There was silence for a few minutes. A human and a Rephaite, as different as night and day—trapped in our own bell jar, like the withered flower. He picked up the snuff box and removed a small vial of amaranth. “You feel alone.” He emptied it into a chalice. “I feel it. Your solitude.”

“I am alone.”

“You miss Nick.”

“He’s my best friend. Of course I miss him.”

“He was more than that. Your memories of him are extraordinarily detailed—full of color, full of life. You adored him.”