But I sensed no aura. This was an amaurotic. I thought of my father and felt sick—but the figure was too small, too thin.

“I believe you two know one another,” Nashira said.

They ripped off the bag. My blood ran cold.

Seb. They’d got him. His eyes were swollen to the size of small plums, his hair hung in bloodied strings around his face and his lips were cracked and bleeding. The rest of his face was caked in dry blood. I’d seen serious beatings before, when Hector’s victims came crawling to the Dials for aid from Nick, but never anything like this. I’d never seen a victim so young.

The guard whacked another bruise onto his cheek. Seb was barely conscious, but he managed to look up at me.

“Paige.”

His broken voice made blood burn in my eyes. I rounded on Nashira. “What have you done to him?”

“Nothing,” she said, “but you will.”

“What?”

“It is time for you to earn your next tunic, XX-40.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Alsafi gave me such a blow on the head it damn-near knocked me down. He grabbed me by the hair and yanked me around to face him. “You will not use vulgarities in the presence of the blood-sovereign. Hold your tongue or I will stitch your mouth.”

“Patience, Alsafi. Let her be angry.” Nashira raised a hand. “After all, she was angry on the train.”

My ears were ringing. Two faces burst out from my memory. Two bodies on the carriage floor. One dead, one insane. My victims. My kills.

That was my test. To earn my new colors, I had to kill an amaurotic.

I had to kill Seb.

Nashira must have guessed what I was. She had guessed that my spirit was capable of leaving its natural place in my body. That I was capable of swift, bloodless murder. She wanted to see it happen. She wanted me to dance. She wanted to know if this was a gift worth stealing.

“No,” I said.

Nashira was very still.

“No?” When I was silent, she continued: “Refusal is not an option. You will obey, or we will be forced to dispose of you. No doubt the Grand Inquisitor would be pleased to correct your insolence.”

“Kill me, then,” I said. “Why wait?”

The thirteen judges said nothing. Nor did Nashira. She just looked at me, into me. Trying to work out if I was bluffing.

Alsafi didn’t beat about the bush. He grabbed my wrist and dragged me toward the chair. I kicked and struggled. He wrapped a muscled arm around my neck. “Do it,” he snarled against my ear, “or I will crush your ribs and drown you in your own blood.” He shook me so hard my vision wobbled. “Kill the boy. Do it now.”

“No,” I said.

“Obey.”

“No.”

Alsafi squeezed harder. I dug my nails into his sleeve. My fingers scraped down his side—and found the knife at his belt. A paper knife, for cutting envelopes, but it would do. One stab was all it took to make him drop me. I staggered into a pew, the knife still in my hand.