I wasn’t a killer. Nashira had killed Seb, not me—but the performers didn’t know that. They must despise anyone who wasn’t a white-jacket. I should have just stayed at Magdalen for the night. But then I would have had to be with Warden, and I couldn’t bear to spend another moment in his company. I limped through the claustrophobic passages. I had to find Liss. She could help me out of this nightmare. There had to be a way.

“Paige?”

I stopped, my leg shaking. The effort of walking was exhausting. Liss was looking out of her room. She took one glance at my pink tunic and stiffened. “Liss,” I started.

“You passed.” Her face was dark.

“Yes,” I said, “but—”

“Who did you get arrested?”

“No one.” When she looked disbelieving, I realized I had to tell her. “They tried to make me kill—Seb. The amaurotic.” I looked down. “And now he’s dead.”

She flinched.

“Right,” she said. “See you later, then.”

“Liss,” I said. “Please listen. You don’t—”

She yanked the curtain across her door, cutting me off. I slid down the wall, drained. I wasn’t one of them.

Seb. I said his name in my head, trying to coax his spirit from wherever they’d hidden it, but there was nothing from the æther. Not even a twinge. Even with his surname, there was nothing; I had to be missing a name. The boy that had been so dependent on me, so certain that I would save him, was still a stranger to me in death.

The curtain seemed to glare at me. Liss must think I was pure scum. I closed my eyes, trying to ignore the dull ache in my thigh. Maybe I could find another pink-jacket to exchange information with—but I didn’t want to do that. I couldn’t trust them. Most of them were murderers. Most of them had turned somebody in. If I wanted to talk to someone who wasn’t a turncoat, I had to prove to Liss that she could trust me. With an effort that left me coated in sweat, I pulled myself up and headed for the food shack. I might find Julian there. Not that he’d want to talk to me, either, but he might give me a chance.

A light caught my eye. A stove. A group of performers were smoking in a tiny lean-to, slumped on their sides, snatching at the air. Aster again. Tilda was among them, her head propped on a cushion, her white tunic filthy and crumpled, like a used tissue. I groped in my gilet for the green capsule I’d taken. I had the pill with me. Minding my leg, I knelt beside her.

“Tilda?”

Her eyes cracked open. “What s’matter?”

“I brought the pill.”