The sirens were still howling when I got back to the residence. XIX-49-33 only opened the door when I’d knocked for the umpteenth time and shouted my number over the noise. Once she’d established I was human, she hauled me through the door and slammed it behind me, swearing she’d never let me in again if I was that bloody slow to follow basic orders. I left her drawing bolts across the door in agitation, her fingers trembling.

The sirens stopped as I reached the cloisters. The Emim had not breached the city this time. I scraped back my hair, trying to slow my breathing. After a minute, I made myself look at the doorway, at the winding stone steps. I had to do it. I took another moment to compose myself, then walked up those steps to the tower, his tower. My skin crawled at the thought of sleeping in the same room as him; of sharing his space, his heat, his air.

The key was in the door when I arrived. I turned it and stepped quietly onto the flagstones.

Not quietly enough. The second I crossed the threshold, my keeper was on his feet. His eyes blazed.

“Where have you been?”

I kept a tenuous mental guard up. “Outside.”

“You were told to return here if the siren sounded.”

“I thought you meant to Magdalen, not this exact room. You should be more specific.”

I could hear the insolence in my voice. His eyes darkened, and his lips pressed into a hard line.

“You will speak to me with the proper respect,” he said, “or you will not be allowed outside this room at all.”

“You’ve done nothing to earn my respect.” I stared him down. He stared right back at me. When I didn’t move or break his gaze, he stalked past me and slammed the door. I didn’t flinch.

“When you hear that siren,” he said, “you stop what you are doing and return to this room. Do you understand me?”

I just looked at him. He leaned down so his face was at my level.

“Do I need to repeat myself?”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” I said.

I was sure he’d hit me. Nobody, nobody could speak to a Reph like that. All he did was straighten to his full height.

“We begin your instruction tomorrow,” he said. “I expect you to be ready when the night-bell rings.”

“Instruction for what?”

“For your next jacket.”

“I don’t want it,” I said.

“Then you will have to become a performer. You will have to spend the rest of your life being mocked and spat upon by the red-jackets.” He looked me over. “Do you wish to be a jester? A fool?”

“No.”

“Then you had better do as I say.”