Maybe. Would he be more hurt if we just gave up? Or if we let this drag on, only to have it end badly, which seems inevitable?

She didn’t like that. I could feel her scrambling around, searching for alternatives.

Try to escape? I suggested.

Unlikely, she decided. Besides, what would we do out there? What would we tell them?

We imagined it together—how would I explain my months of absence? I could lie, make up some alternative story, or say I didn’t remember. But I thought of the Seeker’s skeptical face, her bulging eyes bright with suspicion, and knew my inept attempts at subterfuge would fail.

They’d think I took over, Melanie agreed. Then they’d take you out and put her in.

I squirmed, as if a new position on the rock floor would take me further away from the idea, and shuddered. Then I followed the thought to its conclusion. She’d tell them about this place, and the Seekers would come.

The horror washed through us.

Right, I continued. So escape is out.

Right, she whispered, emotion making her thought unstable.

So the decision is… quick or slow. Which hurts him less?

It seemed that as long as I focused on practicalities I could keep at least my side of the discussion numbly businesslike. Melanie tried to mimic my effort.

I’m not sure. On the one hand, logically, the longer the three of us are together, the harder our… separation would be for him. Then again, if we didn’t fight, if we just gave up… he wouldn’t like that. He’d feel betrayed by us.

I looked at both sides she’d presented, trying to be rational about it.

So… quick, but we have to do our best not to die?

Go down fighting, she affirmed grimly.

Fighting. Fabulous. I tried to imagine that—meeting violence with violence. Raising my hand to strike someone. I could form the words but not the mental picture.

You can do it, she encouraged. I’ll help you.

Thanks, but no thanks. There has to be some other way.

I don’t get you, Wanda. You’ve given up on your species entirely, you’re ready to die for my brother, you’re in love with the man I love who is going to kill us, and yet you won’t let go of customs that are entirely impractical here.

I am who I am, Mel. I can’t change that, though everything else may change. You hold on to yourself; allow me to do the same.

But if we’re going to —

She would have continued to argue with me, but we were interrupted. A scuffing sound, shoe against rock, echoed from somewhere back down the corridor.