“No—I mean to the Dawn Festival.” I dig my nails into my palms. I don’t know if I’m allowed to admit I’m scared.

She makes a face. “I mean, I might consider going for the food, if I could.”

“The food?”

“Oh yeah. Festivals are all about the food. Didn’t you wonder why there were so many bakers in the market? Residents love an adventurous menu.”

“I don’t get it,” I say, leaning forward and plucking at my blanket. “What is the point of an artificial intelligence taking over the afterlife if all they want to do is imitate humans?”

“I think that is the point,” Shura offers with a shrug. “As far as Victory is concerned, they already won the war. Now they want to live.”

I shrink into myself. Of course they do. Humans had centuries on Earth. We experienced life; we had the opportunity to evolve. But for the Residents? Infinity is their Earth. Their fresh start.

Ophelia used to be trapped within the confines of technology. But here? She’s free. So can we really blame her for the lengths she went to in order to obtain freedom?

Aren’t we trying to do the same?

I shove the thoughts out of my head as quickly as they appeared. They don’t belong in the mind of a spy. Right now I need to focus on getting through the Dawn Festival without revealing myself to an entire court.

“Do you know what you’re going to wear?” Shura asks.

I hesitate. It hadn’t even occurred to me I’d need a dress, and now I feel silly for not thinking of it sooner. I’ve never seen a Resident in Victory wear anything but formalwear. Even on Market Day. And I’m attending a full-blown festival.

I doubt anyone turns up to the Procession of Crowns in joggers and an oversized sweater.

“Maybe that red dress that appeared in the market?” I offer sheepishly. It’s all I have.

“Absolutely not!” Shura practically barks. “You can’t wear the same dress twice. It’s very un-Rezzie-like. Everyone there is going to have something nobody has ever seen before. If you want to blend in, you need to stand out.”

“That sounds incredibly counterproductive. Not to mention the red dress was an accident. I don’t know the first thing about sewing, or hemlines, or designing a ballgown.”

“You don’t need to. Watch this,” Shura says, and she picks up a strand of pink hair by the roots and pulls. Beneath her fingers, the hair turns lavender. When she’s finished, she grabs the end of freshly altered hair and spins it around her finger. I blink and the entire strand sits in a perfect ringlet. “You can do the same with your clothes. You just need to use your mind, like you did last time.”