“He’s out scavenging,” Shura whispers, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

I stiffen in response and blink. “I’m not—who?”

She giggles and looks away, and if I was trying to convince her it wasn’t Gil I was searching for, I’ve definitely failed.

It’s not like I wanted him to be here, to see me in this over-the-top dress with his obnoxious face and annoying scowl and, seriously, does he own anything that isn’t black or gray?

Following a stream of mental curses, I climb into the black vehicle waiting on the other side of the doorway.

The drive to the Gallery is quiet. It isn’t safe to fly with Legion Guards patrolling the skies, especially when they’re known to use veils themselves. So we keep to the ground, taking a route through the woodlands to avoid the narrow market streets.

The woods aren’t as lush as I’d imagined. Silver birch trees are dotted around the forest, with a generous amount of moss and toadstools laced within the overgrowth. But moonlight pours through the tops of the trees, spilling into patches of open meadow.

I wonder if it’s intentional, to limit the places humans can hide.

The car hits a small ditch, and my stomach does somersaults. Theo remains focused on the road, and Shura is stoic beside him, holding tight to the veil.

I don’t know if they’re just better at hiding it than me, but sometimes I think I’m the only person in the Colony who ever seems to be anxious.

We emerge from a tunnel of wispy trees and climb a hill, leveling out to reveal the stone wall that borders the Spring and Summer Districts. The twisted archways look monstrous in the dark, and when we pass through the shadows, I hold my breath.

The change is almost instant. Buildings stretch high into the sky, and colorful lanterns hang thoughtfully along the street, each housing a lively flame. They make every glass window flicker, the rainbow hues dancing like wisps of smoke. Unlike the markets in the Spring District, with its sandstone walls and uneven cobblestones, the Summer District features curved roofs with burnt-orange tiles, wooden balconies painted in shades of turquoise and jade, and an abundance of strategically placed canals that weave through the city like they’re part of a grid.

We take one of the many bridges skyward, and it feels as if we’re flying over the depths of the city below. I look out the window and see the slums of the Summer District hidden in the distance—terraced brick houses surrounded by a fortress of more walls.

A place to keep the humans when they’re not being used in the markets for consumerism.

How many humans live here?

And how many live in War? Famine? Death?

I think I’m afraid to know the numbers. Afraid of how hopeless it might make me feel.