Without guards, she should be afraid, and was. In some ways, her disguise could make things worse—a lone female wandering the dark streets at night. But her training in the Flaring discipline had prepared her well. It would have to be an entire mob if they wanted to take her down, and if all else failed, she’d reveal herself as the Goddess she was.

Gas lights flickered on the street corners, tilting and swaying with the wind, like music come to life. The salty air smelled of a thousand revolting things—rotting fish, chemicals, charred remnants of the waste fires, sewage and trash and mold and mud. But with all of it combined, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. It was the odor of thriving life.

“Spare some buttons, ma’am?”

She stopped and looked down at the man, huddled against the wall, swaddled in a pile of every possession he owned. The light scarce, she still saw that he was a filthy man, rags and bones as they say, but he had a kindness in his eyes, shining with yellow points of reflection from the nearest gas flame. The Godhead had done everything in their power to keep the people fed, busy, happy. Satisfied. And here was proof that even that couldn’t last forever. That had been falling apart for years, now.

“Buttons, ma’am,” the poor wretch repeated. “Just give me the one, mayhaps, gods bless you for it.”

She gave him two.

He uttered thanks, as sincerely as she’d ever heard. She smiled but didn’t speak in return, honestly not knowing what to say. Perhaps it would be better for this man if . . .

Hollowed.

The word sprang to her mind as if loosed from a trapdoor. It seemed the new way of dealing with people like this, the awful . . . remnant of the situation having its own purpose, something to do with the pilgrims, with the pathways of the Maze, some kind of sacrificial ritual. The thought made her shudder as she walked away from the beggar, but she also did nothing to prevent such a possible future for the man. In the end, if nothing else, Alexandra was a pragmatist. Means to an end and all that.

And so, she kept walking, through the dark and through the growing mist of fog, creeping in from the sea. Alleys and backways, lefts and rights, narrow straight-aheads. People passing by, people laughing, people crying, people begging.

She came to a door.

She knocked.

A man with horns opened it.

They’d banded together, then split into groups. Then banded together again.

No sign of Isaac. No sign of Sadina.