I wondered briefly why she didn’t ask Raven for a passport, but it was evident why: her family was large. It took a great deal of time and effort to produce even one passport made from authentic (or authentic-seeming) elements. Raven either bartered for the necessary items, like the leather, or shouldered the cost of them. And of course it was much riskier for a larger number of people to try to leave the Ward at once. “If even one of them is caught with a false document, we might be caught,” Raven had said. “And if we are caught, who will help others?”

“I must return to the tavern,” I said. “Raven might need me.”

“She’s lucky to have you.”

This compliment made me feel good as I walked through the stunning heat. If not for Raven, I might have never known a mother’s care. My own mother hadn’t wanted me.

The Ward’s walls were sunny mirrors with no reflections. I wondered what Sid was doing. Was she sleeping through the heat? I pictured her curled up like a cat. I felt a rush of eagerness. I couldn’t wait for night to fall. I couldn’t wait to see the cool dark pool into the sky.

You mean you can’t wait to see me, Sid’s voice said slyly.

But there was nothing wrong with that. It made sense, didn’t it? Everything about her was new. New things are exciting. Everyone knows that.

The word new clung to my mind. I thought about the dream of new I had drunk from the vial.

My pace slowed.

I thought about Rinah, who wanted her baby.

I thought about my newborn self, squalling inside the orphanage box.

I glanced around the quiet, white, deserted streets, remembering in my dream, the walls were lushly painted with colors.

It was just a dream, of course. But as my steps slowed to a halt and sweat oozed down my back, I considered how Sid made me question what I believed I knew.

It occurred to me that although for years I had believed my mother didn’t want me, I couldn’t know that for certain. Maybe something—or someone—had made her abandon me.

It occurred to me that I had never questioned why, every year for the moon festival, the men painted the walls freshly white.

How many coats of paint lay thick on the walls?

Had the walls always been white?

What if my dream had been somehow real?

Normally this last thought would have sent me scurrying home, shoving the idea away, because it was the sort of thought that had always meant confusion and grief. It had been so hard when I was younger to tell illusion from truth. I should have grown out of it by now.

I needed Helin to tell me what was real. I needed Raven.