Santiago slips into the driver’s seat and seamlessly shifts gears to drive off the property. By the time we arrive at IVI, the sun has set, and the lights cast on the building make it look even more ominous than it must look by daylight. I know the timing is by Santiago’s design. He doesn’t come out in the daytime unless he absolutely must, and The Tribunal has agreed to it. Santiago tucks the keys into his pocket and comes around to help me out of the low sports car.

We enter the building, and the men who’d escorted me up the last time greet him with reverence. They still barely acknowledge me. Santiago takes my elbow, and we climb the stairs together, the guards following us. I don’t let myself glance out the window. I won’t look.

Once we stand outside the large wooden doors, Santiago helps me out of my coat and hands it and his to someone standing nearby. A moment later, the doors are opened, and we enter the cavernous, cold room, our footsteps echoing. Santiago’s hand is firm at my back when I draw away, guiding me to stand in the pulpit. I’m surprised and grateful when he steps in beside me, and I realize I’m shaking when he wraps a hand around the back of my neck and leans close to tell me to relax.

How did I do this that first time around? How did I stand here before these men sitting in their cloaks high above me ready to judge me? How did I do this alone?

I glance at where Mercedes was sitting that day, her eyes red, skin blotchy from crying, and see Jackson looking at us, expression unreadable.

When the gavel hits the block, I startle and turn. I listen as The Councilor formally reads the charge of poisoning against me, the way he says my name sending a shiver down my spine.

I don’t hear much of what he follows up with because I’m too anxious until his final sentence. “In light of new evidence, the charge is dropped and the case against Mrs. De La Rosa dismissed.” I wonder if he’s disappointed by the fact. I get the feeling he is. When he’s finished with the formal statement, he removes his glasses and looks down at me. “You owe Mr. Van Der Smit for that, young lady.”

I nod, not sure what I’m supposed to say, too nervous to tell them off, tell them that I hadn’t done anything wrong to begin with. That, at the very least, it is they who owe me an apology.

“Santiago,” one of the other Councilors starts.

“Councilor,” Santiago says, no note of nerves in his tone. More an irritation. Is he truly not even a little bit intimidated by this?