I bridle my reaction. “Regardless of your refusal to hear me out last night, I’m telling you, you can trust me with your plan.”

“And I’m telling you,” he intones, “I got everything handled.”

I openly scoff. “Well, if that were true, I wouldn’t be here. Would I?” At last he spins toward me, but I head off a rebuttal: “I’d wager a hundred dollars your scheme needs improvement.”

His expression constricts. “You haven’t even heard it.”

I nearly smile. “You think I’d have to?”

A dry laugh slips from his mouth, and he promptly seals it shut, amused in spite of himself. He tosses the towel aside and jerks a nod toward the floor. “Grab your shoes. Time to get a move on.”

“Criminy, you’re being ridiculous.” I cross my arms, seated solidly against the wall. “Arie, you know this is my specialty. It’s what I’ve always done—dissect illusions and tricks, and now gadgets. I make them better by figuring out what could go wrong. I’m an expert at escape and evasion, for goodness’ sake.”

“Oh, believe me,” he mutters, “I know that much.” He stops and shakes his head, appearing regretful of the barb. It’s a personal one that would gouge me deeper if not for my current resolve. “Listen,” he says, hitching his hands low on his hips, “I appreciate the offer. I just don’t need your input on this. All right?”

At my silence, he presses me with a stare.

“Fine,” I say.

He nods with relief—too hastily.

“How about Evelien? Could she use it? What about your contact, the one trapped in the hospital? Are you so terribly certain your plan can’t use improvement, even with all your lives at stake?”

He looks away, and quiet swoops in between us. Although clearly perturbed, he’s not countering my points.

More gently I prod, “Well?”

After a mumble and sharp groan, he jabs a finger in my direction. “You give your feedback, then you’re gone. Nothing more. You hear me?”

“Yes,” I stress, “I hear you.”

It’s a genuine reply, my choice of words entirely deliberate.

Chapter 61

To conceal my overnight absence, I sneak back into the boardinghouse to show my face at breakfast. The morning meals thus far have consisted of bitter ersatz coffee and bread. Today it’s porridge, a childhood favorite of Klara’s.

Why, oh why couldn’t it be anything else?

Staving off memories of the orphanage, I force down a bowlful, barely. The thick glop lacks even a grain of sweetener, sugar naturally being a rare treasure. But I keep a pleasant expression, some of my best acting I’d say.