“That is all I ask,” he said, magnanimous, before resuming his lunch. He gestured at her with his knife, continuing on as if nothing had happened. “You will be happy to know that I’ve had the accused moved to a place that should meet with your approval. Fresh clothing, meals, medical care.” He sawed at a tendon in his steak. “Light.”

“Is my sister free to return home?” she asked stiffly.

“Of course not.”

“Then it does not meet with my approval.”

He grunted, as if she was ungrateful. No doubt he thought she should praise him. But he had only provided Mariel with the basics of human decency after Grace’s article had pressured him into it.

“I would ask something else of you,” Celeste said, feeling as if she had nothing to lose. “I want to know more about Daniel Alameda.”

Ibrahim sipped from his coffee, no doubt buying time. His gaze turned to the Virtue, who was staring at Celeste, still radiating sour outrage.

“You. Go get Miss Anant coffee,” Ibrahim ordered.

The Virtue’s mouth turned down in disapproval. “I know what she is, and she’s not an ‘Anant.’ ” He hissed the accusation, his eyes seeking out some tell on her skin or in the curl of her hair, since she did not bear the Mark.

“Choose your words carefully,” Ibrahim warned. “Remember where you are, and who I am, and that she is under my protection here.”

“You had me walk the streets with her, knowing she was a Fallen? What if people saw? What will they think?”

“Is that your concern? You stupid boy.” Ibrahim leaned in, and Celeste saw another side of him. He became someone to fear. “I don’t give a good goddamn what they think. Now, go get the coffee.”

The Virtue puffed his chest, one last stand, but he only sounded petulant. “Make her get her own coffee. I am not a servant, particularly to her kind.”

“You are whatever I say you are. Go! Now!”

The Virtue jumped to his feet, finally realizing his immediate danger. He went to duck under the curtain, and Celeste reached out. He froze when her fingers touched the bare skin of his wrist.

“With plenty of sugar, if they have it.”

The Virtue’s glare cut across her like jagged glass.

“And take the long way back,” Ibrahim added.

He went without further protest, cradling his wrist as if she had drawn blood.

“The Excelsior has plenty of sugar, I assure you, Miss Anant,” Ibrahim said, as if she’d just asked the sun whether it knew how to shine.

She smiled tightly. “Then he should have no trouble fulfilling my request.”