“A lot,” Victoria said. “Food sounds good. Something quick? There’s stuff that needs attention.”

“You need attention. Can you catch me up on things over food? I’ll treat.”

“Maybe another time, for the catching up,” Victoria said. “The Wardens apparently need help.”

“Victoria,” Crystal said, her tone a warning.

“I have to. I need to,” Victoria said, and the words were accompanied by another set of micro-adjustments. Posture, body language, footing, a hand going to hair, a movement of the chin. Like someone getting ready to have their photo taken, but this presentation was something taught with the idea it would be worn at all times, if possible. A heroine could have video footage or a photo taken at any time.

Crystal looked at Aunt Carol.

Aunt Carol didn’t remark on a bit of it, but Crystal could imagine she found a bit of pride, energy, or personal power in how Victoria summoned up her own strength and then armored that strength in image. Carol’s remark was innocuous, “Food sounds good. I think the heroes are rendezvousing at the Wardens’, they’d appreciate us bringing stuff.”

“Okay,” Crystal said, giving Victoria a worried look. But she no longer had the ability to accurately read her cousin.

Only that lingering sinking feeling.

⊙

Erin

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Rain said. He had the hood of his costume up under the hood of his jacket, hands jammed in his pockets.

“Of course I’d come. You called,” she told him, as she approached. “Kind of. It was a weird by-proxy sort of thing, huh?”

“It was—a Kenzie thing.”

Erin smiled. “Is the critter okay?”

“She’s okay. Got a bloody nose earlier, but we kept her safe. She was asking who we wanted to see when we got out—”

They’d had to navigate around the mob of Heartbroken, and only just now found themselves facing one another.

“—and I didn’t realize she was actually arranging anything until she’d sent out the messages. Didn’t mean to inconvenience.”

Impulsively, she stepped forward and gave Rain a hug. With the layers he wore and the layers she wore, it was more a squish of outer clothing than bodily contact.

And the poor guy looked like he needed a hug.

His answer to the hug was delayed, as he had to pluck hands out of pockets first, figure out what he was doing, and then put his arms around her, just at the point she was breaking contact.

His hands dropped back to his sides nearly as soon as he’d raised them, then found his pockets again.

He had a cut beneath his eye and a bruise on the side of his face. She reached up to brush a thumb lightly across the bruise, before dropping her hand. “You got battered.”

“Always,” he said. “Got ambushed by guards and prisoners. Then there was a prison riot this time.”