He starts past me, but at the last minute, I feel him turn so he faces my back. I know this move: he’ll snake his arm around my neck, pull me to him, and press something sharp into my skin—probably that scythe. Before he can get his arm hooked around me, I grab it and twist to face him, gripping his wrist. Shy smiles—I’ve done exactly what he wanted.

“If you want me to believe you aren’t trained, you’re going to have to stop doing that.”

I let him go with a little push, but he doesn’t budge.

“If you don’t want your nose broken, you’re going to have to stop doing that.”

Shy laughs. How can I find his smile so endearing when there’s so much mistrust between us?

“I’d rather our fights not end in pain.” He takes a step away. “Bye, Lyra.”

The use of my first name steals my breath. He’s done some digging on me. I watch him retreat until I can no longer see him, swallowed by a thick crowd spilling out of the auditorium. The more distance he puts between us, the colder I get. I end up huddled under the awning near the doors of Emerson Hall, shivering, scanning the ground on the off chance I’ll spy my lost coin.

Shy gave me a little of himself, but it didn’t come without a price. I feel as if I’m in a race. First one to discover the other’s secret wins a prize—preferably a normal life and absolutely no involvement in whatever battle Shy hinted at.

* * *

Mom takes me home, and she’s unusually quiet on the drive home. At three, I take off on foot to Main Street, not even bothering to tell Mom I’m leaving since she’s holed up in her room again. I wonder what Shy’s mom will think of her new employee if she has another full-blown episode and can’t get out of bed for a week.

June’s Café is not far from my house—just a walk down the broken sidewalk in my neighborhood and a right turn. The ground beneath my feet is slick with rain, and a light mist coats everything in a haze. Several cars are parked at an angle before old, brick shop fronts. Despite the weather, clusters of people stand outside, including Thane, who leans against the building, one foot drawn up to steady himself. His phone is in one hand, and he is distracted by it; a cigarette is in the other. He hasn’t noticed me yet, and I watch as he brings the cancer stick to his mouth.

“That’s going to kill you.”