“We’re only a street away. Trust me, Erik can take care of himself,” Jost replies.

“Look, I understand—”

“No, you don’t.” He stops me. “You trust him. I don’t. He’ll take off the first chance he gets.”

“And where will he go?” I ask. It’s a logical question, so I’m not likely to get a straight response.

“You don’t know him like I do,” he says, giving me an answer as crooked as they come.

“Maybe not.” I stop and face him, planning to remind him that a lot has changed in the last two years. Erik may have left Saxun to pursue a political career, turning his back on his family and friends, but it was Erik who helped me the night Jost and I were discovered sneaking around the Coventry. I’ve been preparing my give-him-a-chance-before-I-stab-you-both lecture for the past few days. But something I see over his shoulder stops me.

A woman. She’s short, tottering in heels down the street. I catch glimpses of her face in the flicker of dying lamplight. The slope of her eyes. Her diminutive, slender form. The thick, straight hair swaying around her shoulders.

“Valery,” I breathe.

“What?” Jost asks, confused by the change in conversation.

“It’s Valery,” I say, grabbing his arm to turn his attention to the other side of the street. The woman has passed before he can catch more than her fading shape. She’s moving quickly and with purpose.

“Valery is dead,” Jost reminds me in a gentle voice.

I know that. At least, she should be dead. A victim of retribution for the suicide of Enora, my mentor at the Coventry and Valery’s lover. Loricel told me Valery had been ripped the night Loricel warned me of Cormac’s plans to remap me, and yet I’m positive of what I’ve seen. “It’s her.”

I don’t wait for him to argue with me. Valery is growing smaller in my vision, her figure blurring with each step she takes away from us, and I follow her. I don’t run. That seems a sure way to draw unwanted attention to yourself in a place like the grey market, but I move quickly enough that I keep her in my sight until she turns a corner.

Skidding around the building she disappeared past, I realize I’m on the edge of the grey market. The buildings stretching before me are better maintained. Most have signs, and many are already closed. But Valery is nowhere in sight, which means she’s gone into one that’s still open. Doors are locked, lights turned off, and then I stumble upon a door that creaks open when I touch it. The lights are on in the store, revealing a cluttered room full of books and knick-knacks strewn in piles along the floor and filling tables. It will be a miracle if I can even walk around. But someone could hide here. I have no reason to suspect Valery saw me, but if she did, I wouldn’t blame her for wanting to avoid me.

That doesn’t mean I am going to let her.

THREE

I GLANCE AT THE SIGN HANGING ON a post by the door: THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. Curious indeed. After a few moments navigating the store, I see no signs of life, but what I do find holds my attention: relics from a forgotten world, particularly an old radio. I forget my quest and stare at it, tentatively reaching out to touch its buttons, but it’s as dead as the one hidden in the secret cubby in my parents’ home. A product of yesterday, and nothing more.

I’ll have lost Valery completely by now, if it was even her at all, so I linger in the store and riffle through the books, knocking years of dust off them. A copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets catches my eye. I read it over and over as a child, stealing it from the stash of contraband in my parents’ room. We had a few books, and if my parents minded my reading them, they certainly never said anything. I understand now how precious they were, and more than anything I want to take this volume with me. I couldn’t protect those books. I couldn’t protect my parents, but I can have a piece of them again.

“Not many young people are interested in books these days,” a raspy voice says. A face, lined and gaunt, follows the words, appearing in the doorway. The woman limps over, resting against a cane, and I notice that one of her feet is made of steel and wood.

“My parents had it,” I tell her. “I read it as a child.”

“Quite the luxury,” she says. “Books and having the time to teach your child to read.”

I pause, not sure how to respond. This conversation is heading in a dangerous direction. Many of the Icebox’s inhabitants are refugees, but that doesn’t make it any safer to admit I am one myself.

“Keep it,” she offers.

“I couldn’t,” I say. “Not without paying.”

The shop owner seems to grow an inch at the mention of payment. She can’t do much business selling radios that don’t work and books that can’t be read.

“I don’t have any money though,” I admit.

“Well,” she mutters, shaking her head, “at least you can read.”

“I have this,” I say, unlatching an earring. I only offer her one, because I know the emeralds in the pair are real and because I know the boys will be furious if I come back missing both. We’ve been hawking our possessions strategically and we’ve been saving the earrings until we have a plan for getting back to Arras and need real money.

“You’re either proud or an idiot,” she says, but she accepts the earring. “Look around, take some more of this junk off my hands. An emerald for a book isn’t a fair trade, child.”