Shouldering my rucksack, I linger next to Ava on the two-lane solar driveway. The panels are divided by lush grass, the kind that would make me want to run around barefoot in a bygone life. Instead, I stand still and breathe in the fresh air, taking in my surroundings.

Patches of wildflowers flourish across the impressive property, as do dozens of “guests.” If, like us, they are more than they appear and all really part of the fledgling cause, our numbers are growing. Maybe we have a chance.

“I’m going to have a look around,” Skye tells the group.

Emery lets her wander. Skye was in a prison cell for nearly two thousand days. The sun, the open land, the people. It must be a lot to take in at once.

My eyes track a group of three as they weave through the tall, bare trunks of the pines, heading toward the rushing waters of a river the color of turquoise.

“Glaciers,” Ava says, pointing up at the serrated tops of a distant mountain range. Sure enough I spot gleaming white ice nestled atop the pointed peaks, ice fields that have somehow survived the heated earth.

It’s magnificent, a wonderland of natural beauty. But all I can think about is how soon we can leave it.

This is the perfect place to grieve, but I don’t want to soothe my pain; I don’t want my wounds to heal. I want them to fester. I want them to hurt. I want them to remind me of what I’ve lost and the bastard who stole it all from me.

“The Secret Sisters!” a voice shouts from the front steps, causing every head to turn. A sky-high beanpole of a young man stands alone on the metal landing, the morning sun glinting off his silver suit, making him shine like platinum.

This must be Ciro.

He strides toward our small group, arms flung wide in welcome. He swings his head back and forth like a pendulum from Ava’s face to mine, as everyone always does when they first see us.

“The Traitorous Twins!” His boisterous laughter echoes through the grounds, and I try my best not to cringe. My eyes dart over every stranger, finding them all captivated by our impromptu reception. I want to turn and run. I’m still a novice to this kind of attention, to being singled out and talked about in front of so many. But Ava holds my elbow firm, making me stay.

Pawel and the others, even Barend, smile and join in with Ciro’s infectious laughter. Emery stands by my side, giving an encouraging nod, and I remember we’re among friends. I take a breath and pop my knuckles, forcing myself to adjust and acclimate to our new role. Suck it up. You chose this.

Ava moves to meet our so-called leader, and I follow, our quick steps syncing in an effortless rhythm. His position of power, his confidence, the way everyone seems to look up to him, literally, all tell me Ciro must be well beyond his teens, but he looks even younger than I am. Cherubic face, boyish grin. A buoyant effervescence that life somehow hasn’t popped.

“Ava, Mira,” he says, placing a hand on each of our shoulders. “Welcome to Paramount Point Lodge. We have been waiting for you for decades.”

I lift my chin and meet his gaze, but he stares for so long I have to look away.

“My apologies. I know it’s rude to stare. These worldly eyes of mine have seen many twins, but none so identical as the two of you. And of course, never American twins.”

“Thank you for letting me and my sister stay here,” Ava says, offering her hand.

“Of course, of course. It’s your home now too.”

“Is this just another safe house, or do you have a plan?” I blurt out. “Can we actually do something? For weeks we’ve done nothing but hide.” I don’t know why I’m directing all my pent-up frustration at him, but my anger seems only to make him smile.

“A woman of action.” He looks from Ava to me. “Twofold. We will work well together, then.”

“It’s been a long morning, Ciro,” Emery cuts in, directing everyone with a wave of her hand to continue unloading the vans. “Let’s allow Ava and Mira to settle in and find their bearings.”

Ciro’s smile falters, and his head drops in a bow. “Of course, what a terrible host.”

He ushers us up the porch steps, Barend suddenly close by his side. They trade confidential whispers as we move through the wide front door, and I wonder where Barend’s loyalty lies. With Ciro or with Emery? I hope we are all one, but the cool look Emery shoots our new host tells me it’s much more tangled than that.

“Everyone, please be sure to check in at the front desk!” Ciro shouts at the steady stream of newcomers. “No exceptions!”

“Is he serious?” Ava asks pointedly, clearly finding the whole thing excessive.

“We must keep up the facade,” Emery answers, appearing next to me with a stiff smile. She carries her own duffel bag and a backpack, most likely heavy with journals and maps. A leader who carries her own weight.

“Keep up the show for who?” I ask. They seem not to be concerned with either spies or turncoats, or Ciro wouldn’t be so carelessly shouting out our arrival with enemy catchphrases for anyone to hear. “Traitorous Twins.” The nickname makes me want to punch a wall. Or the man who coined it.

“For the Crosses. Ciro’s mom and dad,” Pawel chimes in behind us. “They check the books.”

We stop a few feet away from the long line of guests waiting to check in and receive their room numbers. Emery leans in, lowering her sharp, lusty voice.

“Ciro’s parents believe that their family wealth finances a string of successful luxury hotels all across Canada, run and managed by their only son,” Emery tells us, motioning toward Ciro. “But unbeknownst to them, the Crosses are the sole benefactors of our cause.”

With all that’s been going on, I hadn’t thought about who was funding the Common’s revival. Getting it into running shape and fighting order.

“How long has Ciro been doing this? Using his Paramount hotels as a rebellion front?” Ava asks, gazing around the grand foyer, its massive corridors hinting at even grander rooms beyond.

“Are the Crosses Canadian citizens?” I ask, wondering for the fiftieth time today how plausible it would be for Ava and me to obtain political asylum and official protection. “Or are the family secret refugees?”

Our questions go unanswered.

Barend marches across the spacious room, headed straight for us, and stands at attention with a click of his shiny boots. He nods to Emery but addresses Ava, then me. “Ciro wants to see you in his room before the party.”

I feel the full brunt of Emery’s exhale on my shoulder. She clears her throat, asking evenly, “The party?”

“That’s all he told me,” Barend replies before he takes his leave. A man of brevity.

“I’m not going to any party,” Ava whispers heatedly in my ear, echoing my thoughts. There’s nothing to celebrate.

I want to find the Council Room, the War Room. I want to find action.

Through the large, open windows, I see the vans that took the alternate route pull up, the last batch from Calgary. Standing on the tips of my boots, I search for Ciro, but he’s lost in the growing crowd.

“Ava, Mira, if you would meet me at the elevators, I will show you to Ciro’s room,” Emery says, scanning the enormous analog clock that decorates the entire back wall. It almost makes me smile. Hints of the Common are on display here. The Elders, like Rayla, abhor all forms of technology, no matter the inconvenience. Their paranoia of government surveillance matches even mine.