“I’m fine,” he snaps, taking another swig from his drink and slamming the tumbler onto the table.

“Will you be staying long?” Despite my casual tone, my heart pounds like a drum as I ask.

“I’ll leave in the morning.” But to my disappointment he says no more about his plans.

“How was your week?” I ask, trying to channel my mother and how she spoke to my father at the dinner table.

His jaw tenses and he reaches for his glass again. It’s empty and he’s dismissed the valet, which means he’ll be forced to speak to me. He twists his hands together, cracking his knuckles, each one popping ominously in the quiet room.

“I’d rather not discuss work.”

“But I’m so interested in your job.”

“You want to know, Adelice?” he asks, and I nod, stunned by his offer. This is the first time he’s been willing to speak directly about the situation. “Containing the situation regarding the Eastern Sector is becoming impossible. Most of our seafood as well as paper goods traded through that sector. We’ll have to expand another sector to fulfill those needs and that means opening up new mining sites on the surface and finding more girls to work in the coventries at a time when Eligibles have become scarce.”

“It is a shame what happened in the Eastern Sector,” I murmur.

“I don’t deal with traitors.” There’s murder in his words.

“Which makes me feel fortunate,” I reply in a gentle tone. I have to remind him that he can be merciful, because he seems to have forgotten.

He ignores the comment. Of late he’s been less argumentative, less quick with his insults. If I didn’t know it was impossible, I would say his job is killing him.

His head tilts to the side to take a complant call. This is the only way I have been able to learn things: that the rebellion on Earth is still strong, that Amie is being kept in the Northern Sector. The casual asides and conversations I overhear during our infrequent dinners paint a rough picture of what’s happening within Arras and on Earth. He often listens for long periods on these calls, nodding solemnly, and that is how I know things are slipping from his control.

“Lobster is not my priority right now,” he snaps, angry again. “I don’t care what concerns it’s raising. If it’s that big an issue, do a full clean of the public. They can’t miss something they don’t know about.”

Shellfish have never been so dangerous. Now everything feels like a risk. Each morsel on my tongue. Each casual joke. Perhaps it’s only because I’m close to him that I see how the questions have become fissures in his foundation. How long will it be before they cause him to crack?

Cormac pushes his full plate away and calls for the next course. I manage a few more bites of salad before the plate is taken and a miniature tureen of soup is placed in front of me. As soon as I lift the lid, I can tell from the layer of gummy, melted cheese that it’s French onion—Cormac’s favorite. He knows I dislike it. I pick at it with my spoon.

“You aren’t eating your soup,” he says.

“I’m not fond of onion soup,” I say as mildly as possible. Silently I add, I hate it, and I hate you.

“It’s a delicacy. Onions are scarce.”

“They are? I haven’t noticed any shortage of onions.”

“Because I ensure you don’t go without,” he says. Miraculously, he’s eaten almost his entire bowl already. I shouldn’t complain since it’s one of the few things he consumes without alcohol content. “That is my job.”

“Our job is to do what’s right for Arras and Earth.” It’s a simple reminder, not a warning. Cormac brought me here to be his partner. I hold my gaze level with his even as he drops his spoon into the empty tureen. It clatters ominously against the porcelain.

“I wondered when you’d raise this issue again.”

“Issue?” I repeat. “Cormac, people are dying. Your own people. We need to offer them a chance. I’ve seen the mines. You know this situation isn’t sustainable—”

“You saw the mines when you were out playing rebel, so pardon me if I ignore your anecdotal evidence.”

“Are you telling me there isn’t a problem?”

“I’m telling you it isn’t your place to fix it.”

Blood roars in my ears. It’s just like Cormac to bring up my place—it’s my weakness. The one thing that I can’t pretend to tolerate. “This wasn’t our deal,” I remind him. “I came to help you, not sit around.”

“But you’re so good at it,” he says.

As if he knows what it’s like to pretend, to play at life every second of the day.

Without thinking about it, I lift my full tureen and fling it across the room. The porcelain shatters against the wall, spraying stringy onion against the smooth, golden paint.

My hands splay against the wooden table and for a moment I consider using them. I could unwind him, wipe him from existence like he casually erases those who threaten him, but I won’t make it out of here alive if I do. Cormac has collateral to ensure my good behavior, so I scratch my fingers across the wood’s grain to stem the trembling in them.

Cormac presses the com near his end of the table, ignoring me. “Next course, and send a maid to the dining room.”

“But then she’ll know about our domestic problems,” I say.

“I’ll have her removed when she’s finished cleaning up your mess,” he says, and I fall back against my chair.