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“My host is gone at the moment,” I say. Then it occurs to me that I might be giving her too much information in telling her that Kincaid is away. Maybe it’s a good thing she’s so securely kept.
“And he left you behind?” The question digs at me.
“I’m tired of your games,” I tell her. “I just … just wanted to see you.”
“In the future,” she begins, and my breath hitches, caught on the unexpected hope rising in my chest, “don’t bother.”
It stings, even though I know this is a game. I turn without a goodbye and leave her there. On my way out, I decide:
I’m never going b
ack to her.
* * *
Erik is at dinner, alone. I’m not hungry, but I knew he would be in the dining room. When Kincaid left to find the Whorl, I expected meals to become less formal. But even though Valery doesn’t join us and Dante rarely does, the kitchen still serves a full five-course meal.
“Do you know anything about loopholes?” I ask Erik, sipping the last of the coffee that was brought with the dessert tray.
“Like bunny ears for tying your shoes?” he asks.
“Yes, of course that’s what I mean,” I say in a flat tone.
“I guess I don’t know then,” Erik says. He hasn’t touched his coffee, so I steal it.
“I can’t believe you drink that stuff,” he says.
“I can’t believe you don’t.” I slurp a long draft of it for emphasis.
“Why?” he asks.
“It hits me right here,” I say, poking my forehead. “Like tiny explosions.”
“Right,” he says as he fiddles with my old digifile, barely interested.
“Why didn’t you pawn that?” I ask.
“It’s useless down here,” Erik says, but he doesn’t stop playing with it. “Why did you ask about loopholes?”
“Something my mom said.”
That gets his attention.
“At the risk of sounding like my brother, you know it’s a bad idea to visit her, right?” Erik asks. He abandons the digifile and looks at me.
“I know,” I admit. “But it feels like she’s the only connection I have left.”
“You have me,” Erik says.
“Not what I meant. My last connection to a time when life wasn’t confusing.” My words are all wrong, betraying me. I can’t explain it to him. I barely understand it myself.
“And she told you about loops?” Erik guesses.
I nod, trying to sort my thoughts into coherent strings of words. “Dante called them loopholes. There must be one in the Icebox with that many refugees winding up there. Someone in the grey market must know.”
“Do you even know what a loophole is?”
“No,” I say. “But I have an idea.”
