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“There was a place around here,” Erik says. “A loophole. Do you know what happened to it?”
“The refugee shelter? Sure,” she says with a smack of her lips. “It’s gone now.”
“Yes, we assumed that,” Erik says in a measured tone. “Do you know where it was?”
“Yeah, next door, down the stairs. But it got closed up a long time ago.”
“Who closed it?” Erik asks.
“Owner, so far as I know. She still lives there. She rents this place, too. She comes in for a drink now and then, but she keeps to herself.”
“Do you know her name?” I ask.
“Nah, not really my job,” she says, her eyes elsewhere again. “You need anything else?”
“No, thank you,” Erik says.
“If it was next door,” I start, but my thoughts are too jumbled for me to continue speaking. It could still be there, and if the owner is there, we could ask her. I know Erik is thinking the same things.
“It’s risky,” he says.
He’s right. It’s dangerous to go asking around after the loophole, especially knowing nothing about the owner.
“To almost-solutions,” Erik says, raising his glass. We clink, but I don’t take a long draft like he does. It’s too strong for me. I take a small sip and let it burn my throat before setting the glass back down.
“Strong,” I say with a grimace.
“You didn’t have any dinner,” he reminds me. “You should probably take it easy on that—not everyone can handle liquor like Cormac.”
“I have no desire to drink like Cormac,” I say, but the conversation jogs my memory. I hadn’t eaten dinner because Erik was already done with his and playing with the digifile I’d brought from Arras. I stare at hi
m and he responds by raising an eyebrow.
“The digifile,” I say in a quiet voice. “I’ve always wondered where Enora got that program. The tracking program.”
Erik’s arm drops from my shoulders and he leans away from me for a moment.
“It was you,” I say when he doesn’t speak.
“I’m sorry, Adelice. I should have convinced Enora to drop it when she came to me. If I had done more, she might be alive now.”
“You didn’t have anything to do with her death,” I say, but then it strikes me that might not be true. Erik is a Tailor. A fact I keep forgetting.
“I didn’t,” he assures me, as though he can read my mind. “At that point, things were out of control. I think Cormac suspected me after the State of the Guild.”
“You finally made an impression on him,” I say. Cormac had written Erik off early on during my time at the Coventry.
“Adelice,” Erik says, taking a deep breath, “I worked for Cormac.”
“We all worked for Cormac.”
“No,” he says with emphasis, “I worked for Cormac. He had Tailors all over the coventries, spying on the operations and keeping tabs on Spinsters.”
“And you were keeping tabs on me?” He told me that during our last hour in the Coventry, but I haven’t brought it up since then. Now I wish I had.
“Would you let me off the hook if I said it was really complicated?” he asks.
I look at Erik then, measuring him up. I can appreciate secrets and regrets. I have plenty of my own, and I’ve decided not to let them dictate who I am. Erik deserves the same chance.
