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“Cait,” I said eventually, “are you sure Zenitha won’t report us? I’m afraid she knows too much.”
“Yes,” said Cait. “I am.”
“Why are you so sure?”
Cait let out a long breath. “Because of what I did for her back in prison.”
I waited silently for her to say more, afraid to pry.
“Zenitha is not a typical woman,” Cait said. “Or, I should say, she has not alwayslookedlike a woman.”
I nodded in the dark, understanding.
“When she was in prison with me, sharing a cell, I was the only one who knew the secret of her identity. She’d been imprisoned for a short time for some minor offense, but if the Academy discovered that she hadn’t been born as the noblewoman she presented to the world, she would’ve been ruined entirely. To live authentically, she had to construct a new identity. There’s a reason she’s so talented at forging rank cards—along with everything else. It started as survival.
“One night,” Cait continued, “two Enforcers came to our cell. They were about to assault Zenitha in unspeakable ways.” Shepaused, sniffing. “I knew what would happen if her secret was found out. And I suspected these men wouldn’t even let her survive the night once they knew.”
Silence followed for a few long moments.
“So I offered myself,” she said, her voice almost inaudible, “without a fight. I don’t know how to explain it, but it seemed to be the only thing I could do.”
I rolled out of bed and crawled over to her bedside, my hands grasping hers as both of our tears flowed.
“Mara,” she said, her voice breaking. “You imagine you’ll feel like a hero if you do something like that, but what no one tells you is that it can just as easily break you. Heroism isn’t all beautiful. It truly is at least halfway terrible.”
“I’m so sorry, Cait,” I said, aware that there were no words in the Cambrian language that could adequately express this. “I’msosorry.”
“I cannevergo back to prison,” she said. “Never. It would destroy me. I think it already has.”
“No,” I disagreed. “It hasn’t. You’re braver than anyone I know.”
“I’m not,” she said. “I live in constant fear.”
I squeezed both of her hands in mine. “I promise you, I’ll do everything in my power to keep you free—no matter what.”
She let out a quiet sob. “And I’ll do the same for you.”
“I know,” I said.
I arosebefore dawn to a quiet house, still wondering where my father could be.
Cait snored softly on the bed across the room. I didn’t want to wake her, and there was no need just yet. I couldn’t wait to getmy hands on today’s paper, but I could do that alone. It would be worth putting on my mustache if there was anything of value in the news today.
I wondered if there might be some way to talk to Graham. If I couldn’t find out where my father was imprisoned, Graham might know. And maybe he’d listen to me if I begged him to be gentle on my father. I liked to hope there was a shred of concern remaining that might motivate him not to destroy me and my family.
The idea of facing Graham terrified me almost more than that of facing Cael, or any other member of the Academy. The memory of my last attempt to talk to him haunted me whenever I allowed myself to go there. I wanted to change his mind about me, to redeem myself in his eyes. But I wasn’t even sure I was redeemable.
I strapped the binder back on my chest, my ribs aching in protest. The uniform followed, sullied by a few grass stains from jumping over the fence, but they mostly faded into the black fabric. I’d look a little less crisp than yesterday.
Next, I got to work on my hair and face in front of a mirror, trying my hand at the makeup Zenitha had provided. I’d observed the way she’d shaded my jaw, squaring it out and transforming the shape of my face, so I did my best to imitate it. I topped off the look with my mustache, appraising myself in the mirror. I smiled, but in a smug, self-righteous way, my fingers still holding my mustache while the adhesive set.
A door swung shut somewhere overhead.
My self-admiration halted, immediately replaced by fear and dread.
Tentative footsteps and the creak of floorboards followed.
I wished I could believe it was my father, but I knew his gait better than anyone’s and those were not his footsteps. His were steady and deliberate, intimately familiar with every detail ofthis house. Whoever was upstairs sounded like they were trying to walk softly but didn’t know the floors well enough to avoid the creaks.
