For a moment Eliana couldn’t speak. The truth of Navi’s words knocked her in the gut.

How can you live with it?

She ignored the memory of Harkan’s voice, held out a hand for Remy, and felt a cruel thrill when he obeyed.

“Don’t talk to me about my family,” she said. “And stay away from my brother.”

She spat on the floor by Navi’s feet. Then she turned, Remy in hand, pushed past the staring rebels, and left the room.

• • •

“Ah, Eliana!” Patrik looked up from his table in the common room. “How lovely to see you up and about at this hour.”

Hob, seated beside him, glanced up at her, then scowled at the notebook he was writing in.

Eliana hadn’t been able to sleep. She’d been lying on the tiny, lumpy pallet she shared with Remy, tensely staring at the ceiling with an iron fist in her stomach and knots turning in her shoulders. She’d borne it for a good hour before giving up.

Now, she was…what? She didn’t know. Looking for information? Maybe these rebel saps knew something about the people who’d taken her mother.

Looking for a fight? Her body melted a little at the thought. God, yes, a fight would do the trick. She longed to punch something until the skin broke on her indestructible fists. Maybe she could wake up Simon, piss him off. He’d try to hit her, and she’d make him pay for it.

“Patrik.” She stepped into the room and nodded at him—a little sheepish, a little soft. The apologetic bounty hunter, finally starting to see the error of her ways. It was almost a funny enough thought to make her laugh right there in front of them. “Hob. I was hoping someone would be awake.”

Patrik beckoned her over. “Someone’s always awake here. We’re peeling potatoes. Well, I’m peeling potatoes. Hob’s writing.” Patrik let out an aggrieved sigh. “I’m used to it though. Doing all the work around here, I mean.”

“You poor, overworked darling,” said Hob, his voice a deep monotone.

Eliana chuckled and took her earlier seat at the hearth.

“And will you not say hello to me?”

Eliana jumped to hear Simon’s low voice from the shadows. She hadn’t noticed him there, slouched in a stained, high-backed chair, long legs propped up on an overturned crate. He gazed at her over the rim of his glass, blue eyes gleaming in the firelight.

Irritated with herself for having missed him, Eliana snapped, “Are you ever not drinking?”

With a tiny grin, he mumbled into his glass, “Helps me sleep. Keeps me sharp. Keeps the voices at bay.”

“Which is it, then?”

“All. Or none.” He leaned his head back against the chair, closed his eyes, and let out a long, animal groan of satisfaction. “What about you, Eliana? What voices do you hear in the deep dark of night?”

The sound of her name on his lips lingered in the crackling hot air by the fire. Eliana tore her gaze away from his bared throat; long silver lines of scar tissue shifted as he swallowed.

Then, from the nearest door, a soft voice broke the silence: “Patrik?”

Patrik turned, a smile spreading across his face. “Linnet! Shouldn’t you be in bed, little one?”

A small child, maybe eight or nine years old, crept forward from the shadows, a ratty doll clutched in her hands. Bandaged cuts and purple bruises marred her pale skin.

“I don’t like sleeping,” said Linnet. She climbed into Patrik’s lap and stared gravely at Hob’s notebook. “I think I’m ready now.”

Hob looked up at her. “You don’t have to, Linnet, if you don’t want to.”

The girl’s fingers were white around her doll, her thin lips cracked. “I want to. I promise.”

Eliana’s throat clenched at the girl’s haunted expression. “What are you going to do to her?” she asked sharply.

Linnet peered at Eliana through the shadows. “Who’re you?”

“Just a monster who likes to wear masks,” Simon mumbled into his glass.

Linnet’s eyes widened in alarm.

“Linnet’s going to tell us her story for Hob’s collection.” Patrik fixed first Simon, then Eliana, with a cutting glare. “And no one’s going to interrupt her, are they?”

Hob opened his notebook to a fresh page. “You’re nine years old, aren’t you, love?”

Linnet kept glancing over at Eliana with something like awe on her face. Her gaze dropped to the knives at Eliana’s belt. “Yes.”

Hob began writing. “Can you tell me your family name?”

Linnet rested her chin on her doll’s head and said nothing.

“What about where you lived?” Patrik asked softly.

Linnet squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head a little.

“That’s all right.” Hob smiled. “You don’t have to tell me that.”

“I don’t remember,” Linnet whispered.

“I can’t remember what I ate for breakfast this morning,” Patrik said. “An apple, maybe? A hat? A belt buckle? No, that can’t be right…”

Linnet smiled shyly. She stroked her doll’s snarled hair ten times before she began to speak.

“The bad men found us in the morning,” she said at last.

Hob’s pen scratched across the page.

“Mama said to be quiet,” Linnet continued, “so I was, like playing fox-and-rabbit, but then Will sneezed right when the bad men were walking outside our door.”

“Can you tell me who Will is?” Patrik asked.

Linnet’s mouth screwed up into a mean little bow. For a long moment, she didn’t speak.

Then, “My brother,” she said.

The words hit Eliana like a punch to the jaw. Suddenly Linnet wasn’t Linnet; she was Remy, frail and tiny, telling a story he should never have had to tell.

The skin on Eliana’s wrist began to itch, right where the old refugee woman had touched her.

Don’t look at them.

Don’t look.

She shot out of her chair, ready to storm for the door. She didn’t have to listen to this. She wouldn’t listen to this.

But Simon grabbed her arm, held her fast. He said nothing; the icy look on his face was enough to stop her in her tracks.

She glared at him, fuming. She could start a fight, kick herself free, put a stop to story time and give this poor girl a show.