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There are rules here—rules reinforced by large, threatening posters pasted to poles and buildings. As we pass through the streets, moving toward the grey market, the notices warn us:

SOLAR HOURS FROM

TO

PATROLS CEASE AT

HEAVY CURTAINS, SALLY PORTS, AND REINFORCED FRAMING REQUIRED FOR ALL SHELTERS AND PLACES OF BUSINESS

The posters disappear as the road narrows, the pavement cracks and shatters, and the street-side food stalls are replaced with dimly lit storefronts—the kind that don’t have signs. We’re nearing the grey market. The rules aren’t enforced here, but it’s as strictly controlled by the Sunrunners as the rest of the Icebox.

We pass a man begging on the sidewalk with a sign that reads: REFUGEE. NO FAMILY. PLEASE HELP. Jost navigates me around him before I can react.

There are refugees every few feet in the main blocks of the Icebox. I haven’t gotten used to seeing them yet. Even the poor in Arras had meager rations. I want to stop and ask these people what they were running from that was worse than being cold and hungry on the street.

But I already know the answer.

The thing that bothers me is that I can’t help them—and Jost and Erik won’t even let me try.

Erik is ahead of us, not bothering to slow his pace, but a block later he stops and turns to face us. “Look, I’ve got a good thing going with this guy. But he’s a bit paranoid. He’s already commented on my Guild paraphernalia, so—”

“You want us to stay outside,” I finish for him. Most of our funds thus far have come from pawning the watches, tech, and even some of the clothes we had on us when we escaped from Arras, but I’m still clinging to my digifile, although it’s run out of power. I pull it from my pocket and offer it to him. “Here, take this. It’s probably worth something.”

“No,” Erik says quickly. “We should hold on to it.”

“Why? It doesn’t work down here,” I say as I slide it back into my pocket.

“You never know. Besides, we wouldn’t want to pawn that without wiping its memory,” he explains.

“Okay. Are you sure you don’t want us to tag along?” I ask.

“I don’t want the guy to feel overwhelmed,” he says, sounding apologetic.

I ignore the sorry tone. It’s growing thin: both boys avoiding each other, speaking through me, Jost’s anger, and Erik’s shame. I thought it had come to a head when I ripped us from Arras, choosing to take both of them with me, but the argument that ensued revealed how large a rift exists between the brothers. Erik’s shock at learning Jost has a daughter hasn’t dissipated yet.

But none of this is getting us anywhere, and separating the two of them might be the opportunity I need to finally get a real conversation going with Jost. He clams up in Erik’s presence. We need a plan. We can’t tread water forever, waiting for the girl to find us.

“Maybe Jost and I can duck into the fine-looking establishment back there.” I hitch my thumb toward the bar we’ve passed. I want to keep the mood light so he knows it’s okay to go.

Beside me Jost takes a step back. It’s good to know I still have the ability to surprise him—or maybe
horrify
is the right word. Erik shakes his head, but for a moment his grim demeanor slips and he nearly smiles. He leans over, grabs my shoulder, and whispers, “Keep your eyes open. This is not a
nice
place.”

As though the claustrophobic, anonymous corridor we’re in didn’t give that away.

“You should smile more,” I whisper back. “Or you’ll lose your reputation.”

“My reputation?”

“As a charmer.”

This does make him smile, and the icy anger in my chest thaws a little at the sight. “I can be anything I want here, Ad. Perhaps I’ll be serious.”

“It doesn’t suit you,” I warn him.

Jost’s arm circles around my shoulder, interrupting Erik’s and my repartee and indicating he’s ready to go.

Or rather, he’s ready to take me away. From Erik.

Erik stiffens a bit, stepping back from me. “Promise me you’ll stay with him.”

“I’ll stay close,” Jost tells Erik. This is the most they’ve communicated since their argument on the day we arrived here.

“
We’ll
stay close,” I add.

“No, explore.” Erik waves us off. “There’s not much time before curfew.”

“So we shouldn’t get separated,” I say.

“I can find my way back to the hotel if it takes too long. You two have … fun.”

That’s the last thing we’ll be having.

“Do you want to find something to eat?” Jost asks as we circle back in the direction we came from, leaving Erik to his business.

I raise an eyebrow, as though challenging him to make that happen. If he can find a place with food—the kind that might be safe to
actually
eat—around here, I’ll be impressed.

“Fair enough,” he says.

“Let’s walk,” I offer. “Talk. See what’s around.”

Jost agrees, but the conversation never gets going. Instead he is silent and seems lost in another place and time. He’s been this way since I told him about his daughter, Sebrina. I’d discovered she hadn’t been killed along with the rest of Jost’s family. She is alive, her information, which reveals exactly where she is in Arras, tucked safely in storage at the Western Coventry. Now we have to figure out a way to get to her, but it isn’t possible as long as we’re stuck on Earth.

In a way I understand what he’s going through. My own sister, Amie, is still in Arras, and she is in more danger than ever before. Jost and I both feel the pressing desperation of each moment that has passed since we left our loved ones to the devices of the Guild, especially now that we’ve chosen treason instead of continuing to be complicit in the Guild’s great deception. I couldn’t resign myself to accepting the reality they create on their looms, not when I knew how they misused their power, and not after learning of the existence of Earth. But now that we’re actually on Earth, it’s becoming increasingly obvious that I can’t count on either Jost or Erik to help me figure out what to do next.

I brush back the tangle of dark curls that has fallen over Jost’s cheek, but he doesn’t seem to notice, except to take my hand in his. The movement is automatic, but I hold his hand anyway.

We hang a left, leaving the narrow alley and heading into a row of shops. The street lamps cast shadows against the stone, and I move closer to Jost. Even after a week here, I haven’t gotten used to the perpetual darkness covering the metro. The sun that never rises. The strange twists of light that flicker and spark across the sky—the Interface. I can see it now, lingering overhead. The strands might twist and sparkle, implying movement, but the Interface is always there—a permanent buffer between Earth and Arras. It blocks the sun and separates the worlds. It’s the boundary between the world we’ve left behind and the one we’ve discovered.

Some of the stores in the grey market are boarded up, others crumble toward the sidewalk, but lights burn faintly in a few. I have no interest in going inside any of them. I’m eager to explore the shops in the heart of the Icebox, not these back-alley establishments on the metro’s outskirts. I want to visit the stores with real customers. I want to know more about Earth, but right now we have so little money we stay away. I’m not sure what we’re waiting for though, since we’re not getting any answers in the grey market.

These streets are deserted. A few hulking, old-fashioned motos chug along the streets near the main marketplace, but not here. The pedestrians we spot keep their heads low, ducking into shops and not making eye contact with us when we pass by them. Despite the constant darkness, my body tells me evening is near. Actually the airy rumble of my stomach does. Business transactions begin in huddles on street corners, and more and more customers trickle into the grey market to conduct their affairs after hours despite the curfew imposed throughout the Icebox. They don’t seem concerned about the rumors of snatchers roaming the streets after the lamps go out. In the nicer sections of the Icebox, food stalls are packed up and people rush their children indoors promptly at 7:00. Not here though.

The solar lamps are already growing dim. In less than an hour, they’ll be extinguished completely. On a corner, a young man inspects one of the lamps. His bag lies open, revealing a variety of wrenches and screwdrivers, but his clothing doesn’t suggest he’s a laborer. His pants are well cut, and his long coat is leather, which seems like a luxury given the absence of animals I’ve noted in the Icebox. He’s not a simple worker. He must be a Sunrunner.

“Will Erik be able to find us?” I ask Jost. He drops my hand at the mention of his brother’s name but stays close to me.

“We’re only a street away. Trust me, Erik can take care of himself,” Jost replies.

“Look, I understand—”

“No, you don’t.” He stops me. “You trust him. I don’t. He’ll take off the first chance he gets.”

“And where will he go?” I ask. It’s a logical question, so I’m not likely to get a straight response.

“You don’t know him like I do,” he says, giving me an answer as crooked as they come.

“Maybe not.” I stop and face him, planning to remind him that a lot has changed in the last two years. Erik may have left Saxun to pursue a political career, turning his back on his family and friends, but it was Erik who helped me the night Jost and I were discovered sneaking around the Coventry. I’ve been preparing my give-him-a-chance-before-I-stab-you-both lecture for the past few days. But something I see over his shoulder stops me.

A woman. She’s short, tottering in heels down the street. I catch glimpses of her face in the flicker of dying lamplight. The slope of her eyes. Her diminutive, slender form. The thick, straight hair swaying around her shoulders.

“Valery,” I breathe.

“What?” Jost asks, confused by the change in conversation.

“It’s Valery,” I say, grabbing his arm to turn his attention to the other side of the street. The woman has passed before he can catch more than her fading shape. She’s moving quickly and with purpose.

“Valery is dead,” Jost reminds me in a gentle voice.

I know that. At least, she should be dead. A victim of retribution for the suicide of Enora, my mentor at the Coventry and Valery’s lover. Loricel told me Valery had been ripped the night Loricel warned me of Cormac’s plans to remap me, and yet I’m positive of what I’ve seen. “It’s her.”

I don’t wait for him to argue with me. Valery is growing smaller in my vision, her figure blurring with each step she takes away from us, and I follow her. I don’t run. That seems a sure way to draw unwanted attention to yourself in a place like the grey market, but I move quickly enough that I keep her in my sight until she turns a corner.

Skidding around the building she disappeared past, I realize I’m on the edge of the grey market. The buildings stretching before me are better maintained. Most have signs, and many are already closed. But Valery is nowhere in sight, which means she’s gone into one that’s still open. Doors are locked, lights turned off, and then I stumble upon a door that creaks open when I touch it. The lights are on in the store, revealing a cluttered room full of books and knick-knacks strewn in piles along the floor and filling tables. It will be a miracle if I can even walk around. But someone could hide here. I have no reason to suspect Valery saw me, but if she did, I wouldn’t blame her for wanting to avoid me.

That doesn’t mean I am going to let her.

I GLANCE AT THE SIGN HANGING ON a post by the door: THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. Curious indeed. After a few moments navigating the store, I see no signs of life, but what I do find holds my attention: relics from a forgotten world, particularly an old radio. I forget my quest and stare at it, tentatively reaching out to touch its buttons, but it’s as dead as the one hidden in the secret cubby in my parents’ home. A product of yesterday, and nothing more.

I’ll have lost Valery completely by now, if it was even her at all, so I linger in the store and riffle through the books, knocking years of dust off them. A copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets catches my eye. I read it over and over as a child, stealing it from the stash of contraband in my parents’ room. We had a few books, and if my parents minded my reading them, they certainly never said anything. I understand now how precious they were, and more than anything I want to take this volume with me. I couldn’t protect those books. I couldn’t protect my parents, but I can have a piece of them again.

“Not many young people are interested in books these days,” a raspy voice says. A face, lined and gaunt, follows the words, appearing in the doorway. The woman limps over, resting against a cane, and I notice that one of her feet is made of steel and wood.

“My parents had it,” I tell her. “I read it as a child.”

“Quite the luxury,” she says. “Books
and
having the time to teach your child to read.”

I pause, not sure how to respond. This conversation is heading in a dangerous direction. Many of the Icebox’s inhabitants are refugees, but that doesn’t make it any safer to admit I am one myself.

“Keep it,” she offers.

“I couldn’t,” I say. “Not without paying.”

The shop owner seems to grow an inch at the mention of payment. She can’t do much business selling radios that don’t work and books that can’t be read.

“I don’t have any money though,” I admit.

“Well,” she mutters, shaking her head, “at least you can read.”

“I have this,” I say, unlatching an earring. I only offer her one, because I know the emeralds in the pair are real and because I know the boys will be furious if I come back missing both. We’ve been hawking our possessions strategically and we’ve been saving the earrings until we have a plan for getting back to Arras and need real money.