Finally the monitor flashes to life, and I navigate through until I see the message that tripped my alert—it’s from Commander Towers. Not Merendsen. My chest tightens with disappointment and apprehension. Though I know it’s impossible, some part of me panics that she’s discovered what I did at the Fianna hideout, or my distress call to LaRoux’s soon-to-be son-in-law, or that I’ve begun systematically betraying every oath I’ve ever taken in order to help a rebel save his people—and mine.

I expect a video message, but when I open it up it’s only a few lines of text.

TerraDyn’s sending a field expert to evaluate the base’s security effort after the recent attacks. He left to come here before the current situation erupted, but has decided to land despite the risks. I’m putting you in charge of his detail. Given your recent experiences, you’ve got the most insight into what’s going on out there. Be dressed and at my office by 1900.—AT

My heart sinks even lower. How am I supposed to find answers, conceal my connection to Flynn, keep the rebels from overrunning the base, and meet with Merendsen when he arrives, if I’ve got some polished-up “expert” from a shiny city planet following me around the base?

I glance at the clock and groan. I’ve got ten minutes to figure out where the hell my dress uniform is and get to Central Command.

The girl is standing in the background, running a hand through her hair, leaning back against the lush wallpaper as though it might swallow her if she presses close enough.

A young woman with red hair and piercing blue eyes is applying makeup in a mirror to a face familiar from screens and billboards. She’s blotting her flawless lipstick when she spots the girl and turns with a gasp of dismay.

“You poor thing,” she exclaims. “You need a dress, or the boys will never dance with you.”

The girl tries to protest, but the young woman with red hair can’t hear her, and wraps her up in a long, gently shimmering dress the color of sunrise on Avon. When the girl looks in the mirror, she doesn’t recognize herself—she’s been transformed, changed forever. For the first time, she takes a breath and sees the reflection smile back. She turns, admiring the dress, which is the color of hope.

But then the girl notices a spot on the fabric. She rubs at it, but her fingers make it worse, smearing the stain. With both hands, she tries to wipe the stain away, desperate to keep anyone from seeing. She scrubs harder, but it’s her hands that are staining it, and every effort leaves behind red streaks, until the whole dress is the color of blood, and she’s sobbing with horror and shame and guilt, but the blood never washes clean, it never washes clean.

I CAN’T STOP REREADING THE WORDS. I may have found something. Just sit tight. There’s no name attached, but the existence of the note itself tells me who it’s from. “Are you sure this is all there was?”

Sofia, shedding her jacket and stomping the mud from her boots, raises an eyebrow at me. “You think there was another half and I decided to leave it behind?” The jacket goes on its peg, the boots lined up next to her father’s. Everything in its place. It’s been years since I lived in a house like this.

I turn the scrap of paper over. The other side is part of a receipt for a shipment to Molly Malone’s, and though I try to see a hidden meaning, some code I could’ve missed, there’s nothing there.

“You told me the bartender said it had been there for a few days—what, does she think I’ll just wait here when she might know something?” I crumple the paper up, throwing it into the basin so the water will dissolve the ink.

“Maybe she doesn’t want your head getting chopped off.” Sofia’s tone is light, though the humor doesn’t touch her expression.

I stalk across to the window, peering through the gap between the shades and the frame. The sliver of outside shows me mud and not much else, except for the occasional flash of someone passing by too quickly for me to identify them. My legs are restless, unused to such inaction. Hiding out in the swamp, all I could think of was having a real bed to sleep in. Now I’m just aching to be free to go where I want.

And where I want to go is Jubilee.

“What is it she thinks she might have?” Sofia’s voice interrupts my thoughts, and I look over to see her watching me, leaning against the laden table.

“You read my note.”

“Please.” She lifts an eyebrow. “Tell me what’s so important.”

“We’re trying to figure out what’s happening to Avon. Why this planet never changes, why it drives people mad, why corporations are hiding secret facilities in no-man’s-land.”

Sofia’s quiet, not reacting to the revelations in my little outburst. “Well,” she says slowly, “sounds like she’s making progress. And you’re safe here a while longer before they ship me out.”

Some of my frustration drains away, sympathy rising in its place. Sofia’s only a few months shy of sixteen, but according to the law she’s a war orphan. She’ll be bound for one of the orphanages on Patron or Babel. There’s less of a chance rebel orphans will grow up into rebel fighters if you take them away from their homes. It’s where I was going to be sent after Orla died, before I fled to live with the Fianna. “When?”

“Don’t know.” She lifts a shoulder, flashing me a wan smile. “They’re trying to find my mother, but they won’t. She’s never wanted to be found. It’ll be next supply run, or the one after—they don’t tell you when they’re coming for you so you can’t run away.”

My fault. Again. “I won’t be here when they come, Sofia. I’m going onto the base. I have to find a way to get to Jubilee if she’s found a lead.”

“You’re mad, right?” Sofia straightens, staring at me. “Yes, their attention’s on the fighting, but your face still cycles through the security feed every fifteen minutes or so.”

“Then I’ll go tonight, when it’s dark.”

Sofia doesn’t answer, chewing at her bottom lip, brows drawn together. She watches me, fighting some internal battle she doesn’t voice—and then she breaks, muttering under her breath and turning for her room. “Wait here.”

She vanishes into the next room for a moment before returning with the water bucket and a small canvas bag. She sets the bucket down and drops to her knees, upending the satchel and sending clothes and a few keepsakes tumbling. When a tiny framed drawing—most of the townsfolk don’t have access to cameras—of her father clatters onto the floor, I realize what this is. It’s her grab bag, for when the officials come to take her away.