The windows of the car were tinted and hard to see out of. In the early days they had kept hoods on Camilla and Nona the whole way, but this had always contributed to Nona getting violently carsick, so they didn’t anymore. Nobody talked. Nona found that if she twisted her head and buried her face in her shoulder she could smell her shirt instead of the car gas, which at least smelled like sweat and the laundry powder Camilla used, and that made the time go away a lot more quickly.
They did hood them again when the car finally stopped. Nona counted her footsteps and Camilla’s and two other Edenites’ as they were walked down a crunchy gravel road. A door was cranked open and they were inside somewhere dark, and then they were sat down and their hoods were taken off, though the tape was left on, and they were sitting in a little waiting room. Pyrrha wasn’t there. They never left Camilla and Nona alone with Pyrrha.
It was always a different little waiting room. Nona found them quite glamorous: Camilla and Palamedes, who were both still obsessively trying to work out the route, said in all likelihood it was some old government building. The insides were all brushed steel panelling and clean white floors, and glossy red-and-green plants in pots with thick juicy leaves that Nona always longed to chew on. The leather on the sofa covers was worn and old and shiny, and the metal tubing of the elegant chairs was a little bit scratched, but she always felt untidy and out of place in those office rooms. It was like a picture from an old magazine.
They did not talk because Camilla had made the little sign with her thumb that said, Keep silent, we’re with strangers. They did not even look at each other until the door opened and someone said, “Test reports are back. They’re clean,” and in came Crown, and Nona’s motion sickness and vague need for the bathroom went away.
Crown, in her heavy boots and stained zip-up jacket and tough canvas trousers with bulging pockets, was the most beautiful woman in the city and maybe on the planet. She filled up the doorway like a light-up sign. She had skin like amber and wonderful hair exactly the colour of golden sugar, and if she had ever been in a queue to get something from a shop everyone would have asked her where she had been all their lives. You could have sold tickets to see her. When she smiled at Nona, like she did now, her purple eyes crinkled up at the corners. She was always happy to see Nona. Nona was regularly the only one happy to see her.
Crown turned to Nona. “Come on, cutie. Let me get that for you,” she said, and took a knife from her pocket and cut through the tape holding Nona’s arms to her sides. Once Nona had been freed, she hugged Crown. Crown was fantastically tall and big and gave wonderful hugs, the type where she put her arms around you and really squeezed. The only uncomfortable part was that with their height difference, Nona was always poked by the gun holstered at Crown’s right hip and the sword scabbarded at her left.
“I’ll tell them to use the plastic ties for you next time,” said Crown, once Nona had withdrawn and was working the tape painfully away from her wrists, where it took all the hairs off and reddened the skin. “Your turn, Camilla— Oh!”
For Camilla’s bonds were already gone, even though both her arms had been taped squarely to her thighs. She must have used the very secret knife. Crown’s mouth tightened. Camilla was peeling the last remnant away, not making eye contact. All she said was, “Where’d you put Pyrrha?”
“The others only deal with the Saint after he’s scanned. You know that,” said Crown.
“She’s not a Lyctor.”
“Not everyone’s got that clearance. And it’s not like you know the whole picture either.”
“She isn’t hiding anything.”
“You don’t believe that,” said Crown.
Camilla fell silent. Then she said, “You’re still wearing the sword.”
This seemed to put Crown back on more comfortable ground. “Of course. Makes me think of home.”
“You’re not even wearing it for anyone.”
Crown said, smiling, “I didn’t take you for a traditionalist. I don’t have to wear it for anyone. Anyway … it’s an aesthetic.”
“It doesn’t belong to you.”
“I’ll give it back if its owner asks, but otherwise, finders keepers,” said Crown lightly. “You sound like the Captain, you know.”
“They haven’t put her down yet?”
If this was meant to hurt Crown’s feelings too, it didn’t appear to hit very hard. She said cheerfully, “If I haven’t put a pillow over her face, they won’t anytime soon.”