“You’re a worse liar than Palamedes,” said Camilla, with feeling. “You’re not a good woman, Tridentarius.”
“Not my name anymore, and none of us are good,” said Crown. “Except for Nona, of course.”
“Thanks,” said Nona, deeply flattered.
“What about me?” said Camilla.
“You and I don’t even own our own souls,” said Crown.
Crown turned around and put her arms around Camilla. For a moment Nona thought that Camilla would break just as she had assumed Crown would break: that there was a softness to the way she stood, a hesitation, a not-knowingness to her knees and her feet. And Crown’s hugs were so good—so heated and so tender—as though Crown were hugging you solely for her own comfort, as though she wanted your touch more than anyone else’s right then. It was better than lying on tiles that the sun had warmed, which was one of Nona’s chief delights. But Camilla tightened, somehow, and didn’t put her arms around Crown, and Crown withdrew.
Camilla said, “My soul’s mine. You give yourself away to anyone who doesn’t want you.”
“Well, I never like to wear the same thing twice,” said Crown brightly. But she said: “Try to forgive me someday, Cam … that goes for Palamedes too. This is too close to the wire, and I really hate you two hating me. I’m happy for you, believe me. I always had a soft spot for the Warden.”
And Camilla said, “You were part of the lie.”
When they went back upstairs to the waiting room with the juicy potted plants and the furniture, Crown hesitated at the doorway, and said: “The transport team has put Dve in the boot. I’ll come with you, make sure they’re using cut-away cuffs this time.”
“You’re overdoing it with Pyrrha,” said Camilla.
“I’ve heard too much of the Saint of Duty to trust Pyrrha Dve,” said Crown, her mouth thinning and that pucker reappearing. “Don’t put too much trust in Pyrrha Dve, Cam … there’s a lot that you don’t know.”
Nona hated anyone criticising Pyrrha and cast about for a change in topic. She said, “What was the Captain talking about before she fell asleep, and when we came into the room? What’s the water? What’s the hunger, and the green thing?”
When Camilla and Crown looked at her, she realised she could not have said anything worse. Crown looked at her with open bewilderment, and Camilla looked at her with an expression that Nona hated instantly. She looked over at Nona with her big, borrowed grey eyes, so clean and clear—Nona always thought if soap could be grey her eyes would be grey like soap—and she was unsure. She was, Nona realised with a pang that made it all the way down her spine, frightened.
“Nona,” Crown said slowly, “The Captain didn’t say anything when you came into the room. She only screamed.”
14
THEY WERE DRIVEN BACK in the same silence, and given the same tests—just in case they’d left their bodies in the facility, Palamedes always said, and put something fake in the car—but with Crown along, the trip was much nicer. Nona got to sit up on the seat next to Crown—one of the guards said, “You’re taking our lives in your hands,” but Crown said, “Oh, please,” and that was that. Nona wasn’t even pressed into the floor, even though she was cuffed; and they did use plastic zip cords, not the tape, which felt a lot better except that they cut into the skin a little. There were two pink hoops on Cam’s wrists where the ties cut into it. Nona’s went away immediately.
“Stop the car,” called out Crown, and the car coughed to a stop. Camilla stiffened.
“We’re near Nona’s school,” said Crown, and Nona wriggled with pleasure and relief. “I thought I’d get out and walk her. How’s that sound, cutie?”
“Do you mean it?” said Nona, ecstatic. “Please, Crown! I’d love that. I want my friends to see you.”
“The car can drop the rest of you off back at the safe zone,” finished Crown. She was already slitting the ties on Nona’s wrists as the car revved in place.
Camilla said, through a thick mouthful of hood, “No.”
“What, you think I can’t look after her? It’s a hundred metres from here.”
“Nona. Wait—”
But Nona, who was desperate to get out of the car, had hopped out the moment Crown opened the door for her, delighted to get out into the warm concrete-smelling air and breathe in salty lungfuls of traffic fumes and ocean and burning rubbish; she had a massive pang when she realised that the car wasn’t stopping to let Cam or Pyrrha out too, that she hadn’t listened properly, that she had been selfish, that she hadn’t understood the implications. She blurted, “I don’t have a hat. Or a mask.”