“You’ve met my mother. The grapevine’s probably told her I wasn’t at the trial this morning, and she knows the only thing that would keep me away would be dismemberment or death.”

Janx gestured at her. “At least you look the part.”

Margrit looked at herself again and groaned. “I hope I have time to get home and shower before she sees me.”

“I could come along,” Janx offered hopefully. “Distract her.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I can be very distracting,” he promised.

Despite herself, Margrit laughed. “Yes, you can be, but you may not be. Just tell me how to get out of here before Mom uproots half of Manhattan trying to find me.”

“Allow me to escort you, at least. Grace prefers not to have random interlopers wandering her tunnels.”

“That’s another reason it wouldn’t hurt for you to move on. This is her territory.” Margrit took the dragonlord’s elbow when he offered it, matching her pace to his unusually slow one. He’d made deliberate haste in leaving the warehouse, had moved then with all his customary beauty, and now, she thought, he was paying for that arrogant performance.

“So concerned with territory and belonging. Are you like this in all aspects of your life, or just when it comes to us?”

“I think it’s just you.” Margrit frowned down the tunnel, trying to recognize features. “The battles I fight aren’t usually about territory. They’re about money or power or passion. It’s just with you that land wars come into the equation. Grace has worked hard to make a safe place for those kids down here. You and what you do are the exact opposite of what she’s trying to achieve.”

“You could always ask me a favor.” Janx’s voice was too light, as though the question was a test. “I do believe I still owe you one.”

Margrit paused, drawing him to a stop, and studied him. “One,” she said slowly. “You owe me the one we agreed on. Then again, I very likely saved your life this morning, Janx. That makes two favors you owe me, and if I’ve learned nothing else, I’ve learned that the Old Races count coup. You could’ve told me how to deal with Alban’s trial as a balance to the attack this morning, but you handed that over for free. For my Grace,” she echoed softly. “What would you do, dragonlord? What would you do if I asked you to leave Grace’s tunnels, to leave New York, in exchange for your life?”

Janx’s jade eyes grew paler and cooler as she spoke, and when he replied, it was less with anger than a mark of respect Margrit thought she had only just earned. “I wouldn’t have expected you to call in that marker, my dear. I find myself caught between awe and dismay. Do you really believe my position here can be traded away so easily?”

“You wouldn’t be dismayed,” Margrit said, “if it couldn’t. So now I have my answer.”

Janx’s lips curled, showing teeth. “You’ve learned too well for my tastes, Margrit Knight. This is your exit.” He stopped shortly, making a gesture of fluid chagrin. Margrit put a palm against the ladder he’d brought her to, glancing up, then pulled herself onto the first rungs before looking back.

“I haven’t asked.”

“No.” Janx’s expression turned dour. “You haven’t asked yet.”

Margrit’s cell phone rang again as she reached street level. It was midafternoon, a deceptive amount of time having passed with Janx in the unchanging light below the streets. She took a breath and held it, then, hoping her voice would sound normal, answered with a cheerful, “Hi, Mom.”

“Margrit Elizabeth, what on earth is going on? I’ve been trying to call you all morning. Are you all right? Why aren’t you in court? What were you doing in Harlem this morning?”

Margrit’s eyebrows shot up so hard she rubbed her forehead, feeling like she’d sprained something. “Who told you that?”

“Tony called me.”

“Tony called you?” Margrit couldn’t put enough emphasis on the words and fought off the urge to repeat them with the stress on a different one each time. Anthony Pulcella and Rebecca Knight had suffered a kind of long-running standoff in the years he and Margrit had dated. Disapproval went too far, but for Rebecca, Margrit’s decision to date a man not of her own ethnic background was as much a political statement as a romantic one. Rebecca’s capitulation, only two weeks earlier, had coincided perfectly with Margrit and Tony’s breakup, though in her mother’s defense, Rebecca hadn’t known that when she’d finally given up the fight. Still, Tony calling Rebecca was well outside Margrit’s expectations. “What’d he do that for?”

“He’s worried about you, Margrit. So am I. He said he saw you leaving the site of the dockside fire this morning. Did he?”

Margrit found herself staring sightlessly down the street, humans and vehicles a blur against the backdrop of tall buildings. She heard her own thought distantly: humans and vehicles. Not people, but humans. Some morning she was going to wake up and not quite recognize herself anymore. Maybe this morning, in fact, though she hadn’t been to bed and therefore morning hadn’t been properly introduced. The recollection made her yawn and heated her eyes with tears, helping her shake off her stupor. “Mother, what would I be doing at the docks?”

“I don’t know, Margrit. What would you be doing not in court today?”

“Trying to stop the mess at the docks,” Margrit said, more honest than wise. “Tony was right. I was there. I’m fine, though, so don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry? Margrit, how can I not worry? Your behavior has been erratic since Russell died. I don’t want to pressure you, sweetheart, but I think you should talk to someone.”

“I talk to people all the time, Mom,” Margrit said, a smile starting, and then the expression was choked off in a burst of absurdity bordering on offense. “You mean, a psychiatrist?”

“I was thinking a psychologist. You don’t seem to be depressed, but someone to talk to about this sudden decision to change careers and going to work for Eliseo Daisani, of all people, and missing court dates, and this delusion of being able to stop fighting and striking workers at the docks—”

“Mom. Mom! Mother! I’m fine, Mom. I really am. Look, I’m working on something bigger than I am, and that’s all I can tell you. I know it seems as if I’ve been acting strangely lately—”

“Seems?”

Margrit blew her cheeks out. “All right, I have been. But I have reasons, and if I ever can, I’ll tell you. Okay?” She bared her teeth as she recognized the promise as one she’d given Tony too many times. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you now,” she added more quietly. “I wish I could. But I’m being as careful as I can be, and everything’s going to be all right.” She sounded confident and reassuring to her own ears, and hoped that her mother, at least, would believe it.

“Margrit, does this have anything to do…” Rebecca fell silent a long moment, then let go a quiet breath. “Never mind.”

“It does.” Margrit swallowed, hoping she’d interpreted her mother’s unasked question correctly. Rebecca Knight had twice seen—or experienced—Daisani’s inhumanly fast ability to move. Unlike Margrit, she seemed reluctant to pursue the how behind his talent, even when she owed her life to it. That she and her mother lay on opposite sides of such a narrow divide made Margrit’s chest ache with loneliness. “Mom—”

“I see.” Rebecca’s voice turned to a professional briskness that told Margrit she’d once again lost the moment to pursue a thread of connection between them. “Please be very careful, sweetheart. I’ll tell your father I spoke to you today. We both love you.”

“I love you, too.” Margrit folded her phone closed and directed a frustrated glare at the street, as though somewhere below, Janx would feel its heat. “If I haven’t made my choice, I’d like to know what the hell else this is.”

“The consequence of living,” an auburn-haired woman replied as she brushed past. Margrit blinked and the woman threw a bright smile over her shoulder. “Never could resist a rhetorical question.” She disappeared into the crowd, leaving Margrit still blinking after her.