Scarlet

really.”
    “Fine,” Cinder muttered, pushing herself off the stairs. “It’s for her own good, after all.”
    Taking in a breath to dispel the guilt, she stepped back into the living room.
    The girl’s gaze whipped toward her, eyes puffed. She cowered away.
    Cinder forced herself to relax and let the gentle tingle slip down her nerves, thinking kind, friendly, welcoming thoughts. “We’re your friends,” she said. “We’re here to help you.”
    Émilie’s eyes brightened.
    “Émilie, can you tell us where Michelle Benoit is?”
    A last tear slipped unnoticed down Émilie’s cheek. “I don’t know where she is. She disappeared three weeks ago. The police never found anything.”
    “Do you know anything about her disappearance?”
    “It happened in the middle of the day, when Scarling was out doing her deliveries. She didn’t have a hover or a ship. She didn’t seem to take any belongings with her. Her ID chip had been removed and left behind, along with her portscreen.”
    It took all of Cinder’s focus to maintain the aura of friendliness and trust when disappointment started to settle in.
    “But I think Scarlet may have known something.”
    Cinder perked up.
    “She was going to look for her. She left a couple days ago and asked me to watch the farm. It seemed she had some lead, but she didn’t tell me what it was. I’m so sorry.”
    “Have you heard from Scarlet since?” asked Thorne, leaning forward.
    Émilie shook her head. “Nothing. I’m worried about her, but she’s a tough girl. She’ll be all right.” Her expression brightened like a child’s. “Have I helped? I want to help.”
    Cinder flinched at the girl’s eagerness. “Yes, you helped. Thank you. If you think of anything else—”
    “One more question,” said Thorne, holding up a finger. “Our ship is in need of some repairs. Are there any good parts stores nearby?”

 
    Thirty-Four
    Scarlet’s sleep was restless, filled with thaumaturges and prowling wolves. When she managed to pull herself from the daze, she saw that two trays of food had been left for her. Her stomach growled upon seeing them, but she ignored it, instead rolling over and curling up on the filthy mattress. Many years ago, someone had sketched their initials on the dressing room wall and Scarlet traced her fingertips over them. Were they the work of a rising opera star in the second era or a prisoner of war?
    Had they died in this room?
    She leaned her forehead against the cool plaster.
    The scanner beeped in the hallway and the door clanked open.
    Scarlet rolled onto her back and froze.
    Wolf was standing in the doorway, having to duck his head to keep from hitting the frame. His eyes pierced through the darkness but they were the only thing about him that hadn’t changed. His once messy, spiky hair had been combed off his brow, making his handsome features appear too sharp, too cruel. He’d washed the dirt from his face and now wore the same uniform she’d seen on the other soldiers: a maroon shirt and rune-decorated guards on his shoulders and forearms. A series of belts and sashes held empty holsters—she briefly wondered if Wolf preferred to fight without weaponry, or if he simply hadn’t been allowed to bring any guns into her cell.
    She leaped off the bed, instantly regretting it as the world tilted beneath her and she had to brace herself against the wall. Wolf remained silent, watching, until their gazes clashed across the room—his dark and expressionless, hers growing more hateful, more angry by the second.
    “Scarlet.” A hint of a struggle crossed his face.
    Her revulsion tore through her and she screamed. She had no memory of crossing the room, but the crunch of her fists as they struck his jaw, his ear, his chest thundered up her arms.
    He allowed her five strikes with nothing more than a grimace before stopping her. He caught her wrists mid-swing, holding them fast against his stomach.
    Scarlet reeled back and aimed her heel for his kneecap, but he whipped her around so fast she lost balance and found herself facing away from him, her arms locked in his grip.
    “Let go of me!” she screeched, aiming her foot for his toes, stomping and screaming and thrashing, but if she hurt him, he showed no sign of it. She craned her neck and snapped her teeth, though she had no hope of actually biting him. Instead, with a painful twist of her neck, she managed to land a gob of spit on his jaw.
    He flinched again, but didn’t