“I’ll make time. But first things first. We’re stopping by your apartment, Ten.” Deacon wrinkles his nose. “You have to shower and change into a ceremonial robe.”

    “No problem. And no need to go home. I can use the locker room—”

    “Robes aren’t stored there.”

    Right. Meredith would have fetched one while I showered and waited for me to finish. She would have offered me pearls of wisdom and—

    Lock. Down. Now.

    “All right. Let’s go.” Using Stairwells and Gates, we travel thousands of miles in seconds, stopping at Deacon’s house—mansion—to acquire a robe for him, then at an outdoor market to buy manna since both our cupboards are bare.

    I hurry through a shower. Deacon eats half the food and takes a power nap on my couch.

    Clean and dry, I weapon-up, strapping blades to my waist, thighs and ankles. I slide Meredith’s ring on my finger—lockdown—and pull a white robe over my head. The material is feather-soft. As I anchor my hair in a knot on the crown of my head, I head to the living room.

    “Let’s go,” I say, and stuff my mouth full of manna. Energy zings me.

    Deacon looks me over and shakes his head. “No weapons.” He pushes a few keys on his keyboard. In a flash of Light, his Shell appears. “You’ll need yours.”

    I reluctantly remove Meredith’s ring and all the daggers and step inside my Shell, which is flush against the massage wall. We make our way to the Veil of Wings. People smile and wave at us. A few try to stop and chat with me, but Deacon sends them off as kindly as possible.

    Everyone thinks I’m a hero, despite Meredith’s death. They think I’ve finally proved myself loyal to the realm. I want to lift my head to the sky and scream, It wasn’t me. I did nothing right and everything wrong. I’m a failure.

    “You’re tense,” Deacon says with a frown. “Why?”

    I ignore his question and ask, “Where are we going?” I won’t lie to him, not even a small, innocent lie. Actually, there are no small, innocent lies. Saving his feelings today will only hurt him in the future.

    I know this firsthand. My parents lied to me often. So did the people in charge at Prynne. Madame Bennett. Even friends, and once, Killian. Trust is precious. Once lost, it’s difficult to rebuild.

    But I won’t tell Deacon about Killian, either.

    “We’re headed to the Courthouse. It’s neutral territory, overseen by the Firstking. We do not break the Firstking’s rules. Ever. Ignorance is not an excuse.”

    “Enlighten me, then.”

    “No weapons of any kind inside the building. No fighting anywhere, either verbally or physically. He is the judge supreme. When one of his delegates rules on a case, it is final. There are no appeals. Both Troikans and Myriadians attend the sessions, so be prepared for killing glares. We attend in Shells for the benefit of humans—they’re usually the ones on trial.”

    Usually...

    I think of my mother, desperate to switch sides to spend time with her infant son. I think of Killian...who might not be as happy in Myriad as he used to be?

    If he would go to trial... I close my eyes, imagining the joy of having him nearby, of touching him and being touched by him, of working cases with him rather than against him, and I smile. I don’t want to be parted from him. I want him out of danger, mine to protect. I want...him. I just want him.

    Live well. When you step toward a dream, you step away from a regret. I’m coming for you, Killian.

    “This way.” Quickly and efficiently—like the boy himself—Deacon leads me to the outside edge of the realm.

    We step through what looks to be a dense fog, and end up directly in front of the Veil of Wings.

    Another step, and we’re whisked to the border of a guard tower, where sunlight shines on one side and shadows cloak the other. Stone steps lead to the tallest skyscraper I’ve ever seen.

    As we make our way up, Troikans nod at us. As predicted, Myriadians glare at us. Just past the towering double-door entrance, a guard pats me down. I’m unarmed and expect to be sent on my way, but he tugs the band from my hair.

    I frown at him. “Seriously?”

    “Choking hazard.” He shrugs and throws the band at an oval mirror hanging on a wall. Only, the band ghosts through the glass, because it isn’t glass; it’s a Buckler hiding a...trash can?

    Gimme!

    Deacon and I move forward. The lobby is devoid of color or decoration. In fact, there isn’t a single piece of furniture, just more stairs and what must be a thousand doorways. Our footsteps echo as we make our way up...up... The staircase moves with us, twisting and turning around corners. On every floor, we pass through a veil of jellyair, and I suspect we are traveling through a maze as well as a building.

    Finally Deacon stops and taps a screen with a flashing digital number. 1001.

    In The Book of One Thousand and One Nights, the heroine tells her husband the king a new story every night for one thousand and one nights to pique his curiosity and stave off her execution.

    Stomach cramp.

    “Game face on,” Deacon mutters.

    We quietly tiptoe past the doors and—

    I don’t know what I expected, but this isn’t it. It looks like a courtroom found in the Land of the Harvest. There’s a viewing section with benches. A waist-high wall with a swinging gate in the center divides the front section from the back. Beyond it is a desk for Troikan representatives and a desk for Myriadian representatives.

    The judge’s desk consumes the back wall, with a court reporter on one side and a witness seat on the other. There is a second seat beside the witness. The only noticeable difference? The floor is concrete, with several drains.