The others looked incredulous, but Elsa played along. “Yes . . . but I think they’d notice it was missing afterward and come asking questions.”

She was probably right. With the Alchemist’s efficiency, they probably counted every piece of silverware after we left. A missing saltshaker might make them think we were making weapons out of its plastic or something. I casually slid my napkin toward the center of the table and then reached for the saltshaker. As I lifted it over my tray to salt my scrambled eggs, I managed to unscrew the top with one hand. When I went to return it to its spot, the shaker slipped out of my hand and fell over on the table, spilling salt onto my napkin.

“Oops,” I said, quickly reassembling the saltshaker. “The top was loose.” I moved my napkin around like I was cleaning the table, but in actuality, I folded the napkin up as I worked, making a neat little pouch of salt. I then slid it back beside my tray. It would be easy enough to pocket the napkin when we left. Usually, they were thrown away with the trays. No one would count them.

“Deftly done,” said Duncan, who still looked like he didn’t approve. “That’s all you need?”

“Mostly,” I said. I wasn’t close enough to any of them to reveal that I’d be using magic for the rest of the key components. “It’d be better if I had some of the compounds that go into ink, but injecting you with a saline solution—once I’ve treated this salt—should work just as well.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I spotted another problem and groaned. “I don’t have anything to inject you with.” Salt might be a common commodity, but needles generally weren’t left lying around within our reach.

“Do you need a tattoo gun?” asked Jonah.

I speculated, based on what I knew of the Alchemist tattooing process and my own experiments. “Ideally, that’d be great. A full-fledged tattoo with solid ink would provide permanent protection. But we should be able to get fine short-term protection from a basic medical syringe—like they do for run-of-the-mill re-inkings.”

Duncan arched an eyebrow. “Short-term?”

“It’ll negate whatever they do to you in the near future,” I said, feeling confident even with a makeshift solution. “Like, months at least. But for lifetime protection, you’d eventually need it tattooed in for real.”

“I’ll take months,” said Jonah.

It was hard to keep the dismay off my face. “Yeah, but I can’t give you that without a proper needle. That’s the one thing I can’t improvise on here. I . . . I’m sorry. I was too hasty with this plan.”

“Like hell,” he retorted. “There are plenty of needles like that in the purging room. They’re in that cabinet by the sink. I’ll just get myself sent there and swipe one.”

Beside him, Lacey scoffed. “If you act out again so soon, they aren’t sending you to purging. You’re going for re-inking—or worse.” That threat hung heavily over us a moment. “I’ll do it,” she declared. “I’ll do something in our next class.”

“No,” I said quickly. “I’ll do it. I’ll get the needle directly that way. It’ll save time in getting it back to me, in case they send Jonah for re-inking sooner rather than later.” There was truth to my point, but a large part of my motivation was that I wasn’t going to let anyone else get sent to purging for one of my plans. Amelia still glared at me whenever we made eye contact. I wouldn’t risk any more enemies. Purging was miserable, but it did eventually end, and so far, it wasn’t having the desired effect, considering my first impulse upon seeing Adrian last night was to kiss him, not throw up.

The rest of my tablemates thought it was a heroic act, particularly Jonah. Others, like Duncan, thought I was on the verge of making a huge mistake, but none of them would intervene.

“Thank you,” said Jonah. “I mean it. I owe you.”

“We’re in this together,” I said simply.

That sentiment took a few of them by surprise, but the chimes signaling the end of breakfast prevented any further conversation. I successfully smuggled my salt out and slipped it into my shoe when I reached my next class, on the pretense that I was adjusting my sock. As the others filed into their seats, I decided it was best to get this plan going as soon as possible. I wouldn’t let Lacey do my work for me, but I used her now as an accomplice as she sat down in a nearby desk.

“Look, Lacey,” I said, as though we were continuing some conversation from the cafeteria, “I’m not saying you’re wrong . . . just misguided. Until the Strigoi are eradicated, there’s nothing wrong with being civil toward the Moroi.”

To her credit, she caught on quickly and played along. “You weren’t talking about being civil. You were talking about being friendly. And we all know that’s a dangerous area with you and your history.”

I put on an offended look. “So you’re saying it’s not even okay to have a casual meal with one of them?”

“If it’s not for business, then no.”

“You’re being completely unreasonable!” I exclaimed.

Kennedy, our instructor, glanced up from her desk at the raised voices. “Ladies, is there a problem?”

Lacey pointed accusingly. “Sydney’s trying to convince me it’s okay to hang out with Moroi in a personal way outside of work.”

“I never said personal! I’m just saying, if you’re on assignment and have a contact, what’s the harm in getting dinner or a movie?”

“It leads to trouble, that’s what. You need to draw a line and keep things black and white.”

“Only if you’re stupid enough to think they’re as dangerous as Strigoi. I know how to walk in that gray area,” I retorted.

This was a particularly compelling point that Lacey had set up nicely because just yesterday, Kennedy had been using the black-and-white and gray areas metaphors. She tried to interject, but I wouldn’t let her and kept ranting at Lacey. Ten minutes later, I found myself ushered into the purging room. Sheridan looked mildly surprised to see me.

“A little early, isn’t it?” she asked. “That, and you’ve done so well this week.”

“They always backslide,” remarked one of her assistants.

She nodded in agreement and gestured me to the chair. “You know the drill.”