The day was absolutely beautiful. I’d propped open the front and back doors to let the breeze move through, put a Preservation Hall Jazz Band CD in an old player. Even Containment agents smiled at the music. It reminded all of us, I think, that there was still something beautiful in the world, even if we didn’t see it every day in the Zone.

Unfortunately, jazz wasn’t enough to take my mind off Liam Quinn. Last night had rocked me. To come so close to something I didn’t even know I’d wanted, then to know that I did, only to have it ripped away . . . I wasn’t exactly sure what was going through Liam’s head, or what he couldn’t “afford” about me. But I had a sinking suspicion. I was a Sensitive—a wraith-in-waiting. I would become a wraith if I couldn’t learn to control my magic properly. If I wasn’t vigilant enough, or if I made a mistake, I’d become the same monster that had killed his sister, that he hunted. How could he want me when that was the case?

Logic didn’t work any better than jazz. I was embarrassed, sad, and getting in way over my head emotionally.

I was at the counter obsessing and organizing the month’s receipt copies when Tadji breezed in. Today, she wore jeans and a blousy tank, a worn messenger bag strapped across her body. She looked cool and chic as always.

“It is amazing outside.” She plopped the bag onto the counter. She was a welcome distraction.

“I know, right? It would be a beautiful day for a picnic by the river.”

She grinned, pushed a curl behind her ear. “If we had wine and fruit and cheese?”

“We have MREs and cheese product. If that’s good enough for Containment, it’s good enough for us.”

She snorted.

“How were your interviews?”

“Good,” she said. “One down, two more to go.”

She moved aside so I could take change from a man buying a Times-Picayune.

I thanked him, waited until the customer had waved his way out of the store. “Tell me about it,” I said to Tadji.

“First lady was from a speck of a town halfway to Lafayette. Her son brings her into the city every few weeks to shop for supplies. That’s how I heard about her.”

“What’s her name?”

“Delores Johnson.”

I lifted my eyebrows. “She doesn’t shop here.”

“This isn’t the only store in New Orleans.”

I humphed. “The existence of other shops doesn’t make it right. What did she have to say?”

“We talked about her history, her experiences. The way she thinks about the war and what’s come after, about magic, about where she lives.” She leaned on the counter, and her eyes lit with purpose. This was my favorite Tadji—because she looked happiest when she was working.

“It’s really interesting, actually. She told me she used to be very focused on what came later—on her rewards in the next world, the afterlife, on what would happen to her family when she was gone, that type of thing. She was really focused on the future.

“But now, since magic’s here, she talks about ‘here’ and ‘now.’ About ‘power’ and ‘making’ things, ‘doing’ things. War seems to have—I don’t want to say ‘centered’ her, because it’s war, after all—but maybe made her focus on the now.”

“Interesting,” I agreed. “She’s got, what do they call it, ‘agency’ now?”

“Yeah. I think that’s really where it’s going. Is it legit agency? I mean, she’s in a war zone. Can she actually do anything, or does she just perceive that she can?” She shrugged. “I don’t know. But it’s really interesting to watch how the change in language has mirrored the change in society.”