Sofia’s quiet, not reacting to the revelations in my little outburst. “Well,” she says slowly, “sounds like she’s making progress. And you’re safe here a while longer before they ship me out.”
Some of my frustration drains away, sympathy rising in its place. Sofia’s only a few months shy of sixteen, but according to the law she’s a war orphan. She’ll be bound for one of the orphanages on Patron or Babel. There’s less of a chance rebel orphans will grow up into rebel fighters if you take them away from their homes. It’s where I was going to be sent after Orla died, before I fled to live with the Fianna. “When?”
“Don’t know.” She lifts a shoulder, flashing me a wan smile. “They’re trying to find my mother, but they won’t. She’s never wanted to be found. It’ll be next supply run, or the one after—they don’t tell you when they’re coming for you so you can’t run away.”
My fault. Again. “I won’t be here when they come, Sofia. I’m going onto the base. I have to find a way to get to Jubilee if she’s found a lead.”
“You’re mad, right?” Sofia straightens, staring at me. “Yes, their attention’s on the fighting, but your face still cycles through the security feed every fifteen minutes or so.”
“Then I’ll go tonight, when it’s dark.”
Sofia doesn’t answer, chewing at her bottom lip, brows drawn together. She watches me, fighting some internal battle she doesn’t voice—and then she breaks, muttering under her breath and turning for her room. “Wait here.”
She vanishes into the next room for a moment before returning with the water bucket and a small canvas bag. She sets the bucket down and drops to her knees, upending the satchel and sending clothes and a few keepsakes tumbling. When a tiny framed drawing—most of the townsfolk don’t have access to cameras—of her father clatters onto the floor, I realize what this is. It’s her grab bag, for when the officials come to take her away.
But she’s ignoring her things, emptying the bag and then grabbing a knife off the counter. She starts sawing through the lining, cutting away a false bottom. Before I can voice my surprise, she’s pulling out a few unlabeled packets and looking down at them, expression unreadable. Then she looks up, half her mouth lifting in a smile. “Sit,” she orders, jabbing a finger at the rug.
I sink down warily as she rips open one of the packets, giving its contents a curious sniff. Then she shuffles around behind me, out of sight.
Then something freezing cold dribbles onto my scalp, and I yelp. “What are you doing back there?”
“Trying to keep them from shooting you on sight,” she replies blandly. She’s working her fingers through my hair, quick and thorough, if gentle enough. A little of the gel smears across my forehead, and she brushes it away with her wrist. “I know I can’t imagine you as a platinum blond, so I don’t think anyone else will either.”
“Are you serious?” I try to pull away, and she simply grabs a handful of my hair, holding me in place like a mother cat holds a kitten. “Where the hell did you get blond hair dye?”
“I asked for it,” she replies simply. As though that’s all it takes—and for silver-tongued Sofia, perhaps that’s true, though I know she didn’t come by her skills easily. She finishes working the dye through my hair and turns back for the remaining two packets.
She fetches a plate and a rag from the kitchen and returns. She empties the packets, which contain a brown powder, onto the plate and then dribbles some water over it until it forms a paste.
“Okay,” she says, exhaling briskly. “Now, strip.”
I lift my brows at her. “No need to order me, Sof. Most guys will pretty much get undressed any time a girl asks.” She snorts, and as I’m unbuttoning my shirt, I find I can breathe a little easier for the pleasure of making her smile, even for a moment. “Now, since I know the answer isn’t the one I’m hoping for, why am I taking my clothes off?”
“This will tint your skin.” She dips the rag into the paste and reaches for my arm, scrubbing it in circles and leaving dark brown smears behind, like shoe polish. “You won’t find a white guy from Avon with a tan. Everyone will assume you’re an off-worlder.”
“I’m going to look like an idiot,” I mourn, looking down at the unnatural brown of my arm.
“What else is new?” she retorts. “Idiotic is good. Nobody pays attention to idiots—they dismiss them. No one suspects they’re hiding anything.”
I watch as she works her way up my arm. It’s clever. It’s beyond clever—it’s brilliant. It’s what a lifetime of living on a planet torn by war teaches you: How to read people. How to blend in. How to disappear. But this—this never would’ve occurred to me.
“Sofia—why do you have this stuff?”