I can’t slow down my head. Regret and relief crowd my thoughts, which won’t stop turning, won’t stop reaching for Jubilee. Then I look up, and she’s standing a few yards away, speaking to Molly. I drop the glass I’m polishing, and it shatters on the floor. Molly frowns at me and tilts his head at the door that leads out the back. I go.
Jubilee slips through the door not long after me. My heart jumps as I recognize her silhouette in the half darkness, and I make myself stay where I am, leaning against a stack of crates. My head’s swimming with tiredness, and just having her in the room hitches my pulse up a notch, though I don’t know if it’s wanting or anger or something else completely. My heart is so tangled I can’t think.
“Molly says you can stay here in the back room.” She sounds tired, at least as tired as I am. “If anyone asks, you’ll say you’re his cousin.”
Posing as the cousin of a three-hundred-pound Chinese man would be beyond even Sofia’s talents. “I don’t—”
“Molly’s an orphan, like me. He was adopted. Off-world, families who aren’t blood-related happen all the time. You’re just not used to it here.”
Lapsing into silence, she leans against the stack of beer crates opposite me and folds her arms across her ribs, tight and uncertain. She just stares at me, for so long I feel I might shout to break the quiet, until finally she blurts, “Are you trying to get yourself arrested out there, breaking glasses and drawing attention?”
Frustration takes the lead among my competing emotions, and I come to my feet. “You’re the one who left me working behind the bar for hours, under the same damn camera that’s broadcasting my face to the whole—”
“Because you stormed out! If you’d stayed, I would’ve been able to plan our next move, someplace to hide you while I figure this out.”
“Hide me? While you figure it out?” The frustration coursing through me is real, but right behind it, the knowledge that she wasn’t the killer. I could touch her now and not hate myself. But she’s still a trodaire—I can’t let myself think this way.
I search for words that will push her away, put some distance between us so I can’t reach for her. “So you think I’m going to hide somewhere safe and trust you to fix this while I’m sidelined? You and your old captain have it under control?”
“Sidelined?” she snaps, incredulous, though there’s relief in her gaze too. Her eyes rake over me, unable to look away. Neither of us can talk about how everything is different now that Jubilee’s innocent. Anger is easier. “Damn it, Flynn, I’m betraying everything I’m sworn to, hiding you here. I’m a traitor now. I’m the bad guy.”
“You’re doing it for the right reasons,” I offer, but I know for Jubilee, the words ring hollow.
“I know,” she replies tightly. “I know that. And I’d do it again. I just—I never thought I could ever in a thousand years be here, in this spot.” She turns away, twisting the heel of her hand against her eyes for a moment. “I told you my parents died in the uprising on Verona. But I didn’t tell you that it wasn’t even rebels who killed them. The men who killed them were sympathizers. Supporting the rebels. People like me.”
I stay silent. This isn’t a conversation—she’s not expecting me to argue or tell her it’s not her fault. I just listen.
“They wanted to use my mom’s store as a staging area. My parents wanted no part of the rebellion, so they refused. And the sympathizers killed them for it.” She swallows, hard, and steadies her voice. “They were people we knew, Flynn. Neighbors. Coworkers. People you’d say hello to in the park. And because they picked a side in a war that wasn’t even theirs, they shot two people while their eight-year-old daughter hid under a counter.”
Slowly, I ease in closer to her. “That’s why you hate it when I call you Jubilee. Because that’s what your parents called you.”
“I don’t hate it anymore.” She swallows again. Her voice, when she can continue, is wrenching. “You’ve ruined my life, you know.”
I can’t speak, my breath coming as quickly as hers, frustration and longing twisting together, like a quick-burning fuse.
“I was fine before you turned up here and dragged me into the swamps.” Her voice rises, halfway between tears and violence. “I was supposed to have no soul—I was supposed to be dead. Jubilee was supposed to have died with her parents, in their shop in November; Lee was no more than a dream.”
In the bar, the jukebox comes on. Molly must be trying to drown out the sounds of raised voices. I move toward her, unable to resist; her eyes are wet, her face flushed, and I can finally look at her, want her, let myself touch her without grief turning everything to ashes in my mouth.