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I look at Erik then, measuring him up. I can appreciate secrets and regrets. I have plenty of my own, and I’ve decided not to let them dictate who I am. Erik deserves the same chance.

“Actually, I would,” I say.

A chaotic mix of instruments starts playing. No, not playing. Warming up. Each musician individually tuning his instrument, filling the air with a clash of rhythm. The solar lights around us dim even lower, and then the band starts to play. It’s nothing like what I expect to hear. The song is vibrant, alive. The notes dip and bounce and a few couples make their way to the small space in front of the stage. Once they’re there, they become as alive as the music. One waves her hands in front of her, kicking her feet out behind her. Her partner watches for a moment and then joins in. Another woman spins away from her lover, her skirt fanning around her. In Arras, we only had slow songs. Elegant, carefully timed waltzes or quiet songs to sway to. Nothing like this.

“Want to try it?” Erik asks.

“I’m not sure I’m that rhythmically gifted,” I admit.

We watch for a few more minutes, and then Erik slides out of the booth and offers his hand to me. I bite my lip, pondering the likelihood that I’ll wind up splayed on the dance floor on my butt. But Erik leans forward and says, “I won’t let you fall.”

I put my hand in his and he pulls me from the booth. He keeps his eyes on me. He doesn’t close his hand over mine, but I feel something weighty in his gaze. It never leaves me. When we get to the floor, his fingers close around my hand and he throws me out with great force. I’m not wearing anything that can fan out or impress anyone, but I’m sort of thankful. At least in pants and boots I can stay on my feet. Erik grins at me, and I narrow my eyes, but then I giggle. I can’t help it. I feel his hand tug on mine and before I know it I roll back into him. My other hand meets his waiting palm without a thought and when we touch everything is electric. Full of life. I pull out of his embrace and spin under his arms. Then I attempt to mimic the woman who’s kicking up her heels.

I fail.

We both spend more time laughing than dancing, but I feel light, like I’m full of air. Like I don’t have a care in the world. For a moment, I’m truly happy.

Then the vibrance of the music fades down into a soft rhythm. A woman steps forward and begins to sing. Her voice is low and hoarse, but it’s beautiful. She sings of love, of belonging, of loss. My heart gives a thump in my chest. I can relate to this song.

Erik pulls me back to him, and I let my head drop to his shoulder. His arms curve around my back and we sway softly. Neither of us speaks. I think of the night back in Arras when we waltzed in the garden. How his hand felt on the bare skin of my back. The moonlight painting his hair silver.

“Are you feeling okay?” Erik asks softly.

I blush. “Yes. It’s warm in here.”

“It is and we were really, uh, dancing a minute ago. Do you want to sit?”

I shake my head. It’s okay to dance. It’s okay to linger in this moment because of the music and the mood. I won’t have any excuses once we sit back down.

Erik’s hand rests on my shoulder and I curl my arms a bit more tightly around his neck. I know we’re both feeling the same thing. I can sense it from him, like the low humming energy of a solar panel. It comes off him in waves—the things we can’t say to each other.

Something’s changed between us, but it’s not until I look up at his face that I understand. I see the curve of his jaw with its trace of stubble. The way his nose bends slightly to the left—not enough to be called crooked but not perfect. For a moment I wish we were in the moonlight so his hair would be silver and his eyes would be gray, and when he looks at me, I see what I feel reflected back. We don’t say anything, and I pull away from him, escaping with excuses of needing the powder room.

But I can’t escape this for long.

I STUMBLE INTO THE POWDER ROOM AND splash water on my neck. The mirror reflects a girl with flushed cheeks and tumbling chignon. I pin up my loose hair, but the redness stays on my cheeks.

“Remember who you are,” I whisper to the girl in the mirror. My fingers trace the techprint on my wrist.

No matter what has changed, I can’t do this to Jost. I won’t do it to him. It’s not who I am.

I smooth down my glossy tunic and tug my boots up a bit. The club is warmer when I leave the powder room. More people have found their way inside despite it being well past curfew. A group of men watch me as I cross the dance floor to our booth. They don’t bother hiding their stares, and I realize with a sinking feeling that they’re clad in pressed slacks and vests with rolled-up sleeves and gold pocket watches. The only other person here dressed as smartly as they are is Erik. On Earth only one group of people has access to such stylish clothing and expensive accessories: Sunrunners. Even if they’re here for their own pleasure, they’ve noticed me. I’m not supposed to be off the estate grounds let alone running around in bars.

I slip into the high-backed booth, grateful for the anonymity of the pocked red vinyl sides. “We’ve been spotted.”

“Oh yeah?” Erik pops his head over the booth and lets out a low whistle.

“How long until this gets back to Dante?” I wonder out loud.

A tumbler of clear liquor slams down on our table and I look up to find the answer to my question.

“That was even faster than I imagined,” Erik mutters.

“So I say to myself, ‘I’m going to check on Adelice. Talk it out, because I’m mature and responsible and so is she,’ and do you know what I found?” Dante asks as he plops onto the bench across from us.

“I bet you’re going to tell us,” I say, folding my arms over my chest. I’m not the least bit sorry for leaving the estate.

“Do you actively look for trouble?” Dante asks. “Or are you stupid?”

Erik’s arm pulls away from my shoulder, landing on the table as he leans toward Dante. “We’re not Kincaid’s property, and you would do well to remember that. We had business in the Icebox. That’s all you need to know.”

“Business in the Icebox, huh? Looks to me like you’re drinking gin in a speakeasy,” Dante says.

“Let’s go, Erik.” I scoot across the squeaking vinyl bench, but Dante holds his hand up.

“I’m sorry for what I said in the garden. You have to understand how hard it is for me to trust a Guild-trained Tailor,” Dante says.

“Half of Kincaid’s men were Guild, and you trust them,” I point out.

“That’s not entirely true.” But Dante doesn’t offer to elucidate for us.

“Why wouldn’t I trust Erik?” I ask, my voice growing with the clamor of the music. “He trusts me enough to tell me—”

“Ad,” Erik stops me. “It’s okay. Your father is right.”

“He’s not my father,” I say.

The table falls quiet, the music invading the silence between us. No one knows what to say—least of all me.

“I don’t want to tell you what to do, but if you leave without me, they’ll follow you,” Dante warns. “What did you come here looking for?”

I take a deep breath, willing my words not to shake with rage. “We’re looking for the loophole.”

“The loophole?” Dante repeats slowly.

“My mother told me about it,” I admit. Dante sinks back against the booth and takes a long swig of his drink.

“She’s trying to cause trouble,” Dante says.

“I know that,” I say. “It doesn’t mean I can’t learn anything from her.”

Dante’s eyes swivel to the door and back toward the dance floor. “We need to get out of here.”

“Why should we go anywhere with you?” Erik asks. His hand closes possessively over mine, but I draw it back.

“Because I have something to show you.”

Erik lifts my mink coat for me, and I shrug it over my shoulders. We both know we have to go with Dante. As we exit the speakeasy, my eyes stay on the ground. I expect my father to drag us straight back to the estate, but instead of leading us out into the quiet, black streets of the grey market, Dante gestures for us to follow him down a narrow alley wedged between buildings.

“I’m not sure I like where this is going,” Erik whispers.

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” I ask, but for once I keep my hand threaded through his.

“Oh, I have not had enough gin for this kind of adventure,” Erik says.

We stop near a full-to-brimming Dumpster, and Dante glances around us. I doubt he can see anyone in the ink-black night, but thankfully that means they can’t see us either. Dante pushes on a stone and it sinks back into the wall as a slab slides over, revealing a hidden door.

“Someone is making a killing building hidden passages,” I mutter.

Inside the entrance it’s dark, but Dante flips on a handlight and starts into the darkness. The handlight provides enough illumination for us to see a few feet in front of us but not much more than that. Once we’ve walked for a few minutes—faithfully following Dante, despite the fact that we have no idea where we’re headed—he stops and shines the light on the wall. He flips open a panel, flicking some switches. A series of solar lights flares to life, dimly lighting the rest of the tunnel. With the lights on, some of my unease dissolves.

“Where are we?” Erik asks. If we’re far enough from the entrance to safely turn on the lights then it must be safe to ask questions.

“You wanted to know what a loophole is,” Dante says. “I’m taking you to one. There’s a crawler up ahead, we’ll take it to the ship.”

Ahead of us the tunnel seems to stretch on for miles. I’m simultaneously glad that I don’t have to walk the whole way and nervous to be back in a crawler. Dante hoists himself into the crawler and turns it on. Erik boosts me into the front seat and then jumps into the back. He leans over me and pulls a harness strap up over my shoulder.

“Buckle up,” he whispers.

I nod, not bothering to tell him the harness is the only thing convincing me to ride in the crawler.

“You don’t like these things, do you?” Dante asks.

“I do not,” I admit.

He grins at me, but I notice his own harness is buckled. “You aren’t a fan of many vehicles,” he says. “You didn’t like the motocycles either, and something tells me you’re going to like this even less than last time.”

“I am?” I whimper, tightening the straps that hold me in. Erik’s hand comes to rest on my shoulder but it does little to abate my fear. Dante is right. I don’t like being in the open air or the wild momentum of vehicles like this. A motocarriage is a smooth ride and, perhaps more important, it has a roof. But motocycles and crawlers feel out of control. There is nothing to grip, so I focus on Erik’s hand when the crawler lurches forward.

The name
crawler
made sense from the moment I saw the vehicles. They look like metal spiders, after all, and I saw the way they rumbled over the rocky terrain when we went Sunrunning, but now I really understand where they got their name.

The tunnel is rounded, but there’s no road, only broken tracks, and as we progress down the shaft we zip up the side of the concave walls instead of navigating the old tracks. Dante drives the crawler farther and farther up the wall, accelerating until my hair is whipping against my face. It’s almost painful, but given that we’re now riding parallel to the tracks below us, I can’t convince my arm to reach up and pull it back. My hands are frozen to the harness, clutching it, but Erik’s hand stays on my shoulder. I focus on it, using its warmth as an anchor.

We rumble back down to the floor, riding over the broken tracks, zooming through the tunnel. We’re moving too fast and my voice won’t carry over the rushing wind, but when Dante finally starts to slow, approaching a cluster of lights, I ask, “What was that?”

“They used this tunnel to shanghai men into slavery on boats during the last century. Now we run refugees through it. One second you’re drinking a whiskey, the next second you have an exciting new life at sea.”

My legs shake as I pull myself out of my bucket seat. I cling to the frame of the crawler and take Dante’s hands when he offers to help me down. I tentatively step over the side, but I can’t bring myself to let go of the bar. Dante reaches up and grips my waist, bringing me to the ground. I wobble a bit, but Erik steadies me when Dante lets go.

“You didn’t like that ride,” Dante says.

“No, I don’t exactly have a fondness for death traps,” I admit.

“That’s funny given how often you throw yourself into dangerous situations,” Erik says. We follow Dante to stairs that take us to a bustling dock. A large glass dome rises over us and through it I can see the Interface. When I look out into the distance, the ocean stretches before me, infinite and black.

Workers run back and forth, shouting over steam that’s blowing in from a round hatch in the side of the dome. Through the hatch, the dock extends. I spy something tethered to the end of it. I make out a door and a couple of windows set into a blue metal wall. Men pass us in a hurry, but even in their haste they stop and raise a fist to their left shoulder, bowing their heads to Dante. He raises his fist in response but doesn’t nod.

A man in a gray jumpsuit rushes past us and skids to a stop. It’s Jax.

“Dante,” Jax says, his face splitting into a grin. He doesn’t welcome him with the same formal greeting as the others; instead the two men grip each other’s arms.

“Is she around?” Dante asks him. “I should probably get this over with.” His eyes flick to us. Nothing like making someone feel welcome.

“Yeah, Falon hates surprises,” Jax says. He pushes his goggles up onto his forehead a bit higher, grime smearing across his skin as he does it. “Last time I saw her she was checking some passenger manifests.”

“Why is she interested in passenger manifests?” Dante asks, frowning at this bit of information.

“Ask her yourself,” a voice snaps behind us. I turn and find myself face-to-face with a girl. I take a step back as her eyes narrow to focus on my face.