Nick was in bed, sleeping soundly. The sun had gone down. Mara’s belly was full, her freshly washed hair hung loose down her back, and she wore laundered clothes that still smelled of the sunshine in which they had dried. Her feet were bare and a fire crackled in the hearth behind her, warming her back.

  “So, it’s really about Polandria,” she said, trying to keep track of everything she’d been told. She leaned over the table map Eli had procured and spread out on the floor of the sitting room–anchored at two corners by lanterns that cast life and light on the paper-and-ink topography.

  “In this case,” Quint said from his seat in an armchair across the room. “But not always.”

  “For each population, there’s different factors to consider.” Eli leaned forward, tapping the northwestern side of the map. “In Prosco, yes, it’s largely a question of ethnicity. The vast majority of the workforce there is Polandrian, and the Order treats them like animals. The conditions there work in the rebellion’s favor. In other cities, though, there’s factors that work against us. Take Clearwater. The chief consideration is trade. Ninety percent of goods that move in the Provinces pass through Clearwater, and they levy fees on all of it. The average citizen has enough money to live comfortably, the local government is financially equipped to provide services, the Order’s taxation is a pittance to all but the poorest, and the powerful have enough excess to buy their way out of any rules that don’t serve them. In Clearwater, the Order is a nuisance at worst. At best, it’s a guarantee of safe passage on the river.”

  “I remember you talking about that in Cinder,” Mara said, rubbing her temple. “Something about the river pirate.”

  “River pirates,” Quint barked out, sitting forward in his seat and casting an incredulous look at Eli. “River pirates?”

  Eli shrugged. “I’m open to more elegant solutions.”

  “So…I still don’t understand the problem,” Mara cut in, before the conversation was driven further off the road. “What does this have to do with the Linharts?”

  Eli rocked his head from side to side, mouth pulling into a grimace. “Elise and Rorick’s strategy needs some development with regard to some of the population specifics.”

  Quint shifted in his seat but didn’t speak. Vaunter wandered in, set a tea tray on the ground by the map, and wandered back out. When Mara set about pouring the tea, Eli continued.

  “Their focus, necessarily, has been building a security force capable of defending the Enclave, as well as an armed network sufficient to stand against the Order’s army, all effectively shadow-shielded from persuasion. There’s nothing wrong with this strategy. It’s just incomplete. At least from my perspective, which admittedly–”

  “Is more nuanced and better informed,” Quint finished for him.

  Eli cut a sharp look at his friend. “Your purpose here is to offer insight on the Enclave’s present force posture. Not snide personal commentary.”

  Ignoring him, Quint made a face at Mara as if they were both in on the same old joke. “In case you haven’t figured it out yet, you should never take Eli seriously when he’s talking humble.”

  “I never take him seriously regardless of how he’s talking,” Mara said sweetly, doubling the brightness of her smile when Eli cast her a dark look. “But please, go on.”

  Shaking his head, Eli reached across the map to point at Prosco. “Davy and I spent a good deal of time in Prosco and the high desert. Our armed network there is strong, but our civilian network is even stronger. Not only are we positioned to take control of the city’s defenses by force, we’re poised to take over effective governance as well. As long as there’s no major disruption in services like water and refuse removal, we’re all but guaranteed the support of the civilian population. We’d have an easy foothold for further operations, we’d own the desert trade route, and we’d be able to recruit fighters from the second largest population in the provinces.”

  Mara shook her head. “So what’s the problem?”

  “The problem is, that’s not the plan,” Quint offered.

  “What is the plan?”

  “That, unfortunately, I can’t tell you,” Eli said, jerking his thumb at Quint. “And neither can he.”

  “Blood oaths?”

  “Blood oaths.”

  “So…what are you going to do?” she asked Eli, and Quint shifted in his chair, angling toward his friend.

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  “Yes, Eli. What are you going to do?” he echoed.

  Eli leaned back against an armchair, accepting the teacup Mara offered him. “Try to convince them.”

  “And you think he won’t be able to?” Mara asked Quint. Eli had explained her eavesdropping, and the purpose of this briefing. “That’s why you said… what you said when I overheard you?”

  Quint’s expression tightened, wrinkles branching out beside his eyes as he glanced first at Eli, then at her, then back at Eli.

  “What I think doesn’t matter,” he finally said. “If Eli thinks he can bring them around, then he can.”

  Unimpressed with the non-answer, Mara turned back to Eli. “When I asked what you would do when we reached the Enclave, why didn’t you mention that you needed to convince the Linharts to change their entire strategy?”

  “I didn’t want to poison the well or set you against them before you’d had a chance to meet and form your own opinions.”

  “Oof,” Quint said, sucking in air through his teeth. “Brother, I’ve barely known this woman for a day and even I know that’s the wrong answer.”

  Holding Eli’s gaze, Mara pointed to Quint and raised her eyebrows. Eli held his hands up in surrender. “No argument, here. Didn’t say I was right.”

  With a heavy breath, Mara leaned forward. “So what can I do?”

  A long pause followed before Eli spoke. “What do you mean?”

  She looked up from the map. “What can I do? To help?”

  Frowning, Eli shook his head, glancing up at Quint. “Can we have a minute?”

  Without a word, Quint popped to his feet and made himself scarce. When the sound of his voice began mingling with Vauntner’s in the kitchen, Eli turned to Mara, his own voice low.

  “Don’t forget, there are aspects to this story that only the Linharts can share with you. For all you know, I’m a shortsighted idiot and once you have the full picture, you’ll want nothing to do with me or with my plan.”

  Mara pulled in a deep breath through her nose and set her tea aside. The fire was suddenly too hot at her back, and she scooted forward and then clasped her hands in her lap.

  “Tell me–this full picture that you think stands to change my mind once I have it. Do you have it? Now?”

  His brow furrowed. “Yes.”

  “And, with access to the full picture, you think that modifying their plan is necessary for the rebellion’s success?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then tell me what I can do to help you.”

  His gaze dropped to the map, a deep crease between his brows. When he met her gaze, his eyes were somber. Almost pained.

  “If you really want to help, the best thing you can do is to distance yourself.”

  “From what?”

  “From me. Before everything–before the rebellion, before strategy, before responsibility to their people–Elise and Rorick are grieving parents. Your arrival, and Nick’s… it might be the only thing capable of pulling them out of it. You’re a connection to the son they lost and they’ll be desperate to have a relationship with you. Give them that relationship. Let them love you. Give them back some semblance of a family. Don’t waste that opportunity, or the power that comes with it, by aligning yourself with me.”

  He looked so…she didn’t know. Now that she’d gotten to know him, she considered herself adept at reading his expression. Even when he was locked down, she still caught flashes of emotion–regret, amusement, annoyance–little twists and lines around his mouth and between his brows when he was working out what to say and how to say it.

  But this expression was new. It de-aged him, softened the hard edges, lightened the fathomless depths of his eyes until she could swear they weren’t fathomless at all. She could see clear through to the bottom, to the beginning, and though she couldn’t quite read what she saw there, whatever it said called to her, screamed at her to reach out, to touch.

  She clasped her hands tighter in her lap.

  “Okay,” she whispered, understanding his words if not the current that ran beneath them. What he’d just said was ultimately no different than what Tiff had told her–she had the potential to stabilize Davy’s parents at a time when they needed it, and doing so would win her influence. If, with the full picture, she still wanted to support Eli, she could use that influence accordingly.

  “Just promise not to do it out of obligation,” Eli said quietly. “I don’t want you to think for half a heartbeat that I’m bringing you to the Enclave to use you for my own purposes. Or that my protection is contingent upon your allegiance. You owe me nothing.”

  Mara gasped out a laugh. “You…” she broke off, shutting her eyes and drawing a deep breath. When she opened them, she forced her mouth to smile. “Now who’s mistaking friendship for obligation?”

  He didn’t return the smile, and his eyes still carried that inscrutable clarity. It hurt her chest.

  “I’m going to bed,” she said, unfolding her legs and clambering to her feet. She made it all the way to the doorway before the weight of unsaid words slowed her steps. She stopped and turned around. Eli, still seated on the floor against the armchair, lifted his face to meet her eye and raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  “I just want to be clear,” she said, swallowing a sudden stickiness in her throat. “You saved my son’s life. You’ve turned what should have been a traumatic nightmare for him into an adventure. And don’t think I don’t hear you talking to him about Davy, keeping his father’s memory alive in a way that I–” Her voice caught in her throat, the leftover words backing up behind the blockage, choking her.

  Eli didn’t move, but he went taut, like he wanted to move but invisible hands pinned him in place. “Mara…”

  She cleared her throat, blinked back the tears, and lifted her chin.

  “You can’t say I owe you nothing,” she forced out. “Not when I owe you everything.”