“Meg,” I say. “The last time you called me that, you were strangling me to death. Forgive me if I don’t take your word for it.” Theo flinches and says nothing more.

But Conley adds, “Maybe I should’ve been more precise. We haven’t done anything to Paul . . . yet.”

I thought I was the bait on Paul’s hook. Turns out he’s the bait on mine.

One step brings me right into Conley’s face. He’s not much taller than I am. “Show me that he’s all right. Let me see Paul. After that—okay, we’ll talk.”

“See? I knew you could be reasonable.” Conley claps his hands together. “So, did you bring any bags?”

“How would I know?” I snap. But as I start heading toward baggage claim, my head whirls, and once again I have trouble catching my breath. It felt a little like this when Wicked leaped into me—but when I put my hand to my chest, only one Firebird hangs there.

“Altitude sickness,” Theo mutters. “Quito’s more than nine thousand feet above sea level. It takes some people a while to adjust.”

“And you don’t look like you slept a wink on the plane.” Conley puts one hand on my shoulder to guide me, which sends clammy chills through my body. “You know what? Let’s run by, see Paul, and give you a chance to rest. After you’ve had some sleep, we can really talk. Then we’ll have all the time in the world.”

Turns out I brought a flowered duffel bag of mine, which Theo has to lug out to the limousine waiting out front. I hope it’s heavy. I hope I packed hardcover books, a dozen of them. In the limo, Conley sits facing forward, which means I’m stuck riding backward. My queasiness worsens as we duck into hilly, chaotic Quito traffic.

And when I say chaotic, I mean it. People here seem to regard lanes of traffic as vague suggestions at best. Cars and trucks swerve and skid, ignore signs, zoom through lights, you name it. Even though my stomach churns, I’m kind of glad I can’t see what’s ahead of us or I’d probably have a heart attack.

I make a point of not seeing what’s in front of me, i.e., Conley and Theo. My blackmailer and my murderer, both so close I can hear them breathe. My nausea peaks at the thought of it, and it’s all I can do to hang on.

The queasiness reminds me, for a moment, of the morning sickness I experienced on my last journey to the Russiaverse. Almost without thinking, I slide my hand across my belly and try to remember the weird, watery heaviness of early pregnancy. I only felt the baby move once—I think—and even that was more of a goldfish wiggle, because it hadn’t been quite four months since that night in the dacha.

Paul’s baby, and mine, still in the Russiaverse waiting to be born. I am fighting for all the people Triad has put at risk, but deep down, I think I’m fighting for that baby most of all.

“Are you about to throw up?” These are the first words Theo’s spoken since the airport. He sounds sulky, even petulant, and yet every syllable cuts me like a knife. “If so, would you please roll down a window first?”

“If I throw up, it’s going to be in your lap.” I fold my arms across my chest and stare out the window. Better to look at that maniacal traffic than this Theo’s face.

When we finally turn off from the clogged highways and wind into one of the neighborhoods, I’m struck by how, well, ordinary everything looks. The signs may all be in Spanish, and the stores and vehicles may mostly be slightly smaller than they would be at home, but otherwise this is a strip mall like any other, complete with open-air cafés. The limousine slows to a crawl as we pass a Juan Valdez coffeehouse, and Wyatt raps softly on the window. “And there you go.”

My heart rises as I recognize Paul—Triadverse Paul, so like mine that only a few issues of timing divide them. He sits at a round stone table, typing at his old laptop, which has a panel held on with duct tape. I wonder why he’s frowning. Is this when we usually chat, and I haven’t signed on as usual? Since he turned out to be the “bait” in this particular trap, Wicked wouldn’t have given him any clue she was boarding a flight to Ecuador.

It would be so easy to just open the door and jump out. The limo isn’t even going five miles an hour. I want to launch myself at Paul, show him this Firebird and explain about the counter-conspiracy, all of it. In this moment, there is nothing I want more.

I don’t move. I have to find out how much Conley knows. So I keep pretending that I’m willing to play ball.

Paul’s broad hands continue working on his keyboard as he searches for something, or someone, in vain. How ironic, that we can only get perspective on the people we want to be close to when we pull away—or when they do.

Did I have to lose Paul before I could fully understand him?

“What has he been doing down here?” I murmur. “I know you know.”

“Not everything,” Conley admits, surprising me. “Markov’s skilled enough to cover his tracks. He seems to have picked up some programming work and even a little translation on the side. Lives in a youth hostel not far from the historical colonial section of town. Makes the occasional friend from other students passing through, but don’t worry, Marguerite. No visiting girls have tempted him to wander . . . at least, as far as we know.”

He’s trying to make me jealous. What a waste of time. I know Paul well enough to know that he’s hardly even kissed any girls besides me, and he’s way too bashful to turn into a womanizer.

Even if he weren’t shy, Paul would never cheat. Even the thought of me with another Paul was almost too much for him to bear. His fidelity is something I never have to doubt.

“All right,” I say. “Paul is okay. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Wyatt Conley smiles, like he’s done me some huge favor.

“He’d better stay okay.” I allow myself to look at Conley with some fraction of the hate I really feel.

His smile hardens. We both know the reality of this game. “That’s up to you.”

Afterward, the limo drives straight to a luxurious hotel and drops me off—with Theo right behind. “Get her settled in,” Conley says to him. “Make sure she’s safe and tight.”

The way he pronounces tight is unmistakably a reference to the lace scarf this Theo used to strangle me. Maybe such cheap, obvious tricks shouldn’t be so effective, but I can’t help feeling a wave of fresh fear, and an uncomfortable knot within my throat.