“He does.” I fiddle with the chain around my neck. “He didn’t ask me where I got this Firebird, even though that should’ve been his first question.”

“Bloody hell.” Dad exhales sharply. “Well, when you speak to him next, try to figure out how much he knows. Of course you’re going to do that already, aren’t you? But keep on him. Give away nothing. Let him hint and guess.”

“Okay. I can do that.” I flop down on the sofa, feeling as if I could fall asleep again just from the comforting sound of my parents’ voices. “Thanks, Dad. It’s good to have something to do besides just . . . chasing around after Wicked, even though I can never catch her.”

Mom says, “Don’t say that. You’re not wasting time, Marguerite.”

“But the Romeverse is gone—and two other Marguerites died anyway—”

“And you saved another from a fatal accident in outer space,” Mom insists. “You’re distracting Conley from what the rest of us are doing, and buying us time.”

“We need that time,” my father adds. “It takes a while for the asymmetries to spread throughout a dimension and protect it fully. So don’t doubt yourself for a moment, sweetheart. You’re doing good work.”

If they’re talking to the other dimensions, maybe I’m not the only one they’re keeping track of. “Can you tell me where my Paul Markov is?”

“Still in the Egyptverse,” Mom says. “Building the stabilizer must take a while there, and by now we assume he has to find a way to recharge his Firebird, which must be at low levels. But the technology of that world, if it’s like our own at a similar stage of development, should allow him to do so if he can get to a city, Cairo perhaps—”

Assume? Of course. Just because they can track us through the dimensions doesn’t mean they can communicate with us. Communication is only possible between worlds at a high enough state of technology. While Paul is in the Egyptverse, he has no idea what else is happening.

“Does he know I’m alive?” I ask.

The next pause lasts long enough that I know the answer before my dad says, “He hasn’t learned what happened to the Romeverse at all. So he has no reason to fear for you. Well, besides the homicidal maniac version of you on the loose, which I suppose is reason enough.”

“He doesn’t know how to follow me. He could only track my Firebird, and that’s going to lead”—my gut sinks—“to the Home Office.”

“We’ll try to send a warning.” My mother obviously doesn’t want to drag me down. “Hang on, Marguerite. Stay strong.”

I want to. I will. But it seems like my dangers are multiplying every moment. Like I tried to smash through a glass barrier and am now surrounded by a thousand tiny shards, each one sharp enough to draw blood.

My invitation to lunch comes as a note hand-delivered by the concierge. My ride is provided by a hulking limo driver who either speaks no English or is fully committed to pretending he doesn’t. I wear jeans and a dark red T-shirt from the depths of my duffel bag, both wrinkled in the extreme. Wyatt Conley isn’t worth the effort of dressing up, much less ironing.

I’m taken to a restaurant in a sort of closed-circle area with a central green space large enough for a few tropical trees to loom high overhead, and plenty of other greenery frames the other shops and salons. Many of the buildings here have an open-air structure, even the kind of businesses where I’d never expect it, like banks. The road loops around the circle before stretching straight again not far past this restaurant where I’ve been shown to a table just under shady palm fronds.

No sooner do I pick up the menu than I hear the roar of a V8 engine. The reason I can identify that sound is behind the wheel of the red sports car speeding into the circle, namely Theo. He parks on the far side of the green area, and I’m not surprised to see Wyatt Conley getting out of the passenger side.

“Limos are elegant, of course,” Conley says as he walks up to me, Theo lagging behind. “But I tend to prefer a sexier ride.”

“Seems about right.” I fold my arms across my chest. “Men have been using sports cars to compensate for small penises for a long time. Why shouldn’t you?”

Conley’s eyes narrow, but he collects himself after only a moment. “Enough childishness, Marguerite. It’s time to deal.”

As he takes his seat, I steal a look at Theo. He looks neither smug nor ashamed. He’s not avoiding my gaze like he did yesterday, but he’s not engaging with me, either. It’s like he’s deep in thought, although I have no idea what could be more important than this. Maybe he really doesn’t care what becomes of me at all.

A waitress brings us coffees and presents the heavy-bound menus. Conley doesn’t even look at his before laying it across his plate. “I want to be clear about a couple of things from the beginning. One, the offer of a true partnership that I came to you with months ago? That’s no longer on the table. Matters have progressed too far for that. But I think we can still come to terms you’ll find reasonable—and certainly more inviting than the alternative.”

Pollo means chicken, I think, as I refuse to look away from the menu. Just get something pollo and you’re safe. “I don’t think the offer of a true partnership was ever on the table. But go ahead. Hit me with these exciting terms.”

“I guarantee your safety, and your family’s, and that of your world’s Paul Markov. We will make no attempt to destroy your home universe, and nobody of your acquaintance will ever be splintered—at least, not because of anybody at Triad. That’s all you get.” Conley sighs with satisfaction. He thinks he’s finally worn me down. “In return, you travel when I want you to, where I want you to, and do what I want you to. If that includes the destruction of a universe, you do it. And if that prospect troubles you, well, just think of it as their world dying to save yours.”

I don’t say anything, just cover my face with one hand. Is that enough for him to think I’m wavering? If he thinks I’m at least unsure, at least considering what he wants, then maybe he’ll tell Wicked to leave whatever “neutral” universe she’s in so I can get on the move again.

And if he sees that I’m tired—that I’m afraid of never getting Paul back, that I can’t bear the thought of endangering even one more world—that’s nothing but the truth.