Page 78 of Winterveil

“Me either,” Klaudia admitted. “But he swore we had everything we needed to find it. I’ve been trying to work backward, thinking about why each of us was chosen. . . .” She didn’t like the direction of the conversation, but she pressed on. “You were talking to Giselle this morning.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“You seemed friendly.”

“She’s the only person here who’s not liable to shank me in the shower, if that’s what you mean.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” Klaudia’s fingers curled into her palm. “You can take that bandage off now.”

“This?” Julian touched his cheekbone. “No, I’m keeping it. Proof of your affection.”

Klaudia’s face heated, and she hoped that her flush didn’t show. “You could at least try and be helpful. What were you and Giselle talking about?”

“Nothing requiring national security clearance,” Julian said. “She was telling me about her sisters. Her family. I might not get my speedboat license while I’m here, but today I learned the square footage of a double-wide trailer.” He shrugged. “She’s funny. Endearing.”

“And . . .” Klaudia hesitated a moment, biting down on her lower lip, “do you think what is says in her file is true? About her memory?”

“Hard to tell from a conversation about Meemaw’s diabetes. Did you know they actually call their grandmothers that? I honestly thought it was a joke.”

“I’m sure that condescension toward the working class served you well on the campaign trail.”

“It’s called humor, Klaudia.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“Tough audience,” Julian said. “I’ve never seen you laugh. Well—”

But he had. During the Thymos tournament. She had been so overcome, her mind racing, bile rising in her throat, and what had come out was a laugh. Soft, shuddery, almost crazed. It nearly killed Klaudia to remember it now. He had seen so many sides of her that she had never wanted to reveal.

“Let’s move on,” she said icily. And Julian, to his credit, didn’t protest.

“All right,” he said. “Operating under the assumption that what it says in her file is true, what would that mean for the mission?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out. I’m guessing there’s some sort of code-breaking element to it. Gathering intelligence from around Traumstadt and then using it to get past a series of locks . . .” Klaudia glanced around to make sure that none of the holograms were watching them too closely. “If so, I’m very curious to hear what she’s gleaned from her walk.”

“Me too.”

They lapsed into silence, and Klaudia tried not to feel frustrated by how opaque everything remained. So far she had accomplished nothing this afternoon other than letting Julian Joyce-Young III make her blush.

Suddenly, Julian turned to her and said, “I’m sure it’s occurred to you that we could just . . . refuse.” His gaze arced up, toward the false sky. “Stop playing Deckard’s game.”

Of course it had. From the moment they had been herded into the helicopter, Klaudia had wondered what would happen if she had told Dr. Iver no. He could have taken away her privileges, revoked the letter of recommendation that would have guaranteed her that top position. But would that really have been worse than whatever fate awaited them here?

Klaudia could not even develop a formula to predict their chances of success. There were too many unknowns. Too many variables.

No answers. Only inelegant solutions.

“You’re asking the wrong question,” Klaudia said. “When you were running for mayor, did you ever pause to think about what would happen if you lost? No, because it’s a pointless thought exercise. There’s no utility in imagining failure. There’s only the game as it’s played. Stop weighing the possibility of defeat and start considering the conditions of victory.”

Julian went silent again. The imitation snow swirled around them. Then—

“I hate it when you do that,” he muttered.

“Do what?”

“Win me over.”

Twenty-Seven