By the time we leave the room, Jane is already waiting outside our door, the drones still buzzing at her sides.

"How did you know we were leaving now?" I ask her.

"I didn't."

"You were out here the whole time?" She nods. "Jane, you should have come in."

"I can't unless I am asked."

"I'm so sorry, I didn't know." I look at the drones. "Well, the room was a mess," I say, a little more loudly than I normally would. "Daniel is going to need someone in there to clean the carpet, dust everything, clean the bathroom, make the bed, and take care of... other stuff too." I smile.

"Yeah, I am just a disgusting mess," Daniel says, leaning closer to the drones. If he's playing along with this story, then it must be true about the drones recording conversations. "We are going to need Jane to be present in the room all night, and I really wouldn't feel comfortable without knowing that she would be taking care of the room personally."

A light in the center of the drone flashes green, and an automated voice follows: "Submit vocal confirmation of re-assignment."

He leans closer. "Daniel Crowley."

The light flashes green again. "Access granted. Caregiver 3-2, Jane Rosen, to be assigned to room 6, care of Daniel Crowley and Comforter Celia Rivera." My heart tenses at her name. "Correction submitted."

Daniel clears his throat, and continues in a voice that began as authoritative and has since devolved to comically macho. "Jane, you must get started right away. I expect it to be spotless by the time we come back."

Jane's deep brown eyes fill with tears. "Yes sir." She smiles, and passes us into the room.

"Oh, and Jane," Daniel calls after her. She turns around, her eyebrows raised. "I have some of my favorite foods stashed in the mini-fridge. I expect them to all still be there when we get back." He winks.

She smiles, finally closing the door. Daniel turns back to me and holds out his hand. "Shall we?" I grab his hand, and some of my heart strings relax as he squeezes his fingers around mine.

We descend the staircase, the drones following close behind, so I whisper, "What's with the whole job situation here? Why are the women so disrespected?"

He turns back to check the drone, who still buzzes a few feet from us. "That was Cooper's idea. I'll explain later."

We walk back through the hallway, past the salon. We walk past the white and navy room, and stop at the entrance into an expansive, golden ballroom, perfectly rectangular, with an open floor and stairs at the far right end that lead to a second floor balcony. Dozens of men in suits and women in gowns are gathered just outside the room, waiting in conversation-less clusters. A grandfather clock stands at the mouth of the room beside us, and I check the time: 5:45 pm.

"Are we early or late? I can't tell," I whisper.

"Through here. They are probably finishing up dinner."

He leads me into the room until, hidden in an alcove to the left, I see a long wooden table with 12 burgundy leather chairs around it. Just like in the Captain's dining room. Only this time, each chair is taken, and I wonder how much of this place will remind me of the Deathless.

At the sight of us, Gunther stands from his seat at one end of the table. His black hair is slicked back and catches the light in its reflection, and his thick lips are open in a silent "Ah." He holds a glass of white wine in his hand, and spills some on the blonde Comforter beside him as he opens his arms to us.

"Well, if it isn't our young lovers," he announces. The Comforter doesn't seem to mind that she's been christened with wine, and doesn't even turn around to greet us. "Daniel, you already know everyone here, but everyone, this is the infamous Isla Blume."

Those who are not facing us have since turned around, all except the blonde who has just now realized her dress is wet with wine and is dabbing it with a napkin. The men's faces are old and apathetic, but the women's faces are young, beautiful, and filled with worry. Their make-up, hair, and dresses all remind me of tropical birds, vivacious and full of color, but their eyes are like Declan's always were: Older with what they've seen.

"Go around, introduce yourselves," Gunther orders.

Before she even speaks, I find Celia. She looks nearly identical to Gabriela, her skin dark with sun and beauty, and her black hair resting in wide curls around her shoulders. She introduces herself. If I didn't already know her name, it would have been inaudible, but I follow her lips as she says, "Celia."

"Celia, this young lady here is the one who is responsible for Auntie Gabriela's death," Gunther adds. I remember what Daniel told me about how he likes to hurt people through mental torture, and I can see that it has been working on Celia for some time. Instead of getting angry with me or even glaring, she just curls into herself and returns to her plate.

The introductions continue, and after another blonde Comforter, I recognize one of the names from Jane's list of Leaders: Captain Keith Jones. He looks so familiar to me, but I can't place his face... until he smiles. I remember that smile. I saw it the day the Prowlers were left at my farm: This is the same soldier who searched my house, who found the safe room, and who remotely left the Prowlers behind, before smiling and shrinking back into his tank. I remember wanting to snap his neck then, and I feel the same rage now, but I push it down. His time will come.

The next name I recognize is Flynn O'Neil, but I almost miss it through his Scottish accent. He smiles and it's nearly a perfect U shape on his face, creating deep dimples in his cheeks. He looks perfectly harmless, but as Gabriela taught me, looks can be deceiving.

A woman named Nina is seated beside him. She must be O'Neil's Comforter. She's looks to be a few years older than me, her body matured to that of a woman's, but she retains a youthful glow. Her hair is a richly deep brown, but in the light, I can see a subtle fire in it. Her skin is slightly darker than mine from sun, and her eyes are deep brown in color, almost black.

Then, someone I know well: Mitchell Harper. "Hi Isla," he says meekly, his angles even more pointy than I remember.

"Your new Comforter, Mitchell. Isn't that right, Isla?" Gunther laughs. "Well, aren't you going to say hello to your new man?"

Daniel squeezes my hand, and I know that's my cue to stay calm. "Mitchell," is all I can say to not jump the space between us and strangle him.

"And finally," Gunther says, pointing down to the blonde beside him. "My Comforter, Ms. Phoebe Clark."

Daniel squeezes me even tighter, but this time, I can't stop myself. I run to her side, nearly pushing Gunther over with my skirt, and some of his wine spills down my back. I kneel beside her, and look into her eyes. They are still bright and blue like they were when she found me in the Prowler, but they are lost.

"Hello," she says dumbly.

"Phoebe, it's me. Isla Blume." She stares, blinks twice, and maintains a stupid grin. "Phoebe, what's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," she giggles. "What a silly little girl."

I turn back to Gunther, and slap the wine glass from his hand. As the glass shatters against the wall, the guests at the table gasp, and in the corner of my eye, I see Captain Jones stand. Daniel's hand rests on my shoulder, but I don't step down, I don't look back. All I can do is glare at Gunther and take deep breaths, so he feels how hot my breath is. So he knows I'm not backing down.

"What did you do to her?"

Gunther sits down in his chair at the head of the table, and I notice finally that Cooper isn't here. Dinner must be Gunther's time to shine, and from what I know of him, he must love it.

"Isla Blume, everyone. Let's give her a round of applause."

The guests clap tentatively.

"Tell me what you did to her."

"You see, folks, Isla Blume has a little problem with anger," he announces to the table. "It was her weakness with the rebels, and they exploited it. Isn't that right?" He turns to me, and wipes the smile from his lips with his napkin. "I thought Nathan taught you better."

Something inside me snaps, and I know he wants me to lunge, to prove that I'm an animal, just like he's probably told them all the rebels behave, but his little jab at me has the opposite effect: I snap into focus, and remember Nate. I think of his sacrifice, of how his face reminded me of pancakes, of the pills me helped create for my mom. I remember his words, full of worry, begging me to control my emotions, so I do. For him.

I take a breath. "Yes, you're right, Gunther." He raises his eyebrows. "He did teach me better." I turn to the rest of the table. "Friends, colleagues, I apologize for my behavior. This woman beside me was one of my Leaders with the Deathless. She is the reason I am here today, with all of you, in this beautiful mansion, wearing this beautiful gown." I am sure they can all hear the sarcasm in my voice, but I continue, just in case, "So it pains me to see that she is no longer the feisty and courageous woman who I once knew. Please accept my humblest apologies." And I curtsy. Just to really piss Gunther off.

"Take a seat then," Captain Jones orders.

There are two spaces at the other end of the table, between Celia and Captain Jones's golden haired Comforter, whose name I didn't catch, so Daniel takes my hand and leads me to sit. Everyone is still staring at me, and continues to until I finally sit. They resume eating, and O'Neil, who was apparently telling a story when we interrupted, continues regaling us with stories from his childhood in Glasgow. The golden-haired Comforter beside me sucks her teeth, and twirls a spoon through her tea while pretending to listen.

I look down the table at Phoebe. Her hair is curled, but it is still long and blonde, and she plays with it through her now perfectly manicured fingers. What happened to her? It can't be the knock out gas, because she would be blank, not giddy and playful. Maybe she's a cyborg, like Nate. Maybe somehow Gunther is controlling her personality and memory. Is that even possible? Maybe if he somehow altered her prefrontal cortex and hippocampus...

I am thrown from my thoughts when I catch Gunther staring at me as he refills his glass of wine. He mouths the words "watch it."

I take a second to process the situation, and think of all the ways he could mentally torture me if he wanted to. I think of the proverbial button he mentioned earlier. He could hurt Daniel, my mom, or Declan—he knows where they all are—General Sato or Winston, if they are still alive. Or Alexander. Where is he? I shouldn't care about Winston, Alexander, or Phoebe—they didn't care about me—but I'm not capable of hating them that much. That's always been my real weakness, my forgiving nature, not my temper.

"Hi," a small voice pulls me away, and I look across Daniel's body to the source: Celia. "I just wanted to let you know that I'm not mad at you." Her voice is lightly accented, and has an airy calm to it, like Gabriela's was.

"Thanks, but you would have no reason to be. I didn't kill her."

"They said you did. They told us to beware of you. They said you're a killer... Are you?"

I look down at myself, then back at her. "Do I look like a killer?"

"I don't know," she says. Fair enough.

"No, I'm not a killer. I shot my friend, because he was dying, and he was in pain. That's all. That's the only person I've ever killed."

"So Daniel was right," she whispers, and looks at him with wide eyes, "they lied to us."

"Yes, they did. And I don't think that's the only thing they've lied about either," I whisper in reply.

Daniel smiles at me. Make friends with Celia? Check. Well, sort of. We spoke. That's enough, right? At least I didn't glare at her.

Alexander walks into the room, his gruff voice announcing his entrance. "Sorry I missed dinner," he says, and I almost don't recognize him. He's replaced his gold-rimmed goggles for a pair of thick, circular glasses that rest at the tip of his nose on purpose, and make his scruffy grey beard look like it's on purpose too. He wears a burgundy suit that I can't help but think looks cheap (but maybe that's just the betrayal talking), and he's smiling, like his colleague isn't sitting there brainwashed or anything.

I guess this answers the question of whether or not he got out of the bunker all right. He left with Gunther.

He looks around the table, smiling and catching his breath, until his eyes stop on me. He almost passes over me, probably since I'm a girl or since my hair's different, but his expression melts. "Isla," he mumbles.

I bite my tongue, but not before sucking my teeth behind my closed, painted lips.

The grandfather clock at the entrance of the ballroom sounds six times to alert us that it is now time for the party to start. All the Soldiers in uniform and Scientists in suits begin entering the ballroom with their Comforters, beautiful girls young and old, all wearing colorful dresses, many even wearing smiles.

Men, who Daniel tell me are the Workers Jane told me about, and Caregivers take posts around the room, some with trays of food from which the Scientists and Soldiers pick. I'm amazed at how quickly the room fills, and at how quickly the 13 of us—12 at the table and Alexander—abandon our plates to join the others. From some unseen location, orchestral music begins to play, and the crowd sways, like the music is a river's current.

Daniel takes my hand again, and we begin walking out to the dance floor. He pulls me close and whispers, "You have to be more careful. We don't want to draw attention to ourselves."

"Too late."

"Daniel?" Celia's soft voice calls from behind us.

"Isla and I need to catch up. Will you be okay on your own?" he asks, stopping.

"Sure," she says, "I don't like to dance, anyway."

"Are you sure?" he asks.

What does it matter? I want to yell. We have spent hardly any time together in months. She can wait a night.

She smiles meekly. "Yes."

Daniel turns back to me, and we keep walking to the center of the floor, when I feel someone grab my other hand. I turn and meet dark eyes.

"Nina," I say, "So nice to meet you."

"You can't hit his glass away like that," she says, her voice deeper and rougher than I expected. I don't know how to respond, but she continues with a smile, "Next time you have to aim it at O'Neil. Maybe he'll stop talking then." I laugh, cautiously at first until she laughs too. She looks around her, but we are so surrounded in people dancing that our conversation goes unnoticed. "Meet us in the Comforter bathroom at the end of the hall. Midnight. The drones will stop you, just tell them your name and that you've got the runs. They won't ask questions," she smiles at her last instruction. "See ya then."

I turn back to Daniel and give him my familiar told you so look. "Well, don't get anyone else's attention," he says.

We continue farther onto the dance floor, until we are at its center, and he pulls me to face him for a dance. He squeezes me closer, so that his lips touch my earlobe. "Do you remember the last time we tried dancing like this?"

The week before he was taken, his dad Ben took an afternoon to try to teach us to waltz. Apparently it was easy, but Daniel and I couldn't stay focused. We were stepping all over each other, continuously bursting into laughter at the drop of a hat. Finally, Ben gave up, and we made up our own dance steps to the music.

"Yes," I smile, "we're doing better this time."

"There's nothing to laugh about this time."

He spins me, and I see that he's watching Phoebe and Gunther dance in the corner of the ballroom.

"What could he have done to her?" I ask once I'm back in his arms.

"I don't know. He's either converted her to a cyborg, or he's messed with her brain."

"How do we fix her?"

"I think she might be a lost cause."

My heart sinks a little, but other than calling me an idiot and telling me to run, I'm not sure I owe her much. I just wish she had more of a chance. Daniel spins me again, and for a moment, I make eye contact with Phoebe as she dances with Gunther. She smiles at me, not a giddy smile, but something more genuine. Then, of course, she starts laughing stupidly at something Gunther's said.

When I return to Daniel's arms, I see Alexander is standing behind him, and I'm so startled, I gasp.

"May I cut in?" he asks. His helpless eyes peer over the rim of his glasses.

"No," I say.

"Isla, please, I'd like to—"

"—I said no, Dr. Ovis."

He takes a heavy breath. "Fine. But I'd like to talk whenever you're ready to."

"What a jerk," I say once he's out of earshot.

We resume dancing, and I rest my chin on Daniel's shoulder as I take in my surroundings. Slaves and their masters dancing. All in an opulent ballroom, in costumes that make it look like this is all part of a beautiful life. Was that all the Deathless was for me? A beautiful mirage?

The music stops, and so do we. All of us, except for Gunther, who races up the flight of marbled stairs. "Ladies and Gentlemen," he calls over our heads from the banister, "may I present our benefactor, not only of the party, but of our survival, Mr. George Cooper."

Everyone around me erupts into applause, genuine or not, and I hold my breath to see the man behind all of this. Behind the end of the world, behind the bunker, and behind this crazy mansion and its even crazier hierarchy.

The door opens, and I let out a panicked breath. The only other sounds are gears grinding.