But I can’t. I have to stay focused.

The safe is behind the painting he’s hung, one that shows a man kneeling in prayer. When I get closer, I realize something about the image that I hadn’t seen before.

The man is Nevio. He’s in shadow, turned away so that it won’t be obvious to the casual viewer, but when you come close there’s no mistaking it.

He’s hung his own image on the wall.

I wish True were here to see this.

I take down the painting and wonder what became of the one my mother used to display there. It was a simple painting: water and light.

Water.

“Unlock,” I say to the safe, and I hear a click and pull it open.

There’s the box. I open it up and take out the second insignia. I press the soap against it and take the print, deep. It’s perfect.

A sound in the hall. At the door?

They can’t be finished eating yet.

I rub the insignia with my sleeve to make sure that I leave no trace of soap, and then I close the box quickly and put it back inside the safe. As I do my fingers brush something else, and in spite of the sound in the hall, I pull out the item to take a look.

My skin knows exactly what it is even before my eyes register the sight.

A shell.

The kind Maire gave to me, but this one is pure white.

Another sound in the hall. I put the shell back, close the safe, hang the painting on the wall, and wait.

I hear speaking. Two people, neither of them Nevio.

They move on, and I slip back out the door and up to my room in the temple. I sit down on the bed, the soap melting in my hand, almost forgotten.

There was no time to ask a question into the shell, but I know who would answer.

Maire.

My aunt is in contact with Nevio.

“We haven’t spoken in some time,” I say, careful to keep my voice even. I hold the black, spiny shell with shaking fingers. “Where are you?”

Back in prison, Maire says. And seems that this is where I’ll stay, at least for the time being.

“But you can make things move,” I say. “Why don’t you unlock the doors and walk free?”

I’ve chosen not to reveal that particular talent to the Council, Maire says, because it’s helpful for them to believe they can control me. And I discovered long ago that some of the best voices can be heard in the prison walls. More recently, it was a way for me to keep myself away from you, to put another barrier between us. You have no idea how difficult it has been not to try to mold you, to experiment with your voice. That’s why I gave you the shell—so you could control your own learning.

“Do you,” I ask into the shell, “communicate with Nevio the Minister?”

Of course. There’s no hesitation. She doesn’t sound ashamed. She doesn’t explain. And that makes me sick. Nevio took my mother’s place. He stole and read her personal papers. And Maire still speaks with him. Does she know he’s a siren? Does she care?

I’m not going to get caught up or bogged down in all of this. I don’t want to let her keep me from getting to the surface, don’t want to allow her voice in my head when everything is about to come together. But I can’t help myself. There are two final things I want to know.

“Did you kill my mother?”

No.

“Do you know who did?”

Yes.

She knows. But she doesn’t want to tell me anything more. She’s going to make me ask again, each specific question.

“Who was it?”

There is a moment of nothing, and I press the shell closer to my ear.

The Council.

“Which one?”

All of them.

“How?”

They called her in for a meeting. When she arrived, they gave her something to drink, as was the custom, and they had each put some of the poison in her cup. They all did it.

“Why?”

She knew too much.

I don’t want to believe Maire.

But I do.

The Council killed my mother.

A cold fury, as implacable and full as water through the floodgates, comes over me. Maire didn’t kill my mother. But she knows who did. And she hasn’t told anyone. She hasn’t cried out to Atlantia as I know she could, telling them of the evil the Council has done, calling the people to help bring about justice. She has done nothing.

“How do you know this?”

Nevio told me, after it happened. He helped them arrange it.

And Maire’s still in communication with him. She gave him a shell. I can’t speak because my voice will be full of hate.

And she told me. Your mother told me, too. She realized what had happened.

“Why would the Council let her go?” I ask. “Why would they risk her telling someone?”

Because they knew exactly who she would tell. Her sister. And they wanted her death to serve as a warning to me. When I found her, I made sure she was dead and then I stood over her body waiting for the Council to come take her away. I had received the warning. There was nothing more I could do.

I’m sick, hearing this. “How could you let them take her away? When you knew what they’d done?”

It was what I had to do.

All I have to throw in Maire’s face right now is my perfect, practiced control. So I do it. I hold everything in. “You know her killers, but you’ve done nothing to make them accountable. And you still work with the Council and with Nevio. Oceana’s murderers. Why?”

Love.

Of course.

Maire told me who she loves, who she protects at all costs.

Herself.

That’s why Maire sometimes sits in her cell instead of unlocking her doors. Sometimes you can’t speak, not because others won’t let you, but because you are afraid of what you’ll say. You can’t trust your voice. You can’t trust yourself. You stay silent and contained for your own protection.

And I understand, because even though part of me wants to go scream in the streets, telling everyone what the Council has done, I won’t. Because that will put my plan to escape at risk.

I’m looking out for myself, just like Maire.

But at least I won’t go up with her. I’ll go up my own way. My mother’s way.

I never thought Maire could replace my mother or my sister. But somewhere, deep down, I must have hoped that I could love her. Was I stupid enough to think that she might come to love me, too?

You always have more to lose, until you die.