“Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“I was adopted. My mother and I were very close. She was the best mother anyone could hope for.”

“You were adopted?”

“Yes. I didn’t find out about it until I was eight years old. I started asking questions, wondering why I didn’t look like either of my parents. My mother overruled my father’s dictum and told me. She had always wanted to be honest with me and never understood why he wanted to keep it a secret. My father was furious with her.”

“Do you get along with him?”

“He’s my father—and I’m his daughter. We deal with it. What else is there to say?” And then in a softer voice, “It’s been hard for him since my mother died. He was very close to her too, and he depended on her for a lot of things. I don’t think he quite knows what to do with me now.” She shakes her head and her eyes narrow as she looks into the distance. “Actually, he probably never did know what to do with me. I don’t think fatherhood was a role he was comfortable with. Now that he has to play both mother and father, he tends to go a bit overboard.”

I know I’m walking on shaky ground but I ask anyway. “Overboard?”

She’s careful with her reply. “Because of his position, he has certain … expectations for how his daughter should conduct herself in public—and private too for that matter. But I suppose I’m better off than most.”

Than most what? Non-pacts? But I don’t say it. I hear the strain in her voice. This sharing is pushing her limits.

I change the subject with more than enough new information to chew on. Like how the Network didn’t know she was adopted. “How did you ever find a rope ladder long enough to reach down nine stories?”

“Hap made it. From twine no less. He’s quite resourceful.” I remember his grip around my neck. Resourceful isn’t quite how I would describe him. Shrewd maybe. Is this part of the way he pays for Raine’s silence about his Netlog activity?

* * *

We enter the cemetery. She seems to know where she’s going. She heads for the center, gracefully hopping over graves and markers and tiptoeing between others. She should be a dancer, not scaling walls at two in the morning. My dislike for the Secretary grows. She stops at a large memorial and presses her palms against it, her fingers sliding into the recessed letters. She stands there stone still for the longest time. “Tell me, Locke, what did you think of the gathering at the Somerset Club?” she finally says.

I’m surprised she would bring it up, considering it didn’t go well between us, but I try to put a positive spin on it. “I didn’t think it was as boring as you did.”

She turns to face me. “It wasn’t completely dull. I was especially curious about that dance you did with Vina.”

“I would have shown you but … someone cut me off.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Which I regret.”

Is she asking me to dance with her now? “It’s really pretty simple. I can show you.”

“I suppose that would be all right.”

It seems wrong to dance on someone’s grave, so I suggest we step over to a small clearing between graves. She stands in front of me waiting for instructions. “First of all, you keep your arms loose and relaxed, not stiff and straight. And you place them, well, really anywhere that feels comfortable. There aren’t rules.”

“It’s odd for a dance not to have rules.”

“Maybe, but that’s what keeps it interesting.”

I reach out, wishing that maybe there were rules so placing my hands would be less awkward. I place one hand on each side of her waist. “Now you put your hands where they feel comfortable.”

She lifts her hands, holding them up in the air, uncertain where to put them. Finally she brings them down so they’re resting on each of my arms. “There. That feels comfortable. Is this right?”

“There’s no right or wrong.”

“Now what?”

“Relax. Pretend there’s music. Soft music. And sway to it. Like this.”

She steps on my foot and grimaces. She may be graceful most of the time, but not when there isn’t a game plan to follow. “Our feet are so close,” she complains. “How can you dance so close to another person with no rules?”

“You’re trying too hard.” I slide my hands around her back and pull her closer. Her hands are forced to slide farther up my arms, until they’re resting on my shoulders. “Now, don’t lift your feet so high. Just let them glide along the ground. Like mine.”

She looks to the side trying to see our feet like she’s memorizing each step. “Relax,” I repeat. “Just go with it.”

We fall into step and I feel her arms grow softer, the angles disappearing, molding to me like she’s finally getting the hang of moving without a plan. Not her specialty, but she’s a quick learner.

She looks up at me. “I’m not sure what to think of a dance without rules.”

I look at her, caught off guard at how close her face is. I can’t study it, can’t examine planes and lines and what expressions she may be hiding. I can’t see anything but her chin, her nose, her mouth, her eyes. I can’t see anything but Raine. I swallow. I quickly swing her away from me and throw her back in a dip. “And you have to watch out.” I bring her back to her feet. “Because you never know what might happen in a dance without rules.”