The newbies are Raanan—the guy who’d accompanied Elizabeth to the manna restaurant—Fatima, Winifred, Nico, Rebel, Hoshi, Sawyer and Clementine. They, too, come from all over the globe. Thankfully the Grid allows us to understand each other, no matter the language we speak.

    At six—and a half, foot stomp—Fatima is the youngest, killed in a house fire. At seventy-three, Nico is the oldest. I feel like such a creep for thinking this but...he’s hot.

    To my delight, I’m not the only one with odd hair. Clementine has pink ringlets, Nico’s mass of curls are fire-engine red and Hoshi’s straight-as-a-pen locks are the color of plums, dark with purple undertones.

    Everyone but Raanan offers an enthusiastic greeting; he remains mute, his expression contemplative. Despite him, I’m relieved by my easy camaraderie with the others, considering we are strangers. Strangers in a strange land flock together, I guess.

    “By the way some of the others have been talking about you,” Fatima says with an innocent grin, “I expected you to have horns, fangs and a forked tail.”

    “I know, right?” Rebel, who is fourteen, playfully elbows the little girl in the side. “I’m actually megadisappointed.”

    Raanan frowns as Hoshi and Clementine jump up and clap.

    “He’s here!” Clementine squeals. “Someone pinch me. No, don’t! If this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up.”

    “I’ve been praying for another glimpse of him,” Hoshi admits.

    I glance over my shoulder to discover...Victor Prince. He’s involved in a deep conversation with a girl I’ve never met, and he hasn’t yet noticed his admirers.

    My good mood deflates like a balloon with a hole. Days have passed since Archer’s death. My sweet, lovable Archer.

    I haven’t begun to heal.

    I miss you every minute, every second

    Are you near? Hope no longer beckons.

    I want to sob, but here, now, I can only kneel.

    Emptiness is the only thing I feel.

    Tell me, please, how I’m supposed to go on.

    For the rest of eternity, you, Little “Bow” Peep, are gone.

    Has grief erased Victor’s optimism? I’ve heard no more talk about the Resurrection. How can we convince others to vote for Archer? Do we even try?

    Soft music drifts through the air. A live band plays amid the wealth of roses. Their instruments, like so many other things in Troika, are different than what I’m used to seeing, and the sounds...oh, wow, the sounds! The melody is hauntingly beautiful. My ears tingle. Tears well in my eyes.

    “Have you ever heard anything so exquisite?” Winifred stares at the band with dreamy eyes.

    “Excuse us, everyone. I’m going to steal Ten away.” With an arm snaked around my waist, Meredith herds me toward the Great Throne room, even though the door is closed.

    “Why—” I spot the Secondking to the right of the doors, speaking with a man and woman.

    His violet robe is the most ornate I’ve ever seen, the seams bound together with gold thread, the hem glittering as if soaked in Lifeblood. He’s tall, his face plain, but his eyes...they are bluer than a morning sky, brighter than a sapphire and lovelier than a blue jay.

    The man and woman notice our approach and take a step back, clearing our path. My mouth dries, and my insides perform a series of flip-flops. I’m about to meet Troika’s king. In person.

    Don’t trip. Don’t spit when you speak. Oh, zero, how’s my breath?

    Meredith bows, and I clumsily do the same.

    He smiles at us, and I would swear the sun just rose over the entire realm. Plain? No, this man is the definition of beautiful. “I’m pleased you chose Troika, Tenley.”

    He knows my name! And though he spoke only six words, I jolt as if I just consumed an entire smorgasbord of manna. I’m electrified from the inside out. “Thank you...” Eron? Too casual. Great King? Perhaps too formal, considering our surroundings. Dang it, what’s the proper way to address him? “Majesty.”

    He inclines his head. One point for Ten. I nailed it.

    So...is now a good time to mention my thoughts on the war?

    As if reading my mind, Meredith urges me away. As I huff and puff with irritation, she says, “A party is not the time for politics.” She stops in front of the pair who spoke to the Secondking before us.

    “This,” Meredith says, “is my mother. Your great-grandmother Hazel. She’s a Laborer.”

    My eyes widen with surprise and pleasure. I should have guessed. Hazel is petite and blonde, just like Meredith, with a similar regal bearing. But...how is my dark-haired mother part of their familial line?

    Hazel tsks at her daughter. “What have I told you about playing Barbie with the new recruits?” Her voice reminds me of a lullaby: soft, sweet and calming.

    Meredith snorts. “You said to wait for you so you could play, too.”

    Hazel nods and looks me over, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. “I hope you don’t expect me to call you Ten. I refuse to refer to my great-granddaughter as a number. I’ll call you Blue.”

    She refuses to call me a number, even though it’s my name, but she’s fine with a color? I take a page from Clay’s book and pat the top of her head. Only family can get away with such illogical logic.

    “I’m good with Blue. How about I call you Meemaw?”

    “Yes!” She fist-pumps the sky. “Meemaw it is.”

    “And this,” Meredith says with a laugh, “is Steven, your grandfather. He’s a Laborer, though a different subset. He harvests manna.”