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“The Black Swan is . . . adjusting,” Sophie told him. “Mr. Forkle had

a plan in place for his death.”

“I’m sure he did,” Gethen said, “but it’s not working very well, now,

is it? All these weeks since Atlantis, and what has your Collective

done—besides waste time investigating a worthless prisoner with no

memories? Though I suppose that isn’t all that unusual for them.

Aside from creating you, what has the Black Swan done, other than lie

to you and risk your life—and the lives of everyone you care about—

while we succeed over and over and over? And now here you are,

trapped like the helpless little bird you were designed to be. Does it

bother you knowing you’ll always be weak because your creators were

too afraid to make you strong?”

“You and I have different definitions of weak,” Sophie snapped,

pressing her panic switch a third time and promising herself that if

Dex didn’t get there in the next five minutes, she’d switch to plan B—

and make sure Gethen burned right along with her. “I can get out of

this cage anytime I want. But I’m still waiting for you to tell me why

you’re here. I’m assuming you’re planning to trade me for somebody. I

just can’t decide if you want Fintan or Alvar.”

“I told you: Alvar is worthless. And Fintan has no place with us any

longer.”

“Then it must be the caches,” Sophie realized.

Keefe had stolen Fintan’s cache—and the cache that used to belong

to Councillor Kenric—when he’d abandoned his plan to infiltrate their

order.

Ruy snorted. “Wow, I thought you guys would’ve figured that out by

now.”

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