The alpha and omega of Coll's defense was that he hadn't been aware. He hadn't been aware that the quotas he had signed into law were unfulfillable. He hadn't been aware of the conditions in the prisons or that people had been sent to secret prisons without trial. Drought-stricken region left to starve? No idea about that, my subordinates handled it. Talvian gave a speech to functionaries in which she explained why murdering children was permissible? Wasn't there. He hadn't been aware of this, he hadn't been aware of that. So it did not surprise Mary when he made a weak admission of general responsibility for everything he hadn't (but should have) been aware of.

It was not the confession that had been predicted by the rumour mill, far from it in fact. A weak half-acceptance of Coll's responsibility for the things he had ostensibly closed his eyes to, and had, in reality, known very well. It wasn't that much more impressive than everyone else's - Mary thought that Bright had been much more sincere. But the media were all over it. Already during the fifteen-minute break, Mary scrolled through the news and saw the odd headline about Coll taking responsibility.

"There is absolutely no way the judges will care about this so-called admission," she said to Jane as she shut her computer - she was needed at the Peacekeepers' trial. "It's the evasions that might convince them. Tell me if he fesses up to something concrete."

"You'll find out from the transcript - or the news."

"I'd rather not." Reading, or rather, skimming the transcripts from all the trials every day was a massive pain. "Alright, then," she said, standing up. "Enjoy the rest of your day."

"You, too."

There was enough time left in the break to not only go to the bathroom, where three journalists tried to ask her for her opinion on Coll, but queue at the kiosk for tea. Mary thought she was starting to get the hang of money now. A society where things were bought and sold was much easier to live in, she realized now, than Thirteen with its total governmental control over everything. In hindsight, the presidents back home had had quite a few despotic tendencies, with Thirteen's strong civic society holding the worst of it back, and the country was very lucky to have Bensoussan in charge and not Coin.

"Could you please give us a comment on Coll's direct examination?" a journalist asked as Mary washed her hands.

"No comment."

At the Peacekeepers' trial, there were fewer journalists, and more of the audience had trickled away by now. The smaller size of the courtroom, however, made it feel more packed. Mary sat down at the counsel table next to Reed. "You asked for me?" On her other side, Goran Briscoe was looking up liverwort. Yesterday, he had, in all seriousness, gifted Fern Qiu of Seven a pinecone. The poor secretary now had poisonous plants to look forward to.

"I did. We were talking about Delaire the other day-"

"Yeah." Mary thought there was enough evidence against her, Reed would have dropped the charges had he had the power. "We'll see how this goes."

The slightly apocalyptic cross-examination of the commander of a task force took about half an hour to wrap up. At this point in the trials, even a completely calm and emotionless 'My subordinates, put together, reported twenty-two thousand dead' didn't faze Mary.

"Twenty-two thousand?" the prosecutor, Stephen Ng from Two, said. His cousin had been a Peacekeeper and was listed as missing without trace.

"Twenty-two thousand," Gabriella White echoed, reinforcing that statement for the judges.

"Twenty-two thousand people of all ages, from babies to the elderly?"

"Yes."

Answering quickly and evenly, White seemed unaware that this had been supposed to be a difficult question.

"And did you participate in any of the operations yourself?"

"Of course. A commander has to set a good example for their troops."

White did not understand that this was a confession of murder. Coll had nothing on the former Peacekeepers reciting their crimes with a tinge of pride, as if glad to report on a job well done. But the pleasant civilian was treated differently by the press than the still-stern military person in a uniform with the insignia removed.

At the other counsel table, White's lawyer sat with a blank face. Ng was examining White as if this was a direct examination, so frank was the former commander about her crimes.

After Ng was done, Delaire's lawyer got up and gave their statement. It was quite predictable - mistaken identity was the only defense offered. They reminded the judges that none of the prosecution witnesses had reliably identified Delaire. Two witnesses then both testified that Delaire had been assigned to a different county, but they conceded that people had often been reassigned at the last minute.

Delaire's direct examination was very short. She was not trying to justify her participation in atrocities, she was insisting she had not been there in the first place. And since by now, the case hinged on one specific massacre she had allegedly played an important role in, it wasn't like with Thread, where it hardly mattered if he had truly been at his grandmother's funeral that one time. With him, there had been plenty of other atrocities he had admitted to. With Delaire, if that incident fell apart like the others, she would have to be acquitted.

The cross-examination was not very good. Martha Linden of Eleven tried to trip up Delaire, but the defendant had a poor memory and often could not recall episodes that would have advantaged her. She sat in the witness stand, back as straight as a pole and eyes flicking around the courtroom, as if expecting the memory to be written on the wall.

"You are telling me you do not remember the name of your own commanding officer?" Linden asked.

"I don't. I don't know the names of any of my commanders. I addressed them by rank, not by name, so I don't remember the names."

Had this been Mary's client, she'd have encouraged her to not take the stand. The only thing Delaire was proving was that she was an unreliable witness.

"You said just before that you do not remember what you did on June 30, 75 by the old style?"

"No."

"Do you remember anything you did that month?"

"I'm sure I did routine things - had there been something not routine, it'd have stuck in my mind."

Linden tried to lead Delaire around in circles, but the presiding judge shut down many of her questions for being too leading. Privately, Mary thought that had Delaire been more intelligent, the questions would not have been considered leading. In the end, Mary was convinced Delaire was lying, Reed was convinced she was telling the truth, and the press was convinced that the key criminals were far more interesting.

Antonius knew what Coll was playing at. Make himself out to be duly penitent, predispose the judges in his favour, get a lighter sentence - as simple as that. Those blatant denials Antonius knew to be lies had grated at him - he was as bad as Blues with her blaming of him for the forced labourers. Such ingratitude, after he had covered for her!

He tried to think about something else. It would not do to send Achilleus a letter full of his own anxieties. Antonius glanced out the window, where there was some snow lying on the sill. He himself was wearing gloves and had a blanket thrown over his shoulders. According to the smuggled newspapers, the city would soon be opening special shelters where people could sit and warm up. Certainly a better option than leaving everyone to freeze.

I hope it is not too cold at home, he wrote. I cannot imagine trying to do your homework when you are shivering with cold. My congratulations on your A+ on your Art project, by the way. Your description made it sound very beautiful, but I am sure it looks even better in real life.

"Time for your walk!"

Reluctantly, Antonius set aside his letter, took the blanket off his shoulders, and stood by the door, ready to be cuffed. It was freezing in the corridors - the only place with good heating was the courtroom. After half an hour of pacing in that concrete cylinder and trying not to glare at Coll - the only way he had to show his disapproval of him - it was back to his cell, which had been flipped upside-down. Antonius cleaned up under the semi-watchful gaze of the guard.

"Coffee?" the young man offered.

"That would be very welcome, thank you."

The guard offered a flask. They had become more generous lately, not asking for signatures - perhaps the market had been saturated on that count. The coffee was quite terrible, but at least it was warm.

"Thank you," he said again, handing back the flask. The radio stopped playing music and switched to a talk-show where the guests were arguing about educational reform. After Antonius wrote a few lines, someone changed the channel. More music.

I am glad you are enjoying helping out in the shelter. Perhaps before it would not have done for you to take an interest in social work, but things are different now. I still hope, of course, that you eventually decide to go into business, but

Antonius paused. He had been about to write 'but I fear I will not be around at that point'. A sudden feeling of sickness overwhelmed him, and he had to go open the window even though it was already freezing. Was he seriously preparing for-

He took gulps of the cold air, feeling like he was going to throw up. Achilleus was too big to be placated with illusions, but what if it was himself he was trying to placate? Antonius leaned against the wall, looking into the courtyard - the shorter defendants all complained they could not see anything. Outside, the minor defendants were exercising despite the dark.

"Step away from the window!"

Antonius took a step back, mentally cursing Warden Vance. He sat back down and scratched out the last word.

I still hope, of course, that you eventually decide to go into business - perhaps that is just my family pride talking.

Feeling weak and drained, he ended the portion there and began a letter to his wife next. At least with her, he did not feel as if he was walking on a minefield. Granted, they still danced around the big issues, but it was a mutual dance. Antonius pretended he was confident about his prospects for the future, and Octavia pretended he was not terrified out of his wits inwardly.

Thumeka had been intrigued by Coll's admission of responsibility, but Jiao had thrown cold water on that by likening him to a student who got cheating and now regretted it. She watched the former minister wriggle under cross-examination - perhaps like that proverbial student who got caught cheating and now actually had to do the exam, which they weren't prepared for.

The rest of the defendants looked more like a highschool class, watching presentation after presentation with no end in sight. The front corner passed notes to each other, the very back corner - Grass and Slice - were very anxious now that it was suddenly their turn. It had seemed like an eternity away, and now it was staring them right in the face.

Coll did seem to be very subdued. His youthful face furthered the impression of a penitent student, though the beginnings of baldness slightly ruined the effect.

"How old does he look?" Thumeka whispered to her friends. "I can't decide."

"I'm sure he'd look younger in a hat," Mikola said, adjusting his kippah - the same went for him. "As is, he looks a youthful late thirties. Not early thirties, but a good late thirties."

"I'd give him thirty-five at most," Jiao contradicted him. "Maybe even thirty."

Coll insisted that he hadn't been at a certain prison. Not having been in a certain place was somewhat of a theme with him - Thumeka thought up a joke about him having never been in bed with his wife and wrote it down.

"I think that's because he's smack between Lee and Grass," Mikola said. "He's young enough to be their child, and they look it."

"I was not there," Coll insisted.

The prosecutor, Jocelyn Mikaelis of Three, reminded him of witness testimony placing him squarely inside that prison in Four.

"I do not know who they saw, but it was not me."

This kind of slipperiness was repugnant. He had started with an admission of responsibility and was now denying everything, hollowing it out until nothing but a shell remained. Quite a few positive articles had been written about him, but Thumeka knew hers would go against the grain.

"What's in the news, soldier?" Stephen asked the thirty-year-old gangster and private who was currently slouching against the wall in the cell block, newspaper in hand.

Pete Shokrai leapt into the air. When they came back down, they were standing at perfect attention. "Nothing, lieutenant," they said, handing the newspaper to Stephen.

"No, I do want to know - what is so important that you must read it now?"

Shokrai really wanted to scuff their feet but managed to stay at attention. "Cholera in Four, lieutenant. And a study on what people claim their relatives thought of the Games. And a ring of human traffickers arrested in Littleton. And-"

"Which of the articles you mentioned is important enough for you to read it on duty?"

"None of them, lieutenant."

"Good."

Stephen was himself curious to know more about that study with the relatives. He rolled up the newspaper and walked down the corridor, looking into the cells. Just a few days ago, the tracking anklets had finally arrived, so everyone who would have been in the Witness House if not for them being a flight risk had been released into a radius of ten kilometres. Already, several had tried to leave it, and had not liked the results. They only came back to the prison to eat and sleep - and to testify, of course.

That had solved the problem of overcrowding, even if they had had to construct a slipshod barracks for those witnesses to sleep in. One had finished testifying today, at the Gamemakers' trial over in Mittel. He had just been transferred to One, who wanted him for trial. The so-called wild purge had long since ended and been replaced by a more orderly proceeding hamstrung by the fact that nearly all of the judges had done very well under the regime.

Stephen looked at a group of people who also had District trials to look forward to. The former prison guards had only served in Four, so that was where they would be tried - if they would be at all. They didn't look too worried, sitting around the small table and playing dominoes. The four young men were bundled up against the cold - Stephen felt it, too. He did not wear his coat, but he did wear multiple layers under his uniform.

Back in the office, Tiller was almost bouncing as she did paperwork. "You seem to have had a good date," Stephen said, tossing the newspaper onto his desk.

"He said yes!"

"Oh, so you proposed?" Stephen asked, slightly surprised - he had thought she'd tell him that she was planning to do so. "Congratulations!"

Tiller grinned. "The wedding's gonna be on the first day of the New Year's break." It had gotten out that the trials would recess for two weeks - after this frantic pace for the better part of a year, that was sure to be very welcome by all. Stephen had decided to allow family visits, to improve prisoner morale. "Do you want to be my witness?"

"I would be very proud to do so, but aren't witnesses supposed to be the same gender as the person?"

Tiller flapped her hand dismissively. "Who cares? You're the most important person I have here, aside from Linus."

"But I am your superior officer," Stephen reminded her.

"You have never treated me like a subordinate," Tiller said with a shrug. "I sometimes forget you have a higher rank than me."

That said a lot about the situation in the jail, that even the hierarchy was breaking down. Absently, Stephen wondered if Tiller would have liked to be the witness at his wedding. Then, he kicked himself for thinking about that when he had barely even hinted at the topic with Angelo. "I would certainly consider it an honour." Stephen realized he was still standing and sat down. "Will your family be able to make it here?"

Tiller snorted. "For my wedding? They'd learn to teleport if that was the only option." Stephen suspected a similar attitude on the part of his own parents. "I just called them, and I'm sure they're already preparing for the trip."

"They must be very happy."

"They are. And a little bit annoyed I married up - traditional family, eldest child should pass down the family name, yadda yadda."

"You're going to be taking his?"

"I'll keep mine, but the kids will take his." That made sense - Tiller may have been an officer, but she was also a sharecroppers' child. Her now-fiance was a doctor's child and a grad student, countless steps above Tiller on the societal ladder. "Is that how you do things in Thirteen?"

Stephen nodded. "The parents' occupation doesn't matter, it's what the person themselves does, but yes - the person with higher social standing passes on their name, or the older one." Of course, people also changed their names as a powerful statement of what they thought about their family, but that was rare and sure to provoke a juicy scandal. "Or they decide randomly." When he and Angelo got married, they fortunately wouldn't need to worry about that, as their future children already had names.

Wait, when? Stephen told himself to stop getting ahead of things.

"Interesting that it's the same everywhere." Tiller nodded at the newspaper. "Anything interesting?"

Stephen picked it up and flipped through the pages. As Shokrai had said - cholera in Four, a study into what everyone claimed their family members had thought about the Hunger Games, and the arrest of a ring of human traffickers were the most noteworthy news. He read some of the headlines to Tiller.

"Human traffickers, cholera - that's all the result of the country being smashed to bits," she said confidently. "Once we get this place cleaned up, we'll be rid of both."

That was how things went with cholera, but Stephen was not so sure about the human trafficking. "How will we be rid of trafficking?"

Tiller shrugged. "If everyone has a steady job, there'll be far fewer people signing up to be 'personal assistants'. And now that they've stopped arresting prostitutes, people can do sex work under the protection of the law, so there won't be as much room for others to control them. Not to mention that corporations won't be able to use unfree labour in construction and whatnot now that there's oversight."

"I certainly hope so," Stephen said, scanning the article about the study. The main finding was that a much higher rate of people said their parents had been pro-Hunger Games than those who admitted to such feelings themselves. Stephen was not surprised. "You must have had quite a few problems with that where you're from."

"A couple of my friends sold themselves," Tiller said with a nod. "It was practically the only way to get out. No idea where they went. I tried looking for them, but the records aren't precise enough for me to find out as much as their full names." She set aside a paper. "There were four Daniels born in 51 in my county, and that's all I know about him."

"Terrible," Stephen said. He couldn't imagine living in poverty so dire, selling himself to who knows where would have seemed like a good option. "Isn't it your shift now?" he asked, glancing at his watch. Pity that they got only a minute or two to talk.

"Ah, shit, yes. Alright, I went through this stuff already, you just got to file it." She leapt to her feet and walked out of the office.

Stephen reached for the inbox then paused. Tiller's upcoming marriage made him think about his own relationship, and where it was going. He couldn't imagine telling his parents out of the blue that he was getting married. It felt almost ungrateful.

Stephen dialed his parents' number - given the weather in Thirteen right now, odds were they'd be inside. And indeed, the phone was picked up almost immediately. "Good evening, Edna Vance speaking."

"Mom?"

"Oh, Steph, how nice of you to call!" Stephen winced. He hadn't called in some time. "How are you?"

"Alright."

"We just saw a segment on the assistant Gamemakers' trial. Horrid people, aren't they? And they're acting as if it was just any other job."

Some of them didn't act like horrid people - they were obedient, polite, and made their beds neatly. "They thought it was any other job."

"But that - whatshisface - Heavensbee didn't. He spied for us."

"Who knows what makes a defector?" Stephen asked rhetorically. He had never met the country's most high-ranking defector. After a brief stint as a provisional Minister of Communications, Heavensbee had gone into retirement in a small Capitol town, claiming he needed a break, but in reality, to get away from pointed questions about what exactly he had contributed and whether he thought it was worth it. "Or, more importantly, what makes someone go along. In any case, how are you doing?" His heart was hammering fast with anticipation.

"Oh, we're alright. Bit of nasty weather today - I must admit, it was easier before, when we could go to the library or anywhere without stepping outside. And how are you, Steph?"

Stephen wondered why he could carry out interrogations without batting an eye but felt his mouth go dry at the thought of telling his mother about his relationship. Perhaps this was simply the one time he didn't have to suppress his tells and control his emotions, and his mind liked not spending that energy. "I'm doing well," he said, heart thumping painfully. "I met someone a while back."

"You met someone?" Mom asked faintly, as if unsure she had heard right.

"I did."

"Well, what's he like? What does he do?"

"He's an office worker," Stephen said, diplomatically leaving out the fact that Angelo hadn't seen the inside of an office since his had been destroyed. "His name is Angelo."

"A local?" Mom asked worriedly. "Does he know?"

"We met when I was in uniform, so yes."

"And was he-"

Stephen shrugged. "Just a normal person."

"I didn't think you'd go for someone like that."

Stephen remembered how he had muttered that it would be best to get rid of the Capitolians and replace them with someone else and cringed. "Why wouldn't I? He's a good man. Not everyone has what it takes to be a hero."

"How long have you been together for?" she asked.

"I don't know - a while. I didn't want you to get excited prematurely."

"So is there something to be excited about?" The hope was evident in her voice.

"No. But I'm going to his family's place for a New Year's meal."

"Is that how they do things in the Capitol?"

"In the world, more like. You invite your significant other over for a holiday gathering, and then go over to their place next time."

"Well, I wouldn't mind meeting that Angelo of yours. Oh, just wait until I tell your Dad! We've been waiting for so long!" She set down the phone and went to fetch Dad as Stephen could only sigh.

"So, Steph, I heard you finally found someone?" Dad's voice came through the line.

"I did."

"I'm very happy for you. You've been alone for so long!"

When was the last time Stephen had dated? It must have been at least two years ago. The child soldiers would have been horrified if they found out. "Well, I'm very happy with Angelo."

"What's he like?"

"I can relax with him," Stephen said. "It just feels… comfortable. Like I know I don't have to keep my guard up in any way, shape, or form."

"That's good."

"Yeah. I love him."

"That's good," Dad said, probably already imagining the wedding. "What did you say he was? An office worker?"

"Yeah. He's been working in the same place since he finished highschool."

"That sounds good," Dad said. "I know you like stability."

"I do," Stephen said quietly. "He's like an oasis of stability amidst the chaos of my work."

Dad chuckled. "There's not much stability in a young family, that's for sure."

"Dad, we haven't even talked about marriage yet, let alone children. And neither of us are young, exactly."

"Nonsense. Do you see how they describe the lawyers your age? 'Young forty-five-year-old lawyer'. Or a young fifty-year-old judge."

"That's because they're in the legal profession. I'm surrounded by soldiers young enough to be my biological children."

Dad chuckled. "Aren't they also surrounded by young secretaries? I've been hearing some very interesting gossip lately. Some lawyer from Six and an ugly secretary?"

So even in Thirteen, everyone knew that Goran Briscoe had written a poem for Fern Qiu in which he had compared her beauty to that of a lichen. In Stephen's experience, lichens were not exactly beautiful - but then again, neither was Qiu. Her scars went far beyond the kind that made one look dashing and brave and into the 'face looks like minced meat' territory. Either way, Qiu was sincerely flattered to have a lawyer twice her age known for his weakness for pretty faces chasing her of all people. "That's different."

"That's true. Still, though, I'm sure you're going to make an excellent father one day."

He wouldn't have said that if he had heard the jokes the guards told - imagine having Warden Vance for a father, he'd make you make the bed military-neat before allowing you to eat breakfast. Stephen was of the opinion that quite a few of these jokesters were in need of parents, but it would hardly be appropriate for a commanding officer to adopt a subordinate. Unless perhaps they were both demobbed and simply a man and an orphan?

"Er, I hope so. I'm already used to dealing with teenagers and their eccentricities."

"We look forward to meeting Angelo."

Angelo would have to brace himself, then.

If denying was a sport, Coll would have been a champion. While he hadn't descended to the depths of denying his signature was his, every single sighting of him in anywhere possibly damaging that did not have documental proof was point-blank denied. No, I was not in that prison, that was my representative and the prisoner misheard. No, that wasn't me at the plantation, I don't know where they got the idea. No, I didn't see the mines, I wasn't allowed past the train station, the witness must have heard a rumour. No, I wasn't at the conference, Talvian's lying.

There was one problem with that defense - it worked. If the only witness had their claims skillfully dismantled by Dr. Levy and Coll claimed he hadn't been there, then Dora saw no option other than to give the defendant the benefit of the doubt.

The other day, Wesley had called to brag about his promotion. He had also mentioned that most people believed Coll, though some - with the caveat that he deserved to hang for his stupidity. He himself said he thought Coll was mostly telling the truth, with a few embellishments. Dora thought Coll was lying, but she could hardly sentence someone because she suspected they were being untruthful.

Dora scrolled through the transcript, trying to see if there was something she had missed. Coll's cross-examination had ended early in the day, with Grass' defense taking up most of it. So far, Dora's tentative opinion was that the prosecution had offered convincing proof of enough of Coll's crimes to land him a long term of years, or perhaps even life. Most of the evidence had been centered on conspiracy, and Dora was loath to hang for conspiracy alone.

Grass, on the other hand, was not being presented in the best light. Not having any other options, Richard Jamieson had called as witnesses several defendants from the judges' trial, and they all eagerly seized the opportunity to exculpate themselves and blame Grass for everything.

It was hard to believe that the penultimate defendant was already testifying. It felt as if the trial had gone on forever and would continue to do so, but in reality, it was almost over. Dora felt like she had done nothing of value this entire time, simply sitting on the bench and occasionally chatting with the others about their impressions. She didn't want it to end, though. This was the longest trial she had ever presided over, and she couldn't get around the fact that she had gotten somewhat attached to the defendants.

Dora glanced out the window. It was dark, and windy on top of that - hardly weather she wanted to walk around in. Juan was visiting a senator from One, the assistants were all hard at work, Jack was going to be out visiting friends at this time of evening, and trying to call the kids was a crapshoot at best. Reluctantly, Dora climbed out from under the warm covers and went to the basement to ask the Rolands if they had bought more tea.

"Oh, good evening, Judge Rescu," Sean Roland said, looking up from sweeping the floor. "Is there something you need?" Eight-year-old Pulcheria stood behind the couch, eyes wide.

"How many times do I have to say? Call me Dora." This sort of obsequious manner got grating fast. "I was going to ask you if you had bought tea."

Sean put the broom against the wall. "We did. Would you like some?"

"Oh, if it isn't too much trouble-"

"Oh, no, not at all!" Sean looked at his daughter. "Run along now and join your parent."

She obeyed, pausing only to look at Dora suspiciously. Dora seldom saw the housekeepers' children, as Drazen and Sean did not want them to interact. She followed Sean into the kitchen, which was much smaller than the one on the first floor, but still very nice. It stood to reason that in such a luxurious house, even the servants would be living in comfort. "It's nice here."

Sean nodded. "This was the backup kitchen before. We used it when there was too much food to make in the main one."

"I thought this was yours."

Sean nearly dropped the kettle. "Not at all," he said, laughing. "Before, all we had was a single little bedroom that held a hot plate."

So they hadn't lived well. "I thought the basement was where the servants had lived."

"Oh, I wish. We used to live in these little rooms - they stand empty now, I was thinking they could be closets, but we don't have so much stuff anymore." He filled the kettle with water. "Ah well. Least we have a roof over our heads, and a good employer."

"I'm glad," Dora said, sitting down at the table. "Where did the others go?"

"Scattered all over the place." He put the kettle to boil and leaned against the counter. "The MG turned up. Kicked everyone but us out - because we were the housekeepers, they said, but I know it's because of the kids."

Dora felt ashamed that she had lived in the house for the better part of a year and barely knew who was making her food and doing her laundry. "You shouldn't stand there," she said. "Sit down."

"Thank you." Sean sat down across from her, glancing at the kettle. "You know, you're pretty good employers."

"My husband used to be a janitor," Dora said, feeling rather awkward.

Sean's eyes widened. "That must have been the scandal of the century!"

"Oh, no, I'm from a big city. It was only the scandal of the year."

Sean chuckled. "How did you even meet?"

"He was working in the Justice Building where I was an intern in law school."

"He must have been very handsome."

Dora winced. "Er, not exactly. Here." She showed Sean the photo in her wallet. "He was very cute back then, though the buck teeth ruined the effect."

"Forgive me for saying so, but with buck teeth, he must have looked like an anthropomorphic rat."

Dora looked at the photo. How was it that she looked at Jack and thought he was nice to look at when everyone else winced? "He did. I thought he was cute."

"If you think rats are cute," Sean quipped. "Um. Forgive me."

"No issue," Dora said. She was long used to people making fun of Jack's appearance. "I'm long used to it. First, everyone assumed I was just having fun with a lower-class boy - and speculated if I had lost my mind, to pick someone so ugly. Then, they assumed he must have been that good in bed. When we got married, nobody had any idea what to think. The most popular theory was that I was pregnant and wanted him to stay at home with the baby. It didn't enter their heads that a judge's assistant could love an ugly janitor."

Sean nodded sympathetically. "Your family must have been furious."

"Oh, they were. When we started dating, they assumed I was just messing around and would find someone proper and settle down eventually, and then the wedding invitation came in. Jack's family looked so horribly awkward at the upscale ceremony. I remember we were about to walk down the aisle - my mother was giving me away, and Jack's father was doing the same for him. My father-in-law was wearing this ancient suit, and my mother was looking disapprovingly at him, at Jack, at everything."

"A friend of mine was in a relationship with her employer once," Sean said. "He kept on promising to marry her, but married someone else and slept with her on the side." He shrugged. "He killed himself during the assault."

"Nasty situation."

"Oh, it is." Sean looked at the kettle. "Would you like anything to eat?"

"No, no, I just had supper."

Sean sighed. "It's crazy how much we overlooked just living our lives."

"I know. I never knew anything about what happened outside of the city."

"Same." He smiled, looking like a load had fallen off his shoulders. "There's something funny about Coll pretending to have been the same, but I can't define what."

It was less funny and more irritating. People who had been in the know would point to him to justify their own lies. "Are you following the trials closely?"

"As closely as I can. Mostly yours, though. Watched a bit of one of Grass' witnesses - was that flood of legalese on purpose?"

Dora hadn't realized it was a flood of legalese. "Probably not. I found it refreshing to have a witness with legal training. I knew exactly what they were talking about."

"I guess."

The kettle boiled. Sean stood up and went to make tea. "With anything?"

"No, plain."

"Here you go."

Dora carefully took the steaming cup. "Thank you. It must have taken you hours to find it at the black market."

"Helps to be your housekeeper," Sean said with a smile. "House gets PX goodies, and since you don't use half of them, we can buy more stuff with them."

"Have you seen the posters they've got tacked up all over the place?" The pencil drawings of emaciated children called on people to report black-marketers.

Sean shuddered, even though it was warm in the kitchen. "Yes - terrible. No wonder there's so many rubble-children, if the Community Homes aren't getting enough food."

"And yet, we still use the black market."

Sean shrugged and said nothing. Dora took a sip of her tea, which was excellent. There was something odd to how she was sitting here in warmth and drinking tea as others were shivering in the streets, but wasn't that just how she had always lived her life?

Miroslav sat next to the dock and listened to the front corner discuss Grass' defense in barely-audible whispers. The penultimate defendant did not seem outwardly upset by how her witnesses had turned against her, though she had railed about it the other day to Miroslav. With difficulty, he jotted down some observations. He hadn't eaten since yesterday. He'd eat this evening, when grabbing dinner with Mallow.

"How utterly predictable," Dovek said as Grass stressed her respect for the rule of law. If she had had any, she had kept that on the down-low. "Not to mention futile."

Miroslav had to agree with Dovek there. In the direct examination, Grass was trying to prove that everything she had done was legal, even though grabbing people off the street and tossing them into secret prisons had certainly never been legalized, and neither had the entire Avox program, a punishment that itself broke several laws.

Grass blamed the NCIA for 'certain cases when things went too far' - Talvian was not happy. Her justifications were calculated to appeal to the judges, but Miroslav didn't think these judges were the sort to fall for that. He yawned and wished he could rest his head on the barrier. He was completely drained.

"Hey, Oldsmith, you want to hear a funny joke?" Dovek asked his neighbour.

"Of course."

Dovek proceeded to tell the front corner a joke where the punchline was a judge accidentally getting a phone-sex operator instead of their superior on the line.

"So the person says - what do you mean, I'll be serviced by Angel? I asked for the Ministry of Justice!"

Miroslav noted that down. Even the defendants liked these kinds of political jokes - they had understood very well how the justice system had worked, perfectly fine with the injustice as long as it was pointed to 'rabble' and those who lost in backroom intrigues.

The guard standing about half a metre away smiled barely perceptively and stopped leaning to the side. Miroslav had barely been able to hear himself, to say nothing of that guard or the other side of the dock.

Grass' cross-examination was more of the same. Naquian Tyson of Five tossed legal terminology at her, and she tried to throw it back. Miroslav was able to follow it somewhat - Tyson was tearing her defense to tatters. He'd definitely need to pay her a visit tonight. Miroslav jotted down an observation Lux had made to Bright and looked around the courtroom.

Out of nowhere, he felt a sudden stab of insecurity. Was he really sitting in this courtroom, notebook in hand, in a uniform? Miroslav's hand went up to his shoulder, where the patch that denoted him as a medical officer in the army was sewn on. Looking at the audience, a few also seemed to be experiencing this surreality. Others just looked extremely bored.

Miroslav looked at the clock. Still half an hour until mid-afternoon break. Tyson was asking Grass about a decree her signature had been on. To someone who didn't speak English, it would have looked like a normal conversation. They spoke in even voices with no emotions betrayed. But the words they were exchanging were far from a normal conversation. Grass was on trial for her life, and she knew it.