Chapter 9: Rooftop

For three seconds nobody in the Harborline ballroom breathed.

Then the phones all moved at once, and the whole room exploded.

"Did you see that?"

"He said no!"

"Is this part of the show?"

Gordon Bowditch stood up from Table 1 and did not run.

He raised both hands and smiled at the crowd.

"A little theatre, ladies and gentlemen," he said, in a voice that carried perfectly. "Our guests are adventurous tonight. Please enjoy the canapés."

A technician killed the stage microphone.

Tristan stood in the spotlight with his mouth slightly open.

His authority code was still hanging in the air, unanswered, in front of four hundred witnesses.

Ansel handed him back the dead microphone, politely, and walked down the steps.

His hands were shaking.

Micah met him at the bottom and took one of them.

"Don't look at anyone," Micah said. "Come with me."

"Where?"

"Up."

They went through a service door behind the bar, past a startled waiter, and up four flights of concrete stairs.

At the top, a steel door opened onto the hotel roof.

Cold harbour air hit Micah's face.

The city spread out below them in black glass and orange light, and the water far beneath was dotted with the lights of ferries.

Ansel walked to the parapet and gripped the rail with both hands.

Smoke curled off his collar, thin and grey.

"Your temperature is spiking," Micah said, coming up behind him.

"It hurts."

"I know."

"It hurt in my head. It felt like a hand closing."

He turned around.

His eyes were bright gold, almost white.

"I said no to him in front of everyone, Micah. I said no, and I said it in my own voice, and nobody stopped me."

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