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been unconscious. Probably on purpose.

    Refocusing on the issue, he mentally added up columns of numbers in his head to ensure they still had enough money in the budget. “An undercover officer, I hope. Surely you don’t need a Breather for this kind of job.”

    “I prefer not to use Breathers.” Once more, something about Smyde’s tone made everything he said condescending. “But she’s smart. And independent. I didn’t think she’d be easily fooled. We need a subtler touch than a regular undercover officer can provide.”

    Largan glanced over the images in the file. The girl looked to be in her early twenties. Not unattractive, although oddly girlish in those two long braids. Orphaned early. Raised by her grandfather. The only family she had left was an invalid sister.

    Largan stared down at the photograph. There was something almost disturbing in the large, sober gray eyes and firm chin of the well-shaped face. He sighed, cringing at the inevitable depletion of the funds. “A Breather, then. Fine. Which one did you hire?”

    “Mikel. He made first contact last night and claims it won’t be long before he has something to report.”

    Largan cursed under his breath at the familiar name.

    Smyde continued, “I wish we didn’t need to use such…such creatures.”

    Largan raised his eyebrows—he’d always known Smyde hated the less traditional outgrowths of Union power, but he’d never voiced it so openly before.

    He’d said a subtle touch was needed, however. If anyone was subtle, it was Mikel. The Breather was as seductive and charming as they came.

    Largan turned to his monitor and touched a symbol on his touchpad. “I’ll make note of the fact that Mikel is in the city on a job. Let me know if he turns up anything.”

    Smyde left, looking satisfied with himself.
     
    Largan looked back down at the picture of Riana Cole. He wondered what had prompted her to get involved with the Front. She was good at her job—steadily moving up in the ranks of Readers. She’d never broken any laws or regulations.

    Flipping through a few more pages, he noticed that she could also read the Old Language, the one spoken before the Cataclysm. Experiencing a new spark of interest, a more intense one now, he studied the page thoughtfully.
     
    There weren’t many people left who knew how to read the Old Language.

    He reached for his phone and dialed Smyde, who must have barely made it out of the building. “She was raised by a grandfather?” Largan asked. “That wouldn’t be Marshall Cole, would it?”

    “Yes. That’s right. Another strike against her. She’s the granddaughter of that treacherous mystic.”

    Largan ignored the insult, having known to expect it. Marshall Cole, once an asset to the Union, had turned into an anathema to the more rigorous proponents of Union values. But that didn’t mean he was insignificant. “I understood his whole family was killed.”

    “His son and daughter-in-law were killed in the raid on the Eastern bank, and my understanding was a story was widely circulated that claimed the entire family was killed. But the two granddaughters survived. Why does it matter?”

    Again, Largan didn’t bother to reply. “Keep me in the loop on any developments concerning the Cole woman.”

    He hung up then, his mind buzzing as he sorted through possibilities. There was a banging on his ceiling—this building was constantly under construction—and the rhythm of the pounding seemed to match the pulsing of his growing excitement.

    He wondered about Riana Cole. He knew as much about Marshall Cole as anyone. Why hadn’t he known a granddaughter had survived? If she’d inherited even half of her grandfather’s intelligence and creativity, she would be unusually gifted. Why would she have risked everything for a cause as meaningless as the Front?
     
    Mikel had been the right choice. She appeared to be clever and competent, but Riana couldn’t hope to keep her secrets. Mikel was