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People like that always made me feel like I was saying too much just by existing. As if curiosity itself was a weakness to be punished. It makes me want to talk more, not less.

“Yes.” He makes a final mark on the page, then closes it and sets it to one side.

I take a bite of the bread, still watching him. “What are you writing?”

“Thoughts. Ideas.” He meets my gaze, those strange black eyes, still as pools, giving nothing away. I wonder if it’s a trick of the lightor if it’s how all eyes look here. “Understanding the patterns of the tower is essential.”

“Essential for what?”

There’s a slight pause, just long enough to make me wonder if I’ll get an answer.

“Survival.” He says it like it’s obvious, that survival is the baseline we’re both starting from. Not escape. Not understanding.Survival.

I study him as I eat. His expression reveals nothing. His posture is relaxed. But there’s something about him that exudes danger. Not in any obvious way, but in the feeling of being watched on a dark street, or something wrong when you enter a building.

“You never answered my question yesterday.” I finish the bread, and reach for the fruit. “About how long you’ve been here.”

“No. I didn’t.”

“Are you going to?”

“Would the answer change your situation?”

His deflection is irritating, but not surprising. I set down the half-eaten fruit, and face him properly. “Maybe not. But it might help me understand what I'm dealing with.”

“What you’re dealing with.” There’s a thread of amusement in his voice. “An interesting choice of words.”

I don’t bite. If I let myself get derailed, he wins. I push forward. “How does this place work? The tower? The food? The light that doesn’t have any visible power source?”

“Magic.”

“That’s not an explanation.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Not a helpfulone.”

He stands, moving across to the bookshelf. His fingers skim along the spines before selecting a volume bound in what looks like dark leather. “Some knowledge requires context to be useful or safe.”

“Thengiveme context.”

He glances at me. “In time.”

I almost laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because I don’t know what else to do with the knot twisting in my chest.

He’s impossible, but I don’t let it stop me. I keep asking questions, and he keeps deciding what is worth answering. He knows everything about this place, and I’m stuck throwing questions at him, and hoping that eventually something might crack.

I snatch up the fruit again, and bite down too hard. Juice bursts out, sweet and sticky, running down my chin. It tingles on my tongue, and for a second I hate how good it tastes. As though the tower is trying to make me comfortable while he keeps me in the dark.

When I’m done, I push away from the table and begin another exploration of the chamber. Yesterday, I was too overwhelmed, too focused on finding a way to escape. Today I’m calmer. I examine every inch of the curved walls for any sign of weakness or hidden mechanisms.

The wall is smooth beneath my fingertips, unbroken except for the bookshelves that seem to grow directly from it rather than being placed against it. I run my fingers along the edge of each shelf, testing for any secret triggers or hidden compartments.

“What are you looking for?” Sacha asks, leaning back on his chair.

“A wayout. Another door. Anything that might help get me home.” I don’t bother hiding my intentions. Why would I?

“And if there isn’t one?”