"Who else?"

There was an urgency to the conversation that grabbed my attention-that made me want to hear their words more clearly.

The stall planks were old and rotting and it was easy enough to find a knothole to peek through. There stood two men, facing the barn entrance, their backs to me. One was heavyset and wore a black suit. He dabbed a soiled hanky at the corners of his eyes. The other wore a soldier's uniform and, judging by the stripes on his sleeve, was a colonel. Possibly the camp overseer-Camp Freedom's version of Colonel Westbrook. In his hand, hanging limply by his side, was what appeared to be a letter.

"When did you get this?" the heavyset man asked.

"Just today."

"And you mean to follow it?"

"What choice do we have?"

The rain started coming down harder-in sheets-pounding the tin roof and making it impossible to hear. I realized if I wanted to hear more, I'd have to get closer. A wildly stupid idea.

I inched forward.

I whipped around the planking and eased into the next stall. And then the one after that. With each move I half expected to spy a guard with a semiautomatic.

". . . letter saying what I think it's saying?" the heavy man asked, dabbing his eye.

"No trace."

"Of what?"

"Everything. And everyone."

"But my research-Dr. Samadi's research . . ."

"Still needs to be completed."

The heavy man sighed. "And the girls?"

"Same as the Less Thans. Eliminated. Up to us, of course, as to how, but the important thing is we're thorough."

"Leave no trace?"

"Leave no trace."

The rain let up as quickly as it began, leaving in its wake gurgling gutters and dripping eaves.

"We can talk more about this in my office," the overseer said, and their footsteps splashed through the mud as they exited the barn.

For the longest time I remained pressed against the stall, my knees wobbly. A million questions raced through my mind. Who was this chancellor they were talking about? Why were they looking for a "resolution to the question of the Less Thans"?

And worst of all: did "eliminated" really mean what I thought it meant?

I edged my way to the barn door and stared at the camp. Just past the barbed wire fence glinting with rain, scores of female prisoners shuffled through the mud. They had absolutely no idea what was in store for them.

And I was the only one who did. Leaving a note was no longer enough. Hope had to know about this conversation. I had to tell her in person.

What I was thinking was crazy-downright suicidal. I was going to break into a prison camp. Not out of, but into.

Had I suddenly lost my mind?

HOPE FEELS A HAND on her shoulder, and in the drowsiness of dreams she imagines it's the hand of Book. He has come to wake her, to jostle her from sleep, to join her even. Her body quivers at the thought.

But when she opens her eyes, it's Scylla she sees. Grim Scylla. Gesturing that it's time for her shift. Hope nods gruffly and sits up.

On the cot next to her, Faith sleeps soundly. Hope doesn't bother to wake her. Maybe it's the shock at how thin her sister has gotten-her arms aren't much thicker than twigs and her eyes have sunken into her face.

In any case, Let her sleep, Hope thinks, tucking the blanket beneath Faith's chin.

She tiptoes through the maze of sleeping girls, her footsteps drowned out by pounding rain.

"All quiet?" Hope asks Helen, who stands watch.

Helen doesn't say a word; she just gives a tight-lipped smile and drops her eyes. Scylla, too, seems in a bigger hurry than usual.

What's going on? Hope wonders. She can't understand it.

She steps into the closet and descends into the tunnel. The rumble of the thunderstorm is replaced with the clinking of digging. Other sounds too. The whoosh of arrows rushing down the length of the tunnel. The Sisters have constructed a number of primitive crossbows and practice when they can. They're not half bad.

But when Hope steps onto the tunnel floor, everything comes to a dead stop.

"What's happening?" she asks.

Red-haired Athena steps forward, her face rigid. "This. This is what's happening," she says, her eyes motioning behind her.

There sits the Less Than named Book, his hands tied behind his back.

Hope's heart gives a lurch. On the one hand, she's happy to see him-she hasn't stopped thinking about him since the day they met. Her dream was proof of that. But at the same time, she can't figure it out. Why is he here? Why is he tied up?

"We found him snooping behind the mess hall," Athena says. "Said he needed to speak to you."

Hope feels the blood rushing up her neck. Athena goes on.

"Thank God we're the ones who found him and not the Brown Shirts." Athena's eyes narrow. "You know him?"

"I met him once, yeah."

"And you talked to him?"

"That's right."

"Where?"

"In the barn."

"And you didn't tell us?"

Hope tries to give a casual shrug, realizing her fellow Sisters are eyeing her with outright suspicion. Here she's finally worked her way into their good graces and now Book has made a mess of it.

"What's to tell?" Hope says. "He wanted to know how to get out of the territory and I told him."

Athena runs her hand impatiently through her hair. "And you didn't think that was worth sharing?"

"You weren't speaking to me, remember?"

"But later? When we showed you the tunnel?"

"Guess I forgot to mention it."

"Yeah, I guess you did."

Athena stares at Hope. Hope stares back. Finally, the red-haired leader turns to Book. "How'd you get in?"

"There's a small opening," he says. "In the fence. I noticed it the first time I was here."

"Why'd you come back?"

"I was going to leave a note for Hope."

"A note, huh?"

"Check my pocket if you don't believe me."

Athena nods to Scylla and the muscular girl fishes a slip of paper out of his front pocket. She hands it to Athena, who reads it aloud.

"'Headed to Brown Forest. See you there? Book.'"

All eyes turn to Hope. She tries to will away the flush creeping up her face.

"So you and Hope are pretty chummy," Athena says. Book doesn't respond. "Are you alone?"

"There're eight of us. We escaped from Camp Liberty."

The tunnel goes suddenly silent. All they can hear is the steady drip drip of water from the ceiling.

"Where are they now?"

"On their way to the next territory. I'm going to catch up with them."

Athena waves the note in his face. "And this? Why didn't you just leave it in the barn?"

"I was going to. . . ."

"But?"

"I overheard something-a conversation. I needed to tell Hope."

"Okay-here she is. Tell her."

"Alone."

Athena's jaw goes rigid. "You tell it to everyone or you tell it to no one."

Book gives an appealing look to Hope, but Hope just looks away. If he's hoping she'll stand up for him, she can't do it. Not under these circumstances. Not with her Sisters already thinking she's some kind of traitor.

Book begins to speak, telling them everything he heard. By the time he finishes, the Sisters' mouths are open, their eyes wide. Hope, in particular, feels like she's seen a ghost. The mention of her father has drained the blood right down to her feet.

"Did Colonel Thorason say when this elimination would begin?" Athena asks.

Book shakes his head. "But I got the feeling it'll be soon."

"So what do we do?" the one named Diana asks.

Athena hesitates only briefly. "Same thing as before," she answers. "Finish this tunnel and get the hell out of here."

"And him?"

"He's going to help us dig." She removes a knife, cuts through the cords that bind his hands, and yanks him to his feet. Then she turns to Hope. "He's your responsibility. Don't let him out of your sight."

"Come on," Hope says, crawling on hands and knees down the tunnel. Book follows. Dirt and water rain down from the ceiling. By the time they reach the far end, their backs and necks are covered with brown muck.

Still, that doesn't come close to the swirling mess inside her head. Book's come back. He wanted to talk to her. Ever since they first met and spoke-and touched-she's been praying a day like this could happen.

So why isn't she happy?

In part because he's put them in danger-all of them-and now her fellow Sisters regard her with a deeper suspicion than before. There's something else, too. Something she can't quite figure out.

She picks up two rusty butter knives and hands one to him.

"Here," she says, not meeting his eyes.

She adjusts the lantern and begins to dig, the dull edge of her knife biting into the wall. It's as much rock as it is dirt, and it takes a dozen sharp jabs to release anything of substance. Pebbles tumble to the ground.

She stops abruptly and turns to him.

"What're you doing here?" she snaps.