“Wake up, Hummingbird.” Deeps’ voice came over the intercom. “Time to hit the PR trail. You’re leaving for the orphan ranch in one hour.” It was my debut as Aveline soon-to-be-Hawkins, Defender of Orphans and complete fraud. I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing there was a way out of this photo op and Q&A with three dozen reporters and celebrity bloggers. By using those tapes to save myself, I was helping keep the Paternalist orphan scam in business. But there wasn’t a way out, and Deeps made sure I was up, dressed, and in the car on time. We drove down the freeway, me in back with Hawkins, my fingers rubbing circles on the skirt of my dress. The fabric was like shaved fur, the short hairs the color of graphite mixed with black that shifted direction unexpectedly. Leather trim shaped like black daggers radiated from around my neck. Sig wanted the cameras to fix on me, but the last thing I wanted was to be seen, especially by Yates. “Where’s Sigmund Rath?” Hawkins asked Ho.
