Of course, surely the great Daniel wouldn’t answer his own door—this is a . . . a secretary, an aide, something. But when he sees us his mouth tips up in a smile that crinkles the sides of his eyes. “Tavia. At last.” I stare at him in confusion, but the man doesn’t seem to notice. “Logan. Nick of time, eh?” The sheer absurdity of his statement-that-might-be-a-joke catches Logan off-guard, and he gives out a strange sort of cough-laugh. “Please, please, come in,” the man says, holding the door wide. “I’m Daniel.” My heartbeat speeds up at the now-certain revelation that the man before us is in the fact the leader of the Curatoria, and I half expect to hear the beeping sound that plagued me while trapped inside the Reduciate prison. I’m somewhere else. I’m safe. To distract myself, I glance around the office.
