She squatted next to twin drums marked with a biohazard symbol and threw up into the high grasses that grew between them. She felt slightly better when she stood up, but still weak. She stopped a half-dozen times during the walk back to the main building, earning a disapproving glance from one of the patrolling guards. Normally, she was grateful for the sheer size of Haven, for the tracts of open space and the walkways shaded by hickory trees and high palmettos, for the bright bursts of heliotrope in the flower beds, and the wild taro pushing between the cement paving stones, although she had names for none of them and knew the growth only in general terms: flowers, trees, plants. But today she was exhausted and wished simply to get back to bed 24.

She heard shouting as she entered D-Wing. As Lyra got closer to the dorm, she recognized one of the voices: Dr. Saperstein. She nearly stopped and turned around. God had never come to the bunks, ever.

But then she heard Cassiopeia shout, “Don’t touch them. It’s not fair,” and she kept going.

Up ahead, a nurse hurried out into the hall, skidding a little on the tile, and shot Lyra a strange look before scurrying in the opposite direction, leaving the dorm room door swinging open. Lyra barely caught it before it closed.

Then she stopped, her breath catching. Cassiopeia was on her hands and knees in front of Dr. Saperstein, trying to sweep up her collection of shells, which had been knocked off the windowsill and shattered. All of the individual drawings pasted to the wall behind her bed had been torn down, as if a hard wind had come ripping through the bunk, though it hadn’t disturbed anything else. Then Lyra saw he was holding them, crumpled together in his fist.

“Unbelievable.” He was shouting, but not at the girls. Instead he was yelling at the assembled nursing staff, including Nurse Dolly, who’d found Cassiopeia Scotch tape so they could hang the napkins in the first place. “Do you know how close we are to getting defunded? Do you want to be out of a job? We have a quota, we have protocols—”

“It was my fault,” Nurse Dolly said. “I didn’t see any harm in it.”

God took a step toward her, nearly tripping over Cassiopeia, who was still on the floor, crying softly. Lyra wanted to go to her but found she couldn’t move. God’s shoes crunched quietly on the carpet of shattered seashells.

“No harm in it?” he repeated, and Nurse Dolly quickly looked away. Now he was speaking softly, but strangely, and Lyra was more frightened of him than ever. “I’ve worked my whole career to see this project succeed. We’re doing some of the most important medical work of the past two decades, and yet—” He broke off, shaking his head. “Results. That’s what we need. Results. This is a research facility, not a playpen. Is that clear to everyone?”

No one spoke. In the silence, Lyra could hear her heart. Boom-boom-boom. Like the rhythm of the chanting that carried all the way to Spruce Island from Barrel Key. Monsters, monsters. Burn Haven down.

God sighed. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “We’re doing important work,” he said. “Good work. Never forget that.” He started to turn away and then stopped. “It’s better this way—for everyone.”

But Lyra knew, from the tone of his voice, that he didn’t mean the replicas.

God had to step around Cassiopeia again to move to the door. He barely glanced at her. Instead he kicked at a seashell, sending it skittering across the floor. “Someone clean up this mess, please,” he announced, to no one in particular. Lyra stepped quickly out of the doorway to avoid him.

For a long moment after he was gone, no one moved. Just Cassiopeia, still sorting through the remains of her collection, now reduced to shards and dust. Finally Nurse Dolly went to her.

“All right,” she said, crouching down and grabbing Cassiopeia’s wrist to stop her from reaching for another broken shell. “That’s enough now.”

It happened so quickly: Cassiopeia turned and shoved Nurse Dolly. “Get off me,” she said, and several people cried out, and Lyra took a step forward, saying, “Don’t.”

Maybe she hadn’t meant to push Nurse Dolly hard, or maybe she had. Either way, Nurse Dolly lost her balance and went backward. In an instant, Nurse Don’t-Even-Think-About-It had crossed to Cassiopeia and wrenched her to her feet.

“Wicked thing,” Don’t-Even-Think-About-It spat at her, keeping hold of her wrists. “How dare you touch her—how dare you, when we’ve fed and clothed and kept you all these years? The judgment of God will come for you, don’t you forget it.”

“You don’t own me.” Cassiopeia’s eyes were very bright and she was shaking. Lyra stared at her, filled with a sudden sense of dread. She didn’t understand what Cassiopeia meant—she didn’t understand where she’d found these words, this anger, and for a second she felt as if the room was splitting apart, revealing a dark gulf, a hidden fault line. “You can’t tell me what to do. I don’t belong to you. I’m real. I am.”

“You’re not anything,” Don’t-Even-Think-About-It said. Her face was mottled with anger, like the veined slabs of beef shelved in the kitchen freezers. “You belong to the institute, and to Dr. Saperstein. You can stay here, or you can leave and be killed.”

“I’ll be killed anyway.” Cassiopeia looked almost happy, as if she’d successfully passed her Cog Testing, and Lyra didn’t know why, knew that couldn’t be right. Goosedown, one of Cassiopeia’s other genotypes, stood hugging herself, as if she were the one getting yelled at. They were identical except for the vacancy of Goosedown’s expression. She’d had a habit, when she was little, of smacking her own head against the ground when she was frustrated, and she still had to wear diapers to sleep. “Isn’t that right? We’ll all die here eventually. What’s the difference?”