“Aren’t you afraid I’ll taint your pencil?” The words were out before I could stop them.

He chuckled. “You can keep it.”

I turned back to the blank canvas and stared at it for several moments. Gingerly, I divided my canvas into four parts and then did my best to make a rough sketch of the fruit bowl, paying careful attention to where each piece was in relation to the others. Partway through, I noticed the easel was too tall for me, further complicating things, but I couldn’t figure out how to adjust it. Seeing my struggles, the guy beside me leaned over and deftly lowered my easel to a more suitable height before resuming his own work.

“Thanks,” I said. The expectant canvas in front of me diminished whatever pleasure I might have felt from the friendly gesture. I attempted to sketch again. “I’ve seen my boyfriend do this a hundred times. Never thought I’d be doing it as some sort of twisted ‘therapy.’”

“Your boyfriend’s an artist?”

“Yes,” I said warily, uncertain if I wanted to engage in this topic. Thanks to Sheridan, it was no secret my boyfriend was a Moroi.

The guy gave a small snort of amusement. “Artistic, huh? Haven’t heard that one before. Usually when I meet girls like you—who fall for guys like them—all I ever hear about is how cute they are.”

“He is really cute,” I admitted, curious as to how many girls like me this guy had met.

He shook his head in amusement as he worked on his painting. “Of course. I guess he’d have to be for you to risk so much, huh? Alchemists never fall for the Moroi who aren’t cute and brooding.”

“I never said he was brooding.”

“He’s a ‘really cute’ vampire who paints. Are you saying he doesn’t brood?”

I felt my cheeks flush a little. “He broods a little. Okay . . . a lot.”

My neighbor chuckled again, and we both painted in silence for some time. Then, out of the blue, he said, “I’m Duncan.”

I was so startled, my hand jerked, causing my already bad banana to look even worse. In over three months, these were the first genuinely civil words anyone had spoken to me. “I . . . I’m Sydney,” I said automatically.

“I know,” he said. “And it’s nice to meet you, Sydney.”

My hand began to tremble, forcing me to set down the brush. I had made it through months of deprivation in the dark, endured the glares and name-calling from my peers, and somehow even survived being made medically ill without a tear. But this small act of kindness, this nice and ordinary gesture between two people . . . well, it almost broke me when nothing else had. It drove home how far away I was from everything—from Adrian, my friends, safety, sanity . . . it was all gone. I was here in this tightly regulated prison of a world, where my every move was governed by people who wanted to change the way I thought. And there was no sign of when I’d get out of here.

“Now, now,” said Duncan brusquely. “None of that. They love it when you cry.”

I blinked back my tears and gave a hasty nod as I retrieved my brush. I set it back on the canvas, barely aware of what I did. Duncan also continued painting, his eyes on his work as he spoke more.

“You’ll probably be able to eat when dinner comes. But don’t overdo it. Be smart about what you eat—and don’t be surprised if you find another favorite of yours on the menu.”

“They really know how to make a point, don’t they?” I grumbled.

“Yes. Yes, they do.” Even without looking at him, I could tell he was smiling, though his voice soon grew serious again. “You remind me of someone I used to know here. She was my friend. When the powers-that-be realized we were friends, she went away. Friends are armor, and they don’t like that here. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

“I—I think so,” I said.

“Good. Because I’d like us to be friends.”

The chimes signaling the end of class sounded, and Duncan began gathering up his things. He started to walk away, and I found myself asking, “What was her name? Your friend who was taken?”

He paused, and the look of pain that crossed his face immediately made me regret asking. “Chantal,” he said at last, his voice barely a whisper. “I haven’t seen her in over a year.” Something in his tone made me think she’d been more than a friend. But I couldn’t think much about that when I processed the rest of what he’d said.

“A year . . .” I did a double take. “What did you do to get here?”

He simply gave me a sad smile. “Don’t forget what I said, Sydney. About friends.”

I didn’t forget. And when he didn’t speak to me for the rest of the day and instead hung out with the other glaring and snickering detainees, I understood. He couldn’t show me any special treatment, not when our peers and the unseen eyes of superior Alchemists were always watching. But his words burned inside me, giving me strength. Friends are armor. I’d like us to be friends. I was trapped in this terrible place, full of torture and mind control . . . but I had a friend—one friend—even if no one else knew. It was empowering, and that knowledge helped carry me through another class full of Moroi propaganda and sustained me when a girl tripped me in the hall with a muttered, “Vamp whore.”

Our last class wasn’t really a class at all. It was a session called “communion time,” and it took place in a room they called the sanctuary, where apparently Sunday church services were also held. I made note of that because it meant I’d have a way to mark time. It was a beautiful room, with high ceilings and wooden pews. No windows, though. Apparently they were serious about cutting off our escape options—or maybe it would’ve simply been too uplifting for us to see the sun and sky every once in a while.