Page 162 of Breaking Rosalind
Miranda keeps her eyes downcast, and her posture slumped. I place a hand on her shoulder and murmur, “This is temporary. We’ll pull you out as I’ve dealt with that man.”
Rosalind bristles. It isn’t my place to make these promises, but Miranda can’t spend her life locked away.
She nods and offers me a tight smile that slices into me like a dagger. Once again, I feel like an asshole for straining their relationship.
We take a cab to the island’s north side, passing lush hills to reach a village where every other store either caters to the school or sells souvenirs. I would compare the street to something out of Harry Potter, but the school looms from a hill, casting everything in shadow.
Since Rosalind spent the morning ordering Miranda’s school supplies online to be delivered to her room, the only thing left for us to do is pick up a uniform and some casual clothes she’s going to need for the evenings and weekends.
The woman running the school outfitters ushers Miranda into a changing room and makes Rosalind and me wait in the parents’ seats. I don’t correct her because the thought of being anything to Miranda warms my heart.
Rosalind sits a chair away from me, but I scoot beside her and lean into her side. “Tell me about the Moirai. What’s the threat? How many assassins?”
She shifts further into the wall. “Sixteen full assassins, four team leaders, eighty support staff.”
“I thought they were bigger.”
“So did I,” she mutters. “I also thought there were offices all over the country and overseas. Now, I think that was bullshit.”
“What do you mean?”
“Every time someone doesn’t return from an assignment, our supervisor says they were promoted or demoted to another office.”
“But you think they’re dead.”
“Or abducted,” she says, her tone sharp with accusation.
“That’s what he said about you before your escape?” I ask.
She nods. “Britt told me he announced I’d been transferred to Zurich.”
My brows rise, and I glare at the side of her face, incredulous that my clever little assassin could allow herself to be hoodwinked. “How the fuck did you people not notice anything until now?”
“Operatives don’t just disappear into thin air,” she snaps. “They’re still available via email, text and on video conferences. They just never physically return to the local HQ.”
“AI?”
Her lips tighten, and she stares down at her lap. “The firm has enough material on us to make it seem like we’re in another location. It’s all just a huge illusion to make us think we’re invincible.”
“Is that why the asshole in HQ doesn’t give a shit about the hostages?”
The door opens, and Miranda appears from the changing room, dressed in an all-gray uniform that’s even more dour than what Roman had to wear on death row. And she understandably looks pissed.
“Turn around.” Rosalind says. “Is it comfortable?”
Miranda places her hands on her hips. “That’s not the point. Look at me.”
The woman sniffs. “Our uniform is designed to make all students equal.”
Rosalind rises off her seat. “What can we do to make the uniforms look more unique?”
“Individuality within the classroom is discouraged.”
“Answer the question,” I growl.
The woman flinches. “Each student is permitted hair accessories in the regulation colors, as well as stud earrings in white gold or silver, along with one discreet necklace.”
“Pack up the uniform and have them sent to the academy,” I say.