Page 94 of Winterveil

“Our enemies,” Klaudia repeated, “or yours?”

“Don’t make me doubt your loyalty to your adopted homeland, Ms. Shimonova.”

“Resorting to nativism to make your point?” Julian’s tone was like acid. “I thought you were better than that, Deckard.”

“That’s enough,” Deckard said sharply. “For Ms. Shimonova’s record-breaking performance alone, I’ll do you a kindness and grant one night’s uninterrupted sleep before we begin the second and final phase of your simulation.”

“Second?” Nadiya echoed. Giselle’s stomach dropped.

The faintest glimmer of pleasure touched Deckard’s expression. Or maybe it was more of an indulgent contempt.

“Of course. You still have a mission to complete.” And then, in a portentous voice, he quoted, “ ‘Once more unto the breach.’ ”

“I believe that line ends with ‘dear friends,’ ” Julian said.

Deckard’s almost-smile evaporated. “Don’t press your luck.”

The darkness was complete as they were escorted back into Traumstadt, the false moon still obscured. Giselle was so weary she could hardly keep her head aloft.

“Get some rest,” Deckard said, directing them into the lodge. “You’ll need it.”

“Any further guidance for us?” Klaudia asked.

Deckard smiled thinly. “Talk to Crispin.”

They all looked over at Crispin, who rubbed his throat and winced.

“Sorry,” Nadiya mumbled.

“One night,” Deckard reminded them. “And then I’m expecting a performance as immaculate as Ms. Shimonova’s from all of you.”

With that, he was gone, as cryptically as he had come. The door to the lodge shut behind him. The five of them stood in the great room, hunched by an almost tangible exhaustion.

Julian coughed weakly. Without his glasses, the dark circles under his eyes were visible and deeply hued. To Crispin, he said, “Any advice?”

Crispin’s gaze flickered—pointedly to Nadiya and then back to Julian. In truth he looked as tired as the rest of them, his skin even more sallow than usual, and with a ring of bruises blossoming around his neck. Giselle felt an unexpected tug of pity.

“Deckard left a record player in every room,” Crispin said. “It’s common practice for clandestine officers under surveillance to—”

“Yeah, got it,” Nadiya cut in.

Crispin nodded and shrank back. Giselle felt another flicker of sympathy. He couldn’t be any older than the oldest among them—Julian, who was nineteen—which meant he must have come into the CIA’s employ when he was even younger than Giselle. She couldn’t quite imagine the circumstances that would have brought a teenage boy here, but she was sure they weren’t pleasant. If Crispin had endured even half of what they had during his training . . .

“You should all get some sleep,” Klaudia said. “We don’t know when Deckard will be generous enough to allow us another respite.”

“What about you?” Giselle asked.

Klaudia’s eyes had the glassiness of exhaustion, but her voice was clear when she said, “I’ll be up in a minute. I want to check something in the files first.”

“You’re the reason we made it out of there,” said Julian, “and the reason Deckard is giving us a break at all. You deserve to rest.”

“I’m fine,” said Klaudia.

Her flat tone left no room for argument. Giselle watched Nadiya’s shoulders slump, her black hair falling in glossy curtains around her face.

“All right,” Giselle said. “But you need to sleep eventually.”

“I will.”