The envelope was cream-colored and heavy, and it had her other name on it.
Silveria stared at it for a long time before she dared to touch it. It lay on the breakfast tray between the toast and the jam, delivered by courier at eight that morning. Benson had carried it in with extreme formality, as though it might go off.
*Mademoiselle Luna Vale. By hand.*
Her stomach did a slow, cold roll.
Nobody knew that name. Nobody except Sasha, and one tired old fabric merchant in the Marseille harbor district who had never asked questions. Luna Vale was the girl who sent sketches to small boutiques under a private email, four years ago, in the nights after the Hitlers went to bed. She had made up the name in ten minutes, on the floor of her pantry bedroom, because she couldn't think of anything to call a person who did not exist.
