More than anything, Sonia hates how much he confuses her. Her interpersonal compass, it's usually solid, but with one fell swoop Byerly has thrown it into utter disarray. She doesn't know what to make of that weary smile, that posture. It doesn't align with the Byerly she'd last seen, who'd held her and been so painfully honest, only that had all been a lie.

Be angry, Piotr had said. She didn't want to. She still doesn't want to. All traitors are thieves by nature, he'd said. When they turn on you, they take something away from you, too.

It's the hurt, not the anger, that wells up in her chest, reaching her eyes as she pushes herself up from the cot. The cell is small. It takes a scarce few paces to cross the room to him and hit him across the face with her open palm with a choked little noise. And because it's hurt, not anger, that drives her, it's more than just her palm that stings as soon as it registers.