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wasn’t letting appearances and political considerations sway him from
     a course we needed to chart. Of course, now that we were leaving the GP, those considerations
     were even more flexible.
    “We’re on board,” Ethan said. “Perhaps we could review the photograph Eve took outside
     the registration center?”
    “I’ll do you one better,” Noah said. “I’ll escort you to the spot.”
    * * *
    Ethan advised Malik and Luc of our plans and ensured the party was well tended. Rose
     went back to her group of Rogue friends, and we met Noah in the House’s foyer. We
     were all dressed severely in black, and we looked displaced among the House’s holiday
     decorations.
    “Do you need a ride?” Ethan said, but Noah shook his head.
    “I have things to take care of when we’re done. I’ll meet you there?”
    Ethan nodded; Noah had already given us the address of the registration center, a
     spot in Chicago’s Little Italy neighborhood near the University of Illinois at Chicago.
     “We’ll be right behind you.”
    Ethan, being a senior House staff member, had a coveted parking spot in the House’s
     basement. He wouldn’t have to dig his car out of a Chicago snowstorm, have someone
     hold a spot on the street as he neared the House, or attempt to parallel-park between
     gigantic cars and a mountain of snow that cemented into a secondary curb.
    We took the main staircase to the basement, and he keyed his way into the garage.
     I stopped short in the doorway.
    In Ethan’s parking spot, which an Aston Martin had temporarily filled, sat a shiny
     two-door coupe with a deep red finish and grinning grille.
    “What is that?” I asked.
    Ethan
beeped
the security system and walked to the driver’s side. “This, Merit, is a Bentley Continental
     GT.”
    “It looks brand-new.”
    “It is.”
    I glanced around the parking area; his Aston Martin was nowhere to be found. “Did
     something happen to the Aston Martin?”
    “No,” he said, frowning. He opened the door. “The Aston just didn’t do it for me.”
    Ethan had lost his former car, a sleek Mercedes convertible, in an unfortunate run-in
     with the Tate twins before their separation. Tate had thrown the car off the road—with
     us inside—and the Mercedes hadn’t survived the fall.
    I understood well the bond between car and driver. I was still driving the boxy orange
     Volvo I’d had for years. It wasn’t much, but it was paid for, and it got me where
     I needed to go.
    Still. He’d had an Aston Martin. A brand-new, right-off-the-lot Aston Martin delivered
     to him by a very pleased salesman.
    “All due respect, a brand-new Aston Martin ‘didn’t do it’ for you? That’s James Bond’s
     car.”
    “I’m no James Bond,” he cannily said. “I loved the Mercedes. It fit me perfectly.
     The Aston just . . .
didn’t
.”
    “So you traded up?” I asked, walking toward the car and opening the door. “Do you
     treat your relationships in the same way?”
    “Yes,” Ethan gravely said. “And I spent four hundred years shopping before I met you.”
    It was comments like that that kept me around, even when Ethan was being otherwise
     insufferable. He popped them into conversation just often enough to make my heart
     melt.
    “Then by all means,” I said, “let’s see what she can do.”

CHAPTER THREE
    FOUNDING FATHERS
    W e drove to Little Italy, which was southwest of downtown Chicago.
    In all fairness, the Bentley handled like a dream, which I suppose was the point of
     spending so much money on the car. Along with impressing your friends and intimidating
     your enemies.
    The street Noah had identified was quiet, a weekday neighborhood of small businesses—banks,
     tailors, Realtors’ offices. Most of the buildings were stand-alone and three or four
     stories tall, their windows bearing signs promising future condos and apartments.
    As we neared the street number Noah had given us, Ethan pulled the Bentley into a
     parking slot in front