Faax took her time filing Stefaan’s findings in one of the minimum-security storage vaults on the upper floor. If anyone had asked her what was taking so long, she would’ve told them she was brushing up on some of the previous projects undertaken by Witt, which was true. No one else came in.
Over her weeks at Witt, she’d been able to finagle her way down to the position of mere errand girl, running files up and down stairs and transcribing dictated data. The other doctors thought she was insulted by such a demotion, and Faax acted indignant enough about it, but Syrina couldn’t be happier. She never thought she’d have so much time to pursue her own goals. This was the ninth time she’d lingered here under the cracked plaster ceiling, among filing cabinets that smelled of old paper and polis
