They were on a terrace above a long drop of gardens when he tested that idea. A shallow basin sat in the center of the stone with small white cups floating in it. People were lifting them out, drinking, and setting them back with happy little splashes. Elias picked up one cup, turned it over, and found no seam, no mark, no sign of where it had been made.

“Lina,” he said.

She glanced up from the basin. “You say my name hard.”

“I’m sorry.” He softened it. “Can you help me with something?”

That changed her posture at once. Not much. Just enough to show him the difference between passive listening and being asked to act. She came closer. “Help what?”

He held out the cup. “Take this to that table. Leave it there. Then come back and tell me what happens.”

She frowned, not at the task but at the point of it. Still, she took the cup and walked across the terrace. Elias watched her set it down beside a tall dish of blue flowers. She returned at once, hands folded loosely before her.

The woman returned, folded her hands loosely before her, and said, “It sits.”

Elias said, “Good. Now wait.”

She waited with him. Two others passed by. A thin panel in the table leg opened with a soft click. A small arm slid out, lifted the cup, drew it inside, and shut again.

Lina gave a quick breath of surprise. Not fear. More like the sting of cold water.

“You’ve seen that before,” Elias said.

She nodded once. Elias said, “Yes.”

Elias said, “But you weren’t looking at it before.”