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She certainly looked the part, she thought, catching sight of her reflection in her dressing mirror. Lying on the ash-caked boards of the balcony had helped; she wiped her sleeve across her face and tangled her hands through her hair, and admired the result. Looking like them wasn’t enough, though, and she knew it. She had to be like them. A little, at least. What did she know about rioters? They steal things. They blow things up. Well, the blowing up was out, but there was plenty here she could “steal.” She realized that some of the things she’d put in the safe were more susceptible to heat than the papers her parents had entrusted to it. Those could go with her, and if she made it through, she’d have something to start over with, if she needed it. The oldest pieces, the most fragile, wouldn’t look as good to common thieves, but she might be able to sell them as antiques in their own right. Something to carry them. She found a pink drawstring bag on her desk, the wrapping from a family friend’s present of cookies. It still smelled faintly of sugar and marachaile. She scooped her selections into it, picked up the heap from her mother’s collection, and decided not to clean up. Let them think someone’s already ransacked the place, she thought, and went back to the kitchen.