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I came for the painting. I should get it and go. I scan the room, looking for the one painting that belongs to me. There, there, under the window—the black black sky. The silver-white sprinkles of stars. The orangey-gold koi swimming around his ankle. Harley.
I rush across the room toward the canvas, and my hip knocks into a ruler on the edge of the table, sending the papers stacked on top of it flying. I drop to my knees and try to gather as many as I can. I can see sketches—a girl swimming, a girl floating, an empty pond filled with belly-up fish—but while I want to take my time and look, really look, at the drawings, I feel like I shouldn’t, that it’s forbidden to even be touching them.
“What are you doing here?” a voice hisses from the doorway, and all my fears are confirmed. The wrongness of being in this room tugs at my navel.
I look up. Victria is outlined by the light of the hall. She steps inside, and a blanket of shadows falls over her.
“Well?” From the angry impatience of her voice, I can tell that whatever happened between us in the library doesn’t count. What counts is that I’ve violated the sanctity of one of her only friends’ rooms.
She clutches a small leather-bound book so tightly that her knuckles are white. I can’t understand this girl—she hates me for telling her about the sky; she ignores the fact that I saved her from Luthor; she despises me for just being in Harley’s room.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she spits out.
“I know—I—”
Victria crosses the room and snatches the papers from my hand, gripping them so forcefully that the thin sheets crumple and a few rip. “These aren’t yours!”
My eyes narrow. “This is. ” I draw the canvas closer to me. It is mine.
“Whatever. ” She gingerly starts to pick up Harley’s scattered drawings. I could not be more clearly dismissed.
I start to leave, lugging the canvas with me. When I turn around at the door, Victria’s ignoring me. She’s replaced the papers on the table and is smoothing one down. I glance over her to see the sketch. It’s supposed to be Elder, I think, but he looks older, and there’s a smirk on his charcoal lips that I’ve never seen on Elder’s real lips. It’s odd for Harley’s drawings not to be spot-on.
She doesn’t notice me as I step closer. I have never seen that look of longing on Victria’s face before. I haven’t seen it on anyone before—except when Harley told me about Kayleigh.
“Victria?” I ask.
She jumps, jerking her hand and sending Harley’s sketch of Elder skidding across the table. “You have your painting, now go!”
I study her face. Her eyes flick once more to the table and the drawing, betraying the love I see hidden there.
I go without saying another word.
It’s not until I’m back in my room, dipping the brush into the thick white paint, that I realize the sketch wasn’t of Elder at all. The wrinkles at his eyes, the crooked twist of his lips—that had to be Orion.
15
ELDER
Doc coms me as I leave the Recorder Hall.
“Where are you now?” he asks.
“Recorder Hall. ”
“Good. Come out to the wall near the garden. ”
“Why?”
“I can’t explain it. Just come on out. ”
“But—I wanted to speak with . . . ”
“Speak with Amy?” he asks, biting off each word.
Yes. I did. All Bartie’s outburst and the slashed painting have done is remind me that Amy is one of the few people on this whole frexing ship who isn’t waiting for me to fail. I have to apologize—again—for calling her a freak. I want to tell her that I don’t care what she needs to feel safe on Godspeed, I’ll give it to her. I want to tell her that if the only thing that will bring the smile back to her eyes is waking up her parents, maybe we should do it. And even if I know I can’t actually tell her that last bit, I want to look her in the eyes and make sure she knows that I would if I could.
My silence is answer enough for Doc.
