“What if I don’t want to go?” I asked, but the set of his lips, so like Abba’s, silenced me.
“Abba said you have to. It’s a mitzvah. He’s gone to ring the bells. He asked me and Hannah to walk you to the field.”
“I can walk by myself,” I said, giving my head a firm shake. But Ronen only shrugged.
“Abba said we should take you.”
I was nearly old enough to earn a wage—old enough, almost, to be wed. But our father still didn’t trust me to walk from the districts out to the pastures under the cover of night. And I knew there would be no fighting with Ronen about it. He always lived just enough within our father’s rules to avoid scrutiny. After Momma died, they even stopped bickering, like her death had drafted a peace between them.
But not between us. There was never any friendship between my brother and me.
“Fine,” I said, gritting my teeth. I reached into the bottom of my dresser for my funerary clothes—an old set I’d inherited from Momma, but they would have to do—and huffed off toward the bathroom to change.
Another funeral, another white-wrapped body lowered into the ground. I stood at the back with Rachel, chewing my nails.
We went together to the edge of the grave, knelt in the dirt, and threw handfuls of black soil down. When I rose up from the grass, a pair of bright green eyes caught mine. Van Hofstadter. He was standing at the other end of the unmarked grave, holding a child in his arms. It must have been his son—red hair curled up from his neck, a shock of color in the dim predawn light. But even though Van clutched the little boy to his chest and even though his wife leaned against him, his attention was fixed on me.
Those eyes flared a wild warning.
“Are you okay?” Rachel asked, leaning close. She went to grab my hand, but I didn’t want to let her see how mine was shaking. I pretended not to notice, wiping my palm against my trousers.
“Last night,” I said, “I saw him, with Mar Jacobi, on the way home from work.”
“Oh, that’s so sad,” she replied. “That must have been right before he died, right?”
I turned to look at her. Her eyes were large and shining. Everything was so simple for Rachel—black and white.
“Must have been,” I said quickly as I started off across the field.
After the funeral Rachel asked me to go with her to Mar Jacobi’s quarters to pay our respects.
Normally, it wouldn’t have even been a question. No matter how many times my father had tried to force me to become a proper, respectful daughter, I just wasn’t that kind of person. I was bored at weddings, at parties, at harvest celebrations. At school I sighed and doodled in the margins of my notebooks. And funerals were even worse. Everyone always stared at me sidelong, waiting for some morsel of wisdom to spill from the mouth of the girl whose mother had died.
But this funeral was different. I had business to attend to.
As soon as we stepped through the door, Rachel rushed forward, kissing the wet cheeks of Giveret Jacobi. Rachel shoved a small box of homemade cookies into the woman’s hands. I don’t know when she’d had time to bake. The sun had just barely begun to rise.
But the curtains were drawn tight, bathing the corners of their quarters in inky black. Even the mirrors were covered, holey sheets thrown over them. Mar Jacobi’s children sat on low stools. Their round faces were blank, as stiff as concrete statues. I saw his daughter, a fawn-haired child who picked at the embroidery on her woven cushion. I suddenly felt like the metal floor was sinking beneath me, like the entire ship had tipped right out of space. Of course, that was impossible. I crouched down beside her.
“I’m sorry,” I offered, shrugging as I said it.
“Why?” she asked. Then she looked at me, her gaze piercing. Her eyes were pale gray, nothing like her father’s. “You didn’t kill him.”
“That’s right,” I said after a moment, swallowing the lump in my throat. It was almost funny. I had said those words myself many, many times before.
I didn’t find what I was looking for in the Jacobis’ dark, crowded quarters. I thought he would be there—Van Hofstadter, the librarian’s copper-haired student. But there was no sign of him with the other men, who shared raunchy stories of Benjamin’s younger days. And he didn’t stand beside the old ladies who clucked their tongues over losing such a fine citizen so young. Finally Rachel leaned forward, squeezing my hand.
“I have to go,” she said. Her mouth formed an apologetic smile. “I need to get ready for work, you know?”
I did know. I had work to attend to too. But for some reason I couldn’t bring myself to take off for the labs, not yet. Not with so many questions weighing heavy on my heart.
“I’ll see you soon,” I told her.
After she left, I went outside and sat down on the Jacobis’ front steps to watch dawn light up the districts. Someone’s rooster had started crowing. Sparrows were waking to life in the barely budded trees that lined the starboard streets. The birds didn’t know any better, that the sky overhead was false, that we’d carried them so, so far away from home.
“Terra Fineberg.”
I hadn’t even realized how my gaze had strayed to the yellowing ceiling panels, until Van’s voice called out to me. I swiveled my head toward the sound. He stood right at the end of the Jacobis’ front walk, looking like a ghost in his mourning clothes. His long hair veiled his face, but I could see that he’d been crying. His eyes were sunken and ringed with red.
“You didn’t even know Benjamin,” he said. A note of accusation rang in his voice. I stumbled to my feet, fixing my hand against the metal railing, whose surface flaked off paint beneath my palm.
“I knew him,” I protested, rushing down the steps. “We spoke the other day on the lift. He wanted me to come see him in the library.”
Van pressed his lips together. “He wasn’t supposed to do that. You’re just a child.”
“I’m not a child!” But my words were whined. I think we both knew how false they were.
“You’re not sixteen yet, Talmid Fineberg.” And then he added, in case I had any doubts: “And you didn’t see anything last night in the engine rooms.”
Now my cheeks burned. I lifted my chin, looking squarely at Van. He wasn’t very tall, though his shoulders were broad, imposing beneath white cloth. “I did see,” I whispered, as much to myself as to Van. “I know I did.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He started taking wide steps toward the door.
I waited until his hand closed around the doorknob to say it. Standing tall, I threw my tangled hair over my shoulders.
“Liberty on Earth.”
He froze, his fingers tense against the door. But he didn’t turn or speak.
“Liberty on Zehava. I heard, Van. I heard him say it. Treason. Those words are treason. They taught us in school that—”
“Shh!” Van gave a hiss. His eyes were narrowed down to slivers, jaded flints like broken glass. But then the clock tower bells rang out nine o’clock. At the sound, low and droning, Van’s stiff posture began to soften. He started to shake his head.
“Van? Terra?”
We both turned. Standing on the street behind me was Koen Maxwell. His pale cheeks were ruddy, his shaggy hair disheveled. He’d already changed out of his mourning garb, dressing himself in the familiar wool and corduroy of the clock keeper. The heavy coat fit him poorly. His long, pale wrists showed beneath the cuffs.