This is huge. This—maybe at the end of this loons’ hunt for clues and codes is the solution for the ship’s engine! In which case . . .

“We should wake him up,” I say.

Amy looks at me as if I’ve suggested we give the ship another Season.

“We could,” I insist. “Wake him. Force him to tell us what he knows.”

“He doesn’t deserve to be woken.” Amy spits the words out with more vehemence than I’d have expected.

“But Amy—”

“Besides,” she adds quickly, “we couldn’t trust him if we do wake him. This”—she jabs a finger at the vid screen—“might be the closest thing to truth we’ll ever get from him.”

I chew on my bottom lip. I know she wouldn’t like the way I think about Orion. That maybe he was partly right. Not in killing the others, not right like that. But right in attacking Eldest, in learning what he could about the ship and acting on that knowledge. That took chutz, and I sort of envy him for it.

I’m glad Amy can’t read my mind.

“This last video, it didn’t have a clue. I think we’re supposed to find the clue in this.” Amy picks up the canvas of Harley’s last painting and flips it over, showing me the sketch of the rabbit fields and the words Follow me down the rabbit hole.

“You think he hid something in the rabbit fields?” I ask doubtfully. After all, the rabbits don’t burrow holes, they make nests—they’re larger than the rabbits native to Sol-Earth, closer to hares.

“Yes, exactly,” she says. “Or, maybe he’s referring to another book.”

Ah. There it is. I’m not a chutz. Amy doesn’t actually think the clue is in the rabbit fields at all—she’s just trying to distract me. She’s probably already got the book she wants in mind.

But if she needs space, that’s the least I can give her, even if the space she needs spreads out between us like flooding water.

I watch as Amy silently prepares to face the people outside the safety of her room. She wraps a long length of material around her hair and twists it in a low bun. She drops her cross necklace under her tunic with one hand while reaching for a long-sleeved hooded jacket with the other. She does all of this in a quick, fluid motion, as if she’s done it many times before. I hate the way that hiding who she is has become a habit for her. But I don’t tell her not to bother.

We don’t really speak again until we’re on the path heading to the Recorder Hall. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?” I ask.

“I’m sure,” she says, and I don’t know if her voice is small because it has to weave its way through the shadows under her hood or if it’s because she’s hiding her fear. Whatever it is she’s not telling me, though, she’s determined to meet it herself.