Maulana rose. The beginnings of a grin inched across his face. His door chimed and began to open before he could respond. Jaha walked in with her strident pace, though not out of breath.

“I hope I’m interrupting,” she said.

“I trust you have a good reason for barging in here,” Maulana said.

“You mean some Griot Circle business. Aw, nah, baby. Maya let me know things were getting a little heated and thought I could use some company for a walk. If you don’t mind me taking Wachiru off your hands.”

“We think Maulana was about to have all that his hands could handle,” we said.

“No worries.” Maulana spread his hands, his smile broad and toothy. “We were done here. I think we know where each other stands.”

“We appreciate you.” We allowed Jaha to guide us out.

“And I, you, Wachiru,” Maulana said to our back.

Jaha hooked her arm into ours as we strolled. A winding path of cemented regolith created a walkway around the Dreaming City library. The brilliant colors of the upinde mvua fields were unmistakable. Hedera helix climbed the nearby walls. Bowls bobbed above it at different levels, creating a floating hanging garden. Ezeji was five when he and his classmates did the installation. The goal was to create a painting using flowers as the palette. The spider plants’ greenish-white flowers spilled out in a floral staircase. They had been genetically modified for their particular shade of seafoam green. The Aglaonema bushes lined the footpath. Both delicate and exotic, they required constant care. Taxing and exacting work, but they found that if they allowed kids room and excuse to play in dirt, they’d do it every day.

We walked surrounded by people who cared about us and about one another. Children who danced to our music, even looked up to us. Other plants—small Chamaedorea palms, Song of Jamaica plants—helped sweeten the air. Yet the odd combination of smells slammed us, more like sun-ripened manure. No one else offered any comment. We found out that certain genestreams reacted poorly to Chamaedorea, the way some people tasted cilantro as soap. It was a pretty flower, though.

“Why did you go there in the first place?” Jaha asked.

“Answers.”

“To what questions?”

“We’re still trying to make sense of what happened to our Pops. And the attack on me and Amachi. What if there’s a plot against Muungano? So we started wondering who would have to gain from dissent among us?”

“Sweet baby.” Jaha placed her hand on his arm as if comforting a hapless child. “O.E. would love nothing more. LISC leadership alone would fill my top ten guesses.”

“We know. We just fear…”

“What?” She withdrew her hand.

“Someone closer to home.”

“Who?” She stared at us, her gaze hardening into icy calculation. “Not Maulana.”

“It was a thought. Sow enough discord, and his becomes the only voice … strong enough to hold the center.”