“No. Don’t shift the blame. I don’t care about the Council. They’re just waiting for some prophesied baby to be born instead of making anything happen themselves.” I walk over to his shelf of provincial records and run my hands along the sleeves. Elvis, the Beatles, Nirvana. In Florence, Michael had confessed to being scared of letting people down by questioning what he’d been taught is right. The memory pricks at me now, surprisingly painful.

“You’re not like them,” I say. Unsure if it’s a statement or a plea. “Corrupted by Maker propaganda, fearing an overblown enemy. You know that most provincial people aren’t a threat.” He’s followed me, and when I turn, he’s so close that I have to look up to meet his gaze. “You say you’ve tried? What have you actually done?” His jaw is clenched, hands balled into fists by his sides. “Or do you just bite your nails and then keep playing the role of the headmaster’s perfect poster boy until the next time you’re inconveniently reminded that you should feel guilty?” He swallows, his eyes blazing.

Maybe it’s not fair of me to say these things to him. After all, I’m just as experienced at ignoring the pain of the world to assuage my own guilt. But I’m ready to wake up.

We stare at each other in silence. We’re standing too close. He parts his lips as if there’s something he wants to say. I feel the huff of his frustrated breath, but he swallows his words down. I watch his Adam’s apple travel the column of his throat, and even now a part of me wants to touch it. My eyes flick to his lips, and the way his teeth sink into his bottom lip makes me think he wants to touch me, too. But when I slip past him and stalk to the door, he doesn’t stop me.

I’ll meet this Hilde, but I don’t think she’ll change my mind. The Families had the right idea in sending me here, in wanting a share of the Makers’ knowledge. And I’m over my apprehension about deceiving them. They don’t deserve my guilt.

19

A couple of days later, I’m in the library car of the Atlas, exploring the stacks. Michael sits stiffly, his right knee bobbing up and down faster than a heartbeat.

This is the first time we’ve been alone together since our fight, and I’m awkward and unsure how I’m supposed to feel. I stay focused on combing through the bookshelves instead of having to face him, but the sound of his constant fidgeting is making me nervous.

“Why are you so anxious?” I ask him.

“What? Oh. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Hilde.” He sighs. “Seeing her can be… emotionally draining.”

“How so?”