Dewey lets out a high-pitched, mocking laugh and swivels in his chair. “My dear Atlas, any one of the people running around here will say that Atticus and Folio would want you to do what is best for the Stewards. Which from my point of view is to go somewhere else.” He leans back, stretches so that his hands brush that shelf of red books next to his desk, and then pulls his hat back down over his eyes, dismissing us.

“Come on,” Atlas says. “We can ask someone else.”

I start to turn, then stop dead in my tracks. “Wait a second.”

I take a step toward the shelf of books.

“I told you to go. Or I’ll let Scarlett and Holden know—”

“I know those books,” I cut him off, and start digging in my bag for my tablet. My hands fumble with the On switch as I look at the line of red books again. I saw them the last time I was here, but I didn’t see them. Not really. But I see them now and they have gold lines and a small stamped symbol on each that makes my heart race.

Yes. I call up the image of my mother’s work and my heart jumps. The squat lines of red rectangles depict only the middle section, making them look more like bricks than books. But the gold-winged tree symbol on each of those rectangles is unmistakable.

I turn the tablet to show Dewey the picture and smile because I am still on the path my mother left for me. She left me a trail to the truth. And now I am going to follow it all the way to the end.

Fifteen

Dewey squints at me. “Why are you still here? Do you need me to speak slower so you can understand? It is time for you to go.”

I smile. He frowns.

“You said, if we asked anyone running around the Lyceum, they would say my mom and Atlas’s dad would want us to do what is best for the Stewards.”

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with your hearing.”

“But you aren’t running around the Lyceum. What do you think they’d say to us?”

He leans back again and studies me. “Maybe you’re more like your mom than you look. She was good with details.”

“An artist has to see the little things.” I say the words I recall from years ago. “Because that’s what makes up the bigger things.”

Just like her paintings captured a smaller piece of a larger picture.

Something an artist would notice. Something she trusted me to see.

“There’s something my mother started that I plan on finishing. And you can help me do it.”

Dewey removes his hat, flips it onto the desk, and leans toward me. “And how do you suppose I can do that?”

“By showing me . . .” I ignore Atlas’s confused look and punch up the image of my mother’s final, incomplete painting. Then I turn the tablet to face Dewey. “Where to find this.”