“Sculptural,” I mirror. “You see them that way since you’re an artist, right?”
“That’s true.” Her face lights up. “Hey, I could draw them.”
I nod as I pop the top back on. It would be one thing to have these amazing beetles all sprawled out on a table for her to sketch. But another thing if everyone sees them. I have to be careful though. I don’t want to snap at Bea and discourage her from talking to me. “You could. Sometime,” I add vaguely.
“What do you intend to do with them? And how does that relate to Fireseed?” Her voice tightens. She must sense my hesitancy.
I’m proud of my skills. But I only dare reveal a tidbit. “I make potions.”
“Like that stuff you sniff up when you think I’m asleep?” Her warm blue eyes turn to chilly cat slits, which frighten me.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do,” she retorts, but softens inexplicably. “We all have our vices.”
I’m too shocked to protest. “Um, really, what’s yours?”
She releases a musical giggle. “Radius,” she admits, and pads back to her bed. She pulls the covers up to her chin, gives a dainty yawn. “Look, I need to go to sleep, Ruby,” she says. “So keep those beetles caged and be quiet when you snort that junk.”
My ears flame up. A defensive retort is ready on the tip of my tongue. I bite it down. What good would that be? It would only be a lie.
So I stay as still as a butte until I hear her snore. I sneak downstairs, out the door, and release all of the lizards and beetles. Then, back upstairs in bed, I snatch the pouch and sprinkle out a stingy dose. I sniff it up hungrily with barely time to close the pouch before I slump onto my covers.
Chapter 10
The next morning, over beetle loaf and Fireagar juice, Nevada declares a house meeting. She wastes no time with small talk. “The Fireseed fields have been breached,” she starts.
“Have any plants been stolen?” I ask, my gut jumping.
“I can’t be sure,” says Nevada. “I haven’t checked the entire field.” Her eyes are underscored with sallow arcs and she’s thrown on a plain, colorless outfit, not her style.
“How do you know someone was in there?” Blane asks as he serves himself a large section of beetle loaf. He seems suspiciously unconcerned.
“Someone slashed three large holes in the tarp. I only checked part of the field. There may be more damage.” She gives us each a lingering stare. “This exposes the crop to overhead surveillance and detection, and to further breaches. To theft or destruction of the entire field.”
We all stop eating and the room grows heavy with worry. Nevada has taken on so much with this valuable crop. Now that Axiom has announced the contest, many people may know about us, this very special field. No doubt, it’s worth a ton of money. Who knows how many thieves and black market profiteers are hovering out there?
“Why would anyone do something as stupid as ripping the tarp?” Vesper asks. Her accusing eyes look directly at me. Automatically, I feel guilty. Did I lead the elders to my whereabouts? Oh, horrors, that hadn’t occurred to me until now.
“We have to fix the problem,” Nevada says. “But the repair will be expensive. I’m out of tarps. Even that one was hard to come by.” Her pale eyes widen inside the smoky kohl she lines them with, and I picture how she might’ve looked as a younger girl, living in the wild, always alert for danger, planning out missions with the Zone Warrior Collective. Not so far removed from this apparent mission to breach the Fireseed crop. If it were someone who followed me from my old compound, I’d be indirectly at fault, for putting my spiritual gods in harm’s way.
“Thieves,” Blane stabs his fork into the beetle loaf.
“Crazies,” Jan echoes.
“Hooligans,” hisses Vesper.
Even though they’re accusing with words they look frightened; all except Thorn, who’s absorbed again in chewing on his fingernails. Why isn’t he registering upset? Is he still too young to appreciate the gravity? Or perhaps his brain really is damaged. Perhaps the elders were right. I refuse to accept this, but I can’t help my doubts from seeping in.
“We can’t afford to lose the crop,” Nevada remarks as she stirs her tea.
Looking around, I notice the threadbare curtains, a chair missing an armrest, the chipped bowls and mismatched silverware. I notice the dull patches in her shirt where the iguana-cell fabric has rubbed away with wear.
“We can’t afford to lose any of it,” she repeats, “or The Greening will go bankrupt.”
“We’d be out in the desert, on our own again,” says Blane.
“Sucking moss from inside rock crevices,” Bea whispers.
“Sticking up folks for food,” says Jan.
And kissing toady men for rotten hunks of meat and a wrinkled bed to pass out in.