I have nothing to say to that except more questions, questions I know he won’t answer.
“Well, at least you’re not like Dr. Albatur,” I say. “You’re free to walk in the sunlight.”
“Yes,” he says. “That may be true. But sometimes it is our weakness that drives us, and not our strength. Dr. Albatur may have to wear his red cloak for now, but it is his captivity that will drive the rest of us to the freedom we desire.”
Something unpleasant twists in my gut. Is he talking about the Solossius, whatever that is?
“Anyhow,” he says, leaning forward and folding his arms on his desk, “that’s not what I wanted to discuss with you. I wanted to talk about what happened in the containment room.”
I freeze. Does he know about my inexplicable nosebleed? About what I heard, what I saw? Dread creeps into my blood but also a smaller feeling of relief. He knows: good. Let’s get this over with.
“I know you’re afraid of going out with the collection team tomorrow,” he says hesitantly, looking down at his clasped hands. “Because . . . because of what happened to your nana. And I wanted to apologize to you for not telling you about the assignment in advance. I’m sure having it sprung on you so suddenly and in front of the group was . . . unpleasant.”
It takes me a moment to catch on, and I stand there gaping at him. I was anticipating an admonishment and instead I’m getting an . . . apology? I can’t remember the last time my father apologized for anything.
“It’s f-fine,” I stammer. “I’m not worried about it. It’s not like we’ll be alone.”
He nods, relieved.
“That’s correct. You will be supervised by the finders, of course, and from what I understand, Dr. Espada will be accompanying your group as well.”
“Dr. Espada?” Maybe I’ll get answers after all.
“Yes,” he says. “He used to go on collection trips quite frequently years ago. So did your mother.”
“Mom went on collection trips?” I say, surprised. I’ve always pictured her as a lab type—the way Alma will be—crouched over slides of animals’ brain scans, taking endless notes in her slate.
“Yes, she did,” he says. “After your nana died. I imagine your mother thought she might . . .”
“Find Nana’s body,” I say, and swallow. We have never talked about this. The subject has been an immense black pit in our family, a canyon we don’t cross.
“I should return you to your group,” he says, and stands slowly, looking old. It’s hard to watch him, so I don’t.
We walk silently down the hallway from his office. On either side, the windows looking in on research rooms are empty, as they always are. We pass one window and I keep walking until I realize he has stopped.
“This is your room,” he says, nodding at it.
I look through the window, its bare table and empty chairs.
“But it’s empty. Did they leave?”
He shakes his head.
“Security feature. All the rooms appear empty until they’re opened.” He presses his thumb and the door sweeps open, revealing the faces of my group, all eyes turned to look. I glance again at the window before I enter: it appears empty aside from an exam platform and lab equipment. An illusion of some kind.
My father catches my arm as I go to enter the room. I can’t remember the last time my father and I embraced, and the gentleness of his grip is unfamiliar. I look up at his face, expecting him to speak, but he doesn’t. He just holds me with his eyes and I can’t describe what I see there. Sadness. Fear. But before I can ask him what’s wrong, he’s released me.
My father doesn’t say good-bye to the group or me. The door slides shut and he’s gone, leaving the five of us staring at one another. We’re silent for a moment. I’m just beginning to wonder if they’re going to let me get away with simply starting the assignment without being questioned when Yaya drops her slate on the platform and leans forward in her seat.
“Is there something about the animals we should know?” she says, her pretty features even more intense than usual.
“What do you mean?” I say.
“Your nosebleed,” she says, her large eyes darting down to my nose. I know there can’t be any lingering blood—my father would have noticed—but I swipe at my top lip anyway. “Do the animals make you sick? Is that why your dad took you away just now?”
“Sick?” I say. I open my mouth to tell her she sounds ridiculous, but I realize she doesn’t. Is this the weakness my parents see in me? Is there something about the animals that makes me sick? I think of my headaches, the nosebleed, fainting . . . I feel suddenly as if I could faint again, right here. But these are things Yaya need not know. “No, there’s nothing you need to know. I’m fine.”
I glance at Jaquot, searching for a hint that he may have told her about the Beak, but his face is purposefully blank—he’s kept my secret. I wonder for how long.
“Are you sure?” she says. Her hands rest on either side of her slate, long elegant fingers, her beautiful dark skin in sharp contrast to the bright white clay of the platform. Looking at her hands, I almost decide to tell her. Almost. The idea of sharing my secrets with another person—especially a logical person like Yaya—seems almost like a good one: Alma and Rondo already know about my weird experiences with animals, the missing hundred N’Terrans, the spotted man, the egg . . . sharing the burden with them has helped, and maybe sharing it with two more people will help even more. But they can’t know everything.
“It’s not the animals that are bothering me,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “It’s . . . something else.”
“Tell me,” she says, leaning forward. Her suspicion is gone, replaced with curiosity. Her long fingers have curled into almost fists.
“It’s the whitecoats,” I say, hoping I don’t regret this. “The elders aren’t telling us something.”
“Such as?” Yaya says.
Rondo’s face is expressionless, ready to go along with whatever lie he thinks I’m about to tell. But I have no intention of lying, I realize. I may not tell her everything, but if I want to know the truth about some things, it doesn’t hurt to have someone like Yaya sniffing around.
“We came across some encrypted files. There are one hundred people from the Vagantur missing from N’Terra,” I say, watching her face go from concern to bewilderment. “And I think the whitecoats are covering it up.”
“It’s actually one hundred and two,” Yaya says, leaning back in her chair and sighing. “And they’re not missing. They’re dead.”
CHAPTER 16
“What did you say?” Rondo asks, before I have a chance to form words. “Dead? What are you talking about? There’s no record of any mass casualty to the Vagantur passengers.”
Yaya glances over my shoulder at the door, ensuring that it’s not sliding open to reveal an eavesdropping whitecoat.