“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Headache,” she says. “So, will you tell me what happened to make everyone think I’m a freak?”
“You didn’t tell her?” I ask Harley.
“Of course I didn’t,” Harley growls, stabbing his canvas with his paintbrush. “Why would I insult her with such lies?”
Part of me is very glad that Amy doesn’t know what Eldest has said. But Harley has always been this way, for as long as I’ve known him: he thinks ignorance is the best way to protect someone, and he doesn’t understand that what we imagine is often worse than the truth.
“Will you tell me?”
I look up, and Amy’s eyes draw me in. “It was Eldest,” I say. “He sent out an all-call to everyone about you. ” I pause. Does she know what an all-call is? “A, er, message. He sent everyone a message. About you. ” I pause again, unable to meet her big green eyes. “It was mostly lies. ”
Amy senses my hesitance to continue. “What kind of lies?” she asks.
“That you’re the product of an experiment gone wrong, and you’re, uh, simple. Slow. ” I pause again. “A freak. ”
Amy’s face scrunches as she absorbs this information. I can tell, from the distaste curling her lips, that she has met Eldest and can probably guess what it is he said. “Ah,” she finally says, and turns back to the window. Harley straightens up, stares at her face again, and then turns back to his canvas. He is shaping her sadness onto the painted image of her face.
“So, there were lots of stars in the sky?” Harley asks, turning to the nighttime sky in the background of the painting. The word “stars” is heavy on his tongue, as if he’s not used to the idea of them.
“Millions,” Amy says. “Billions. ” There is longing in her voice.
Harley flicks silver paint on the canvas.
“But,” I say, leaning over Harley’s canvas, “they’re scattered about, not so clustered together. Spread them out more. And they’re different sizes. Some are bigger; some are just tiny specks. ”
It is as if I have done something foul in the room. Harley turns slowly toward me. Amy’s eyes are wide.
“You’ve seen the stars?” Harley’s voice accuses me.
“I. . . er. . . ”
Amy’s eyes search mine, and I know she’s looking for starshine in them.
“Just once,” I say.
“How?” Harley breathes.
“There’s a hatch door. For the dead. ”
Amy’s head snaps toward mine.
“Where is it?” Harley asks, an eager tone in his voice that reminds me of the last time he had what Doc called a “downward spiral. ”
“It’s not on the Feeder Level. ”
Harley sinks in on himself. He’s not one of the select few with access to the other levels and has spent his entire life here, on the Feeder Level.
“Can we see it?” Amy asks. “Can we see the stars?”
And, oh, I want to show her. I want to show her, but not him, not now, not with her. I want to be the one to give Amy back her stars.
But what would Eldest say? What would Eldest do? To me? To her?
“No,” I say. “Eldest wouldn’t like it. ”
Amy’s eyes narrow into pinpricks of jade. “I met Eldest,” she says, disgust dripping from her voice.