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of the stone curbs. He was young for a teacher—at six we’d been his first class of students—and had dressed smartly in a dark linen suit. The white thread on his shoulder stood out in stark contrast. I felt a twinge of guilt as I saw him lift himself up from the ground, mud on the hems of his pants and the seat of his trousers.
    “Terra Fineberg,” he said, but not sternly—I don’t think he had it in him to be stern. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
    “Sorry,” I said, shoving my heavy hair from my face as I hustled to stand beside Rachel. “I overslept and—”
    Rebbe Davison waved his hand, cutting off my excuse. To be fair, he’d heard plenty of my excuses over the past decade. If he’d had his fill of them, I couldn’t entirely blame him. He looked out across the class, quietly taking a head count.
    “That’s everyone, kids,” he said, and went to the lift to press his hand against the panel. My classmates began filing in, in scattered clumps of twos and threes.
    Rachel and I lingered near the rear of the crowd. She turned to me, looking me up and down. Her gaze was pointed. I tugged on the hem of my sweater, trying to conceal the fact that I was wearing the same rumpled cotton shirt and pants that I’d slept in. She looked great, of course, in a tweed skirt, gray blouse, and dark red stockings. Her clothes were clean and new, like they always were.
    “Late on Vocation Day?” she said at last, cracking a slight smile. “That’s bad even for you!”
    My shoulders tightened. “Well,” I said, trying my best to look like I didn’t care what she thought. “It’s not like it really matters to me what assignment I get.”
    Rachel rolled her eyes. She’d spent the past year fretting over herfuture job. She wanted to work in one of the shops in the commerce district, channeling her fashion sense into something that would gain the approval of her own merchant parents. And she wanted me to work with her. I’d done nothing to disabuse her of this notion.
    “Sure you don’t,” she said.
    “Move it along, girls,” came a firm, clear voice from behind us. We turned—Rachel opened her mouth to offer a sarcastic word in return. But her expression softened when she saw who had spoken. It was Silvan Rafferty, and a smile curled up one corner of his lips. I felt my heart stutter in my chest, but his dark-lashed eyes were firmly on Rachel.
    All we’d ever shared was that one kiss. But just the season before, he’d turned sweet on my friend. They walked through the atrium together, just like the older couples, holding hands and making out in beds of dry leaves. She was smitten, and so I never told her what had happened between me and the doctor’s son just before Momma died.
    I pretended I didn’t care. But Silvan had grown handsome, well muscled and tall. His amber skin was smooth. Shining black curls tumbled down his shoulders. A smirk was always lifting his lips, as if he were secretly laughing at his own private joke. He grinned at us now.
    “We’re not ‘girls,’ Silvan,” Rachel said as we stepped into the crowded lift. Silvan stood between us. I could feel the heat of his arm right through his shirt. “We’re practically women.”
    “You look like a bunch of silly girls to me,” Silvan replied. Racheldarted her tongue out at him and then exploded in a fit of giggles. He whispered something to her. I couldn’t hear his words—only the heavy murmur of his lips against her ear.
    My face burned. I turned away, watching through the glass walls as the pastures disappeared beneath us as we flew up into the bow of the ship.
    •  •  •
    The captain’s stateroom was at the bow of the ship, far from the atrium and the shops and the busy traffic of the day. Despite the name, Captain Wolff didn’t live there. Her family occupied a house in the ship’s stern, surrounded by other Council members. This was meant to illustrate how she stood on equal ground with other Asherati. But of