Reached

‘more.’”
    Now, my turn. I find myself leaning forward, the way I did when I was small and Grandfather told me things.
    “His favorite memory of his granddaughter, Cassia,” the historian says, “was of the red garden day.”
    Bram was right. He heard the historian correctly. She did say
day
. Not days. So did the historian make a mistake? I wish they’d let Grandfather speak for himself. I’d like to hear
his
voice saying these words. But that’s not the way the Society did things.
    This has told me nothing except that Grandfather loved me—no small thing, but something I already knew. And a red garden day could be any time of year. Red leaves in the fall, red flowers in the summer, red buds in the spring, and even, sometimes, when we sat outside in the winter, our noses and cheeks turned red from the cold and the sun set crimson in the west. Red garden days. There were so many of them.
    And for that, I am grateful.
    “What happened on the red garden day?” the Pilot asks, and I look up. For a moment, I’d forgotten that he was listening.
    “I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t remember.”
    “What does the paper say?” Xander asks.
    “I haven’t decoded it yet,” I tell him.
    “I can save you the time,” the Pilot says. “It reads,
‘Cassia, I want you to know that I’m proud of you for seeing things through, and for being braver than I was.’
It’s from your father.”
    My father
did
send me a message. And Bram encoded it for him, and my mother wrapped it up.
    I glance down at Bram’s code to make sure the Pilot has translated the note correctly, but then the Pilot interrupts me.
    “This trade didn’t come through until recently,” the Pilot says. “It appears that after it left your family’s hands, the trader involved fell ill. When it did come through, we found the microcard intriguing, and the message as well.”
    “Who gave this to you?” I ask.
    “I have people who watch out for things they know might interest me,” the Pilot says. “The head Archivist in Central is one of those people.”
    She has betrayed me again. “Trades are supposed to be secret,” I say.
    “In a time of war, different rules apply,” the Pilot says.
    “We are not at war,” I say.
    “We are
losing
a war,” the Pilot says, “against the mutation. We have no cure.”
    I look at Ky, who doesn’t have the mark, who isn’t safe, and I understand the urgency of the Pilot’s words. We can’t lose.
    “You are either helping us to find and administer the cure,” the Pilot says, “or you are hindering our efforts.”
    “We want to help you,” Xander says. “That’s why you’re taking us to the mountains, isn’t it?”
    “I
am
taking you to the mountains,” the Pilot says. “What happens to you when you arrive there is something I haven’t determined yet.”
    Ky laughs. “If you’re spending this much time deciding what to do with the three of us when there’s an incurable virus raging through the Provinces, you’re either stupid or desperate.”
    “The situation,” the Pilot says, “is long past desperate.”
    “Then what can you possibly expect
us
to do?” Ky asks.
    “You will help,” the Pilot says, “one way or the other.” The ship turns a little and I wonder where we are in the sky.
    “There are not very many people I can trust,” the Pilot says. “So when two of them tell me contradictory things, that worries me. One of my associates thinks that the three of you are traitors who should be imprisoned and questioned away from the Provinces, out where I’m certain of the loyalty of the people. The other thinks you can help me find a cure.”
    The head Archivist is the first person,
I think.
But who is the other?
    “When the Archivist drew my attention to this trade,” the Pilot says, “I was interested, as she knew I would be, both by the name on the microcard and the message included on the paper. Your father did not side with the Rising. What, exactly, did you do that he didn’t dare to do? Did you take things one step further and strike
against
the Rising?
    “And then when I looked more closely, I found other things worthy of notice.”
    He begins reciting the names of flowers to me. At first, I think he’s gone crazy, and then I realize what he’s saying:
    Newrose, oldrose, Queen Anne’s lace.
    “You wrote that and distributed it,” the Pilot says. “What does the code represent?”
    It’s not a code. It’s just my mother’s words, turned into