We’ve taken everything off the ship that we can and given it away. The rest of the drifters met up with us, and they took some. Other people friendly with the drifters took the rest. I’ve learned that, in addition to the drifters’ permanent settlement farther north, there are several other groups living to the east of the river. They watched as the people with the flying ship came to trade and gather and leave them behind.

  They showed me the field where the Palingenesis landed. There are burns in the grass and deep ruts where the wheels came down for landing and leaving. Even a ship that graceful, one that can take to the air, leaves scars.

  It all seems so small now. The Outpost, the life we lived, what we thought was true. The Admiral refused to share what we had with people around us, wasn’t interested in learning from them. But they were out here all along—people who managed to live without coming into the Outpost—something we were told was as good as impossible.

  “When the people on the Palingenesis came, they were looking for gold,” Mac told me. “They’d heard we had it out here. And they were looking for new people to come with them.”

  The Admiral knew what he was doing. What had proven valuable over time and across cultures? Gold. Even before the Admiral knew exactly what he would use it for, he gathered it in. He accumulated resources however he could. Kill a river. Steal a child.

  Laura and the other settlers pieced together more of the story from talking to the other groups. “Once the Admiral heard about the Palingenesis, he sent emissaries to learn what he could. He asked what the people on the ship wanted. And it turned out he had everything they needed, not just the gold. The Admiral convinced them that our best people would be better than anyone the drifters or the other small groups could offer.”

  “What are they called?” I asked. “The group who brought the ship?”

  Laura shrugged. “They didn’t really seem to have a name. They called themselves the last of the Society.”

  When Laura said that, Indie walked away without a backward glance or a word of explanation. I called after her, but she didn’t break her stride as she headed for one of the drifters’ boats, as she piloted it away from us with light, long strokes in the river.

  I thought she might have gone for good. But the next morning, she was on our ship, calling out orders, figuring out how we could best get it back in the water.

  “Would you have gone on the Palingenesis?” I ask Mac now.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “I’d have liked to have the chance.”

  “She might still be in the Outpost,” I say.

  “I know,” he says. But I understand why he hesitates, why he’d even consider going on the ship and leaving the possibility of finding his daughter behind. When your heart has been broken, it’s hard to keep looking.

  “Something happened when the Palingenesis flew away,” I say. “Did you see it? When they went past the sun?”

  “A few people think they burned up,” he says. “Others think it was a trick of the light—the sun glinting off the metal. I don’t know which it was.”

  I know the Admiral was on board, and the Quorum. I hate them all. But Eira was on that ship, and others from my crew, and I can’t help but hope that they all made it to wherever they were going.

  And that they never come back.

  Mac presses something into my hand. I unfold my fingers to find a piece of paper with a name on it.

  Eva.

  “If you can find her,” he says, “let me know.”

  “I will,” I say. “I’ll send word.”

  It’s time to go.

  Mac and the others who’ve been helping ready the dredge walk from the gangway to the shore. I glance up at the Lily. It looms behind me, a working shell, bereft both of what it used to hold and what once protected it.

  All that’s left on board are the things I’ll need to survive the journey back to the Outpost. Tools to fix the motor if it breaks down. Some food. A few blankets and pallets.

  The ship is stripped. And now’s the time to find out if it’s light enough to get home.

  The settlers hitched up the dredge to the horses and to the mechanized wagons. They’ll pull it along the bank downriver to a place where the water swells in to the shore. Then they’ll cut me loose and I’ll start the motor. I hope the plan works. It might.

  The river has been rising.

  “I’ll see you in the Outpost,” I call to Laura and the others on the bank, and my heart races. Can I do this? Bring the Lily back alone? Can I walk away from the drifters and Mac and Brig and Indie, maybe forever?

  I walk up the gangway and start to pull it closed.

  Footsteps behind me. I turn. It’s Brig, his boots leaving dusty prints on the metal.

  “I thought you were staying with the drifters.”

  “I was thinking I might,” Brig says. “If you did.” The light from the sun reflects off the water, the metal around us. His eyes seem to dance, to hope.

  What is he saying? Are there words behind his words? I think there might be. But I don’t know what to do about it. Within my chest there is a seed sprouting, a leaf uncurling.

  I’m afraid to let the roots take hold.

  “Of course,” I say, my voice flat. “You have family in the Outpost.”

  “That’s not—” he begins.

  And then Indie is there, too, almost stomping up the ramp.

  “Why are you doing this?” Indie asks. “Who’s to say they still won’t kill you when you get there?” She glares at me, hands on her hips.

  “It’s your fault,” I say, glaring in return. “I wouldn’t be going to the Outpost if you hadn’t come back for me. No one ever did that before.”

  “We did,” Brig says. “When you were setting the fires in the woods. We came back then, too.”

  He’s right. They did.

  “So our helping you made you want to help the settlers?” Indie rolls her eyes. “They’re not innocent, you know.”

  “Neither am I.”

  “None of us are,” Brig says. I can’t bring myself to look at him, to see or not see something there. But his voice resonates around me, sends a hum from the soles of my feet to the top of my head. As if the ship’s running, but it’s quiet. I haven’t started it yet.

  Indie folds her arms. “This still doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “You don’t have to come,” I tell her. “You belong to the drifters.”

  “I don’t belong to anyone.”

  “You know what I mean,” I say. “They care about you. You care about them.” She’s found a place to belong, in spite of everything. Why would she leave? “And with Porter gone, they’ll need you to lead.”

  “They have Mac,” she says. “And I’ve started over again more than once.” She pauses. “I used to think that was sad. And it is. But it also means that I know I can do it again. I’m not afraid to keep seeing what is out there.” Indie shrugs. “I need to find out what I can about the children. I can go back if I don’t like it.”

  She could. She knows where the drifters live. But she also can’t return and have it be exactly as it was. And she knows that, too.

  “You should both go,” I say. “Run.” There’s more I have inside, more words and thoughts and feelings, but I can’t say them around the lump in my throat, the roots unfurling around my heart without permission.

  “You’re going to need help.” Indie takes a deep breath. She knocks on the side of the ship next to her. “Besides, this thing is named after me.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The three of us are up on the bridge, me steering with my bandaged hands, Indie and Brig calling out to the settlers as they drag our ship along the bank to the swell. At first, I think the water won’t take us, though I can hear it against the metal of the dredge, can feel it underneath. But then—wagons and horses straining, settlers and drifters calling out—the back of the ship scrapes away from the shore and we are buoyed up.

  The three of us break into cheers. Brig wraps an arm around me. Without thinking, I lean into him, my forehead almost resting on his shoulder. The motion surprises him—I feel him start—and it surprises me. I don’t allow myself to be vulnerable. I don’t let myself touch others.

  “Indie, can you steer the ship?” I ask, pulling away.

  “Of course I can.” She’s indignant. “I used to pilot machines much more complicated than this. Steering the Lily’ll be like controlling a whale instead of a hummingbird.”

  “All right,” I say, not sure what she means.

  “A hummingbird’s harder. They’re fast. On the Lily, I can see what’s coming a mile away.” She gestures down the river.

  We didn’t see the drifters coming. But I don’t point that out. She knows.

  “Brig, go and get us the map from the captain’s quarters,” I say. “It’s the best one. Bring it up to the bridge. I’m going to get the motor started.”

  Neither one of them ask if I need any help, or if they should come with me.

  They understand. I want to be alone.

  * * *

  • • •

  Down on the mining deck, I flip the switch. The motor powers up, begins its mechanical hum. Even without the mining equipment, it’s loud in the belly of the ship as the motor’s refrain echoes from the metal walls. It’s not a beautiful tune, an easy one, a lullaby by any stretch of the imagination. It’s the kind of low hymn you find yourself making to keep moving when you’re tired, or to hold on to calm when there is terror, or simply to remind yourself that you still have a voice, even if you are the only one who hears it.

  I sit down next to the motor. There’s a hole in the right knee of my pants. Tam’s blood is still on my shirt. My own blood, too.

  No gold. No armor. No Tam. No Call.

  Just me and the ship, singing.

  * * *

  • • •

  “Motor’s sounding good,” Indie says, when I get up to the bridge. Brig looks over his shoulder from where he’s tacking the map on the wall. I don’t know if either of them can hear the residue of tears in my voice. I took care to scrub any traces of salt from my face.

  Indie gestures for me to take her place. “Your turn,” she says. “I’m hungry.” Her long red hair is wild, her clothes almost as dirty as mine. Brig’s finished with the map and he comes over to join us at the helm.

  “Mac gave me this,” I say, pulling out the scrap of paper to show them.

  “Eva.” Indie touches the paper. “Mac’s daughter.”

  “Whatever else happens, we’ll try to find them,” I say.

  She nods, rubbing a hand across her eyes, before walking out through the blackened door frame. Neither Brig nor I calls or follows after her. It’s Indie’s turn to be alone.

  I put my hands on the helm to steer. The three of us will take turns keeping to our course. “We’ll have to find Tam’s family, too,” I say to Brig, without looking at him. “Tell them what happened.”

  Brig walks to the window near me. He looks out at the river in front of us, kneading the back of his neck with his strong, smudged hand. There are cuts and burns all over the back of it, and on his wrist and forearm. My eyes run over his hand, his neck, the curl of his hair, the square of his shoulders, and I’m caught when he turns.

  I swallow.

  “This was in the captain’s quarters,” he says, reaching into his shirt pocket. “Someone must have found it and put it back for you.”

  I tear my gaze from his face and look at what he’s holding.

  Call’s ruler.

  I take it in my hand. When I do, my fingertips touch Brig’s. I slip the ruler into my pocket. My breath catches when I look up. There is a flash in his eyes, a flicker in my heart.

  CHAPTER 53

  “PROMISE ME,” I whisper to Brig and Indie. “Promise me that if we need to, we can run.”

  “I promise,” Brig says. Indie nods.

  We are nearing the Outpost. Its lights flicker in the distance. Tomorrow, we will be upon it. I shut down the motor so we could come up and hear the quiet and try to see a last star or two.

  I breathe the air. I taste the river in it, and the forest beyond.

  I have a taste for you.

  Call said that, and more.

  Finish it for me.

  It’s the only way you’re going to see the world, Poe.

  Go on, he said to me. Then you can come back up here.

  My heart pounds.

  Would you have wanted this for me, Call? I think, as I stand cold on the deck of a ship empty of gold. As I count the stars up high. As I feel Brig warm right next to me, see Indie a few feet away.

  Yes.

  Call.

  I wanted to finish your dreams for you.

  But that’s part of the tragedy of being gone too soon.

  You don’t get to finish them and no one else can do it for you, no matter how much they might try.

  But do you still live on, if someone you loved, someone who loves you, goes on to live their own dreams?

  I think so. I think you live on best that way.

  You are in my heart when it soars. In my hands when they make something new. In my breath when I run.

  And someday, even that will be gone.

  You will be deep in my blood and bones, part of me, but I will have moved past you.

  Even as I carry you with me, I will have left you behind.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First and foremost, my gratitude to my husband, Scott, and our four children: Calvin, Ian, Truman, and Lainey. You all have your own stories and ways of being in the world, and I learn from each of you every day. It is a privilege and honor to be part of this family. Thank you for your patience, support, and love.

  I also owe a great debt to my parents, Robert and Arlene Braithwaite, who have always taken me to wild and beautiful places and asked me to look closely.

  Jodi Reamer has been my agent since the beginning, and I’m thankful every day for her wisdom and humor. Jodi has changed my life for the better in so many ways, and she is one of the wisest people I know. It’s an honor to be associated with her and to have convinced her to ride the Matterhorn at Disneyland. I am also very grateful to Alec Shane and Cecilia de la Campa at Writers House for their help and advocacy over the years.

  This is my sixth book with my editor Julie Strauss-Gabel, and each time the process is a revelation. No one asks questions like Julie. She makes me think about the heart of my story and find the best words to tell it. I am thankful for her brilliance and her generosity. I am also indebted to Anna Booth, Venessa Carson, Maggie Edkins, Theresa Evangelista, Melissa Faulner, Felicia Frazier, Alex Garber, Carmela Iaria, Jen Loja, Shanta Newlin, Emily Romero, Felicity Vallence, Natalie Vielkind, and everyone at Penguin Young Readers. I’m lucky to work with all of you.

  One of the true pleasures of my career is getting to know wonderful teachers, librarians, and booksellers. Rose Brock, Gene Nelson, Anne Holman, and Margaret Neville, thank you for your tireless efforts on behalf of readers and your communities.

  Writing this book required me to go outside of my comfort zone in many ways. I was lucky to have experts to offer advice and input. Any mistakes that remain are mine alone. Corwin Revis helped me figure out mechanics and logistics for a futuristic ship based on mining dredges from the past and present, and he was unfailingly smart, patient, and interesting in his comments and suggestions. James Worthington answered many random texts about how the gunfight scenes might work best, and never once laughed at me (at least, not when I could hear). Huge thanks to him, his wife, Amy, and their wonderful kids for being fantastic neighbors and friends.

  Since my last novel with Penguin was released, I went back to school to get an MFA in creative writing, and it was one of the best things I’ve ever done. My beloved classmates at the Vermont College of Fine Arts were a surprise and a gift. I knew I would love going to school at VCFA; I could never have anticipated exactly how much. The Dead Post-It Society has a special place in my heart. Extra thanks to Salima Alikhan, Robin Galbraith, and Brendan Reichs, my housemates while I was at school. You picked me up when I was down and made me laugh hard, think big thoughts, and stay up way too late. I’ll be forever grateful. My gratitude also to the advisers and mentors I had at VCFA. It was a complete honor to work with such talented teachers, writers, and human beings. Special thanks to An Na, Kekla Magoon, and Susan Fletcher.

  Ash Allan, Mikayla Kirkby, and Mylee Edwards: you took such care for my kids while I worked, and we are all enriched by having you in our lives.

  It is dangerous to list beloved author friends, because I am afraid I will miss someone, but their support and friendship have meant the world. I owe Renée Ahdieh and Sabaa Tahir a great deal for their support and encouragement on this manuscript in particular. Ally Carter and Jenny Han, thank you for inviting me on retreats where I could soak up your genius and work on this novel. To my local writing friends—Ann Dee Ellis, Shannon Hale, Veeda Bybee, Lindsey Leavitt Brown, Emily R. King, Bree Despain, Rob Wells, Emily Wing Smith, Brandon Mull, Julie Olson, and Erin Summerill—I owe you big-time for supporting WriteOut, for dinners and lunches at favorite places, and for hiking and talking and laughing with me. We found some silver linings together during some very cloudy times.

  Margaret Stohl, thank you for taking me under your wing and teaching me how to give back and keep going. So much of what is good in my life and career are because of you. To the boards of all the Yalls: you’re too fun and smart for your own good. Please don’t change, ever.