Surprised, I hold it out to him. He takes it and taps it sharply against his palm, twists something. The base of the compact opens up and I gasp in shock as a paper fal s out. I can see right away that it is old—heavy and thick and creamy, not slick and white like the curls of paper that come out of the ports or the scribes.
Grandfather unfolds the paper careful y, gently. I try not to look too closely, in case he does not want me to see, but with a glance I can tel that the words are old, too. The type is not one in use anymore; the letters are smal and black and cramped together.
His fingers tremble; whether it is from the end of his life drawing close or because of what he holds in his hand, I do not know. I want to help him, but I can tel that this is something he must do himself.
It doesn’t take long for him to read the paper, and when he’s finished, he closes his eyes. An emotion crosses his face that I cannot read.
Something deep.
Then he opens his bright, beautiful eyes and looks straight at me while he folds the paper back up. “Cassia. This is for you. It’s even more precious than the compact.”
“But it’s so—” I stop before I can say the word dangerous.
There is no time. I hear my father and mother and brother speaking in the hal .
Grandfather looks at me with love in his eyes, and holds the paper out to me. A chal enge, an offering, a gift. After a moment, I reach for it. My fingers close around the paper and he lets go.
He gives me back the compact, too; the paper fits neatly inside. As I snap the artifact shut, Grandfather leans toward me.
“Cassia,” he whispers. “I am giving you something you won’t understand, yet. But I think you wil someday. You, more than the rest. And, remember. It’s al right to wonder.”
He holds on for a long time. It is an hour before midnight in a deep blue night when Grandfather looks at us and says the best words of al with which to end a life. “I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.”
We al say it back to him. Each of us means it and he smiles. He leans back on his pil ows and closes his eyes.
Everything inside him has worked perfectly. He has lived a good life. It ends as it is supposed to end, at exactly the right time. I am holding his hand when he dies.
CHAPTER 8
None of the showings are new,” our friend Sera complains. “They’ve been the same for the past two months.” Saturday night again; the same conversation as the week before.
“It’s better than the other two choices,” Em says. “Isn’t it?” She glances over at me, waiting for my opinion. I nod. The choices are the same as usual: game center, showing, music. It’s been less than a week since Grandfather’s death, and I feel strange. He is gone, and now I know that there are stolen words inside my compact. It feels strange to know something others don’t and to have something I shouldn’t.
“So another vote from Cassia for the showing,” Em says, keeping track. She winds a strand of black hair around her finger, looks at Xander.
“What about you?”
I’m sure Xander wants to go back to the game center, but I don’t. Our last excursion there didn’t end so wel , what with my stepping on the tablets and having to meet with an Official.
Xander knows what I’m thinking. “It wasn’t your fault,” he says. “You weren’t the one who dropped them. It’s not as though they cited you or anything.”
“I know. But stil .”
We don’t real y discuss the music. Most youth aren’t crazy about sitting with a few other people in the hal and listening to the Hundred Songs piped in from some other place—or maybe even some other time. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of any work positions related to music. Maybe that makes sense. Maybe songs only need to be sung once, recorded, and passed along.
“No, let’s do the showing,” Xander says. “You know, that one about the Society? With al the aerial views?”
“I haven’t seen that one yet,” Ky Markham says behind me.
Ky. I turn to look at him, our eyes meeting for the first time since the night I stepped on the tablets. I haven’t seen him since then. I should say I haven’t seen him in person; al week long, his face has appeared in my mind the way it appeared on the screen, surprising me with its clarity and then disappearing suddenly. Leaving me wondering what it means. Why I keep thinking of him instead of moving on.
Perhaps it’s because of what Grandfather said, at the end. By tel ing me it was al right to wonder. Somehow, though, I don’t think he meant Ky. I think it might be something bigger. Something to do with the poetry.
“That settles it, then. We’l watch that one,” Sera says.
“How could you miss an entire showing?” Piper’s question is a good one. We never miss showings when they’re new. This one has been around for several months, which means there should have been plenty of opportunities for Ky to see it. “Didn’t you go with us when we went?”
“No,” Ky says. “I worked late that night, I think.” His tone is mild, but there is, and always has been, something a little deeper and more resonant about his voice. It has a slightly different timbre than most voices. It’s the kind of thing you forget until you hear it again and remember Oh yes. His voice has music.
We al fal silent, as we always do when Ky talks about his work. We don’t know what to say to him when he mentions it. I know now that he probably wasn’t surprised with his assignment at the nutrition disposal center. He’s always known he was an Aberration. He’s been walking around with secrets for much longer than I have.
But the Society wants him to keep his secrets. I don’t know what they would do if they found out about mine.
Ky looks away from Piper and back to me, and it occurs to me that I’ve been wrong about his eyes. I thought they were brown but I see now that they are dark blue, brought out by the color of his plainclothes. Blue is the most common eye color in Oria Province, but there is something different about his eyes and I’m not sure what it is. More depth? I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. If he seems to have depth to me, do I seem shal ow and transparent to him?
I wish I had a microcard about Ky, I think. Maybe, since I didn’t really need one for Xander, I could ask for another one instead. The thought makes me smile.
Ky stil looks at me and I wonder for a moment if he is going to ask me what I am thinking about. But, of course, he doesn’t. He doesn’t learn by asking questions. He is an Aberration from the Outer Provinces and yet he has managed to blend in here. He learns by watching.