Page 127 of Carousel

“That was…”

I don’t know how to explain that.

“And,” he continues, “I found you to be very influential, at our dinner. My instinct is that you have, indeed, had some training in, at the very least, what I like to call problem management.”

The buzzing breaks through. It makes me wince.

Cosmer. If I look at Cosmer, it will go away.

He looks so far away from me.

He holds my gaze. His mouth parts, and I read his lips. Make the bed.

Make the bed.

Do anything.

I turn back to Dezeeves, calmer now.

But his expression has changed. Sharpened.

There is nothing pleasant left about it.

“Ara,” he starts, coolly. “You are spending a lot of time staring at Cosmer. I have to say, I was surprised to learn you were out on an unapproved mission. And you both have sand in your hair.” He touches his long fingers together, forming the shape of a triangle. “Is there something unprofessional at hand here? Between the two of you?”

I sit straighter. Try not to let the worry I feel creep into my words.

“I’m not sure what you mean by unprofessional.”

“Yesterday, we were all moved by your display of affection for Drake, in this very room. Today⁠—”

“Dezeeves,” Ephraine says. “We can investigate the allegation you seem to be making. But I don’t see how this has any relevance to Ara’s corrective instruction, which we are already behind in issuing.”

“I agree,” Dezeeves says. “Not relevant to corrective instruction. But perhaps relevant to something else. Arguably more important.” He turns to me again. “Tell me, Ara. Is it Cosmer who appeals to you?” He pauses. “Or is the appeal the sacrifice he made for you?”

“What?” Cosmer surges up. “That’s⁠—”

“Please,” I find myself saying, calmly. “Take Cosmer and I down to the brig, if you believe we have broken The Accords in the way you’re implying.” I bow my head a little. “That is the procedure, isn’t it? A trial for Cosmer, and, if he’s found guilty, execution for us both.”

I lift my gaze, meeting his eyes fully.

It’s a risk. But I’m taking it.

Because I think he wants me corrected. More than he wants me incarcerated, and out of his reach.

Dezeeves stares at me for a moment. His face softens. “We will proceed,” he says. “Ephraine. The tank.”

Tank?

Ephraine leaves the table to open a large, plain wooden chest by the back wall. He pulls out a white balloon, attached by tubing to a mask of metal and rubber.

My first thought is that they might be taking me somewhere on the ship I might need oxygen.

But then I remember the oxygen cannisters I’d seen the engineers wearing were cylindrical. Made of brass and copper.

The white balloons contained something else.

And all of me is saying, run.