Page 69 of Carousel

It was as if when they touched, our hands connected somehow. It was a similar sensation to the shooting pain, the warmth, I’d felt when I’d held his hand before. Except…

This felt several times more powerful. My fingers are still stinging.

And this time, Drake definitely felt it too.

And so, it seems, has everyone else in the room. Faces have turned to us. Cosmer looks like he’s ready to throw himself out of his seat.

“Ara,” Dezeeves says. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” I reply. “I thought I saw an insect.”

“An insect? In a sky ship?” one of the officers howls.

“We did have that bedbug infestation once,” Ephraine grins.

It seems the whole room is laughing now. And – because I know there’s no other way to play this – I laugh too.

Silly me. What a dumb female I am.

I try to ignore Drake. I can’t imagine what he must be thinking now of me, and our new friendship.

Part of me was hoping the shockwaves I’d felt had just been in my head.

If they’re undeniably real – and something physical – then what are they? Why am I getting them? Why can Drake feel them now, too?

The bowls are cleared by the soldiers in aprons, and very soon the main course is brought out, protected by a large silver-plated cloche.

“For our main course,” Dezeeves says loudly, to the room, “We would like to welcome Ara and Drake to do the honours in presenting us with our meal.” He gestures to the cloche, eyes back on us. “Please. Open it up for us.”

My stomach does flips. Another test. Although this whole evening has felt like one.

I stand first, tucking a loose strand of my hair behind my ear.

But Drake remains seated. Slightly stooped.

Please, Drake, I silently urge him. Think about Integration.

The room is silent, save for the ticking of a standing clock, reminding us seconds are passing.

Is he really not going to stand up?

We were doing so well. He’s going to fail us at the last moment.

Will this fail Riss and Cosmer, too?

I think of Chapp, being thrust out of the airlock. Is that my fate, in just a few hours? Minutes?

But then it happens. Very slowly, Drake gets to his feet. He maintains my gaze while he does, but his face doesn’t soften.

Relief floods through me.

I offer him the weakest of smiles.

He doesn’t return it.

I turn and walk over to the cloche. Stand by it. I’m aware he’s following, his footsteps long and steady.

“Together,” I say, looking at him again, my fingers already hooked around the handle.