LITMIR.BIZ

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      But the nights are still. I can feel everyone’s silence just as surely as I can hear their voices during the day.

      Someone knocks at the door. “Morgan?” Pen’s voice. “Are you all right? You’ve been in there forever.”

      “I thought you were in bed,” I say.

      “I couldn’t sleep, and I wanted to make sure you hadn’t drowned.”

      “I’ll be out in a minute.” The water’s gone cold anyway. I wring out my wet hair, dry off, and slip into my nightgown.

      When I open the door, Pen is waiting in the hallway, holding a lantern. Its orange glow picks up the bags under her eyes, and I can see all at once how troubled she’s been, despite her best efforts to conceal it.

      “I’m not tired,” she whispers. “Are you?”

      “No,” I say, although it’s a lie. I will stay awake all night if there’s a chance she’ll finally be honest with me. She is much more likely to reveal her secrets at night, when the sleeping world will be undisturbed by her whispering voice.

      She smiles. “Do you want to go for a midnight walk?”

      We don’t bother with our shoes. We tiptoe barefoot down the steps and through the front door.

      Unlike earlier, the night’s wind is mellow and warm. The moon outshines our lantern, nearly full and bright white.

      As soon as we’ve stepped into the grass, I can feel the cool earth under my feet, astoundingly like the ground back home. Pen moves forward, and when I don’t follow, she turns to face me. “Aren’t you coming?”

      I wriggle my bare toes in the grass and stare down at it. I have never seen the heaps of soil being flown down from Internment. I’ve only heard about it from Nim. I imagine Internment filled with craters so wide that you could look through them and see the ground below.

      “I was just thinking about home,” I say. “About what King Ingram is going to tell us, if he plans to tell us anything at all.”

      Pen takes my hand, leads me away from the hotel. “Come on. There’s something I want to show you.”

      She leads me to the amusement park, and I climb the fence after her without question, happy to see whatever it is she wants to show me. Maybe it will be something other than tonic this time. Maybe it will give me some insight into this distance she’s built between herself and everyone else in this world.

      I expect her to lead me to the telescopes. That’s where I find her sometimes. But instead she leads me to the giant teacups, sitting inanimate in the moonlight. She is still clutching the lantern when she kneels beside one of the saucers—chipped but still bright green—and reaches beneath it, somewhere in the mechanism that would cause it to spin.

      Eventually she finds what she was looking for: several pieces of paper folded together. Whatever is on those pages must be important, if she would keep them all the way out here.

      Is this because I discovered her request paper all those months ago? Does she think I’ll go rifling through her things when she’s not in our room? I haven’t. I would never. But sometimes, when I hear her tossing and turning, muttering through her nightmares about the harbor, I would do anything to know what is happening in her mind.

      “Here.” She hands me the lantern, and then she swings one leg over the teacup’s rim, then the other. She takes the lantern back so I can climb in after her.

      Inside the teacup is a metal wraparound bench, and she sits so close to me that my wet hair dampens her shoulder.

      She spreads the papers open on the small table before us—the one that we would twist if we wanted the teacup to spin. “Now that the king is back, we have to find a way to stop him,” she says. Her eyes are on the pages. “If we don’t, I think we’re in real trouble.”

      I stare at the pages, lit up by the moon and the lantern, and as always, I don’t understand. I see Pen’s steadily drawn lines. I see a circle and a small floating silhouette that could be Internment. I see numbers drifting around it like birds.

      Pen shuffles through the pages like a madman. “I’ve been reading up on the sunsets. The sun goes down about a minute earlier every day, except about once a week or so when it goes down two minutes earlier.”

      She looks at me to be sure I’m following along. “Okay,” I say. I’ve never paid too much attention to the sunset, but I know that we’re at the time of year when we lose a bit of light each day. “So?”

      “So,” she says. “For the past few months, I’ve been keeping a grid of where Internment sits in the sky, and where the sun should be. Every day I look through the same telescope at the same angle.”

      She points to Internment’s shape on each of the pages before us, as though I should know what we’re looking at.

      “I don’t understand.”

      She looks at me, and I can see how tired her face is, how worried. But her eyes are bright, the way they always are when she’s onto something important. “Internment is sinking. Not very much, but a bit each month. Enough that it’s bound to be a problem if this keeps up.”

      I can only stare at the pages as these words sink in. In her ever steady hand Pen has drawn the outline of the clock tower, protruding above the mass of apartment buildings. Scraggly roots jut from the torn underbelly of the floating city. The sun, a perfect circle, is at a distance, held in the pure white sky by tiny equations I can’t decipher.

      There are two versions of Pen. There is the silly, spontaneous, and brutally blunt girl I know, and then there is the side of her that can ingeniously solve these mysteries. It is frightening what she is capable of.

      “Can you be sure?” I say.

      “The professor helped me with the algorithm.” She gnaws on her lower lip guiltily. “I’d been visiting him before he died.”

      I suppose she expects me to feel betrayed. And I do, in a way, but I am also relieved. I knew she was off somewhere; I’m only grateful it wasn’t with a bottle.

      “It must be all the mining,” I say. “We don’t know how much soil King Ingram’s men bring back on each shipment.”

      “It would have to be a lot of soil to affect Internment’s weight,” Pen says. “More soil than could possibly be fitting into those jets. Internment is thousands of times their size. I don’t think it’s that.”

      “What, then?”

      Pen shuffles through the papers until she finds a full-page drawing of Internment. The accuracy and scale is stunning, as though she’d sat in the sky and sketched its likeness. She has drawn a bubble around the city in rough overlapping lines.

      “When your brother went to the edge, it was the wind that threw him back. The wind was moving sideways, like a current around the city. Have you ever noticed the way clouds that get too close to Internment seem to zip past us?”

      “Those clouds get caught up in the wind that surrounds the city,” I say. “And you think that wind is part of what’s keeping Internment afloat?”

      “I have several theories about what keeps Internment afloat, but I do think the wind is a big factor,” Pen says. “When we left the city in the metal bird, we went under the city, through the dirt. But King Ingram’s jet lands and departs from the surface.”

      “It flies through the wind,” I say, understanding.

      She nods eagerly. “And disrupts it. Maybe even weakens it. It’s a slight change for now, but over the course of years, it could knock Internment from the sky completely.”

      Her voice is excited, the way it always is when she is explaining things. But in the silence that follows, she remembers the magnitude of what she’s said, and I feel it too. Internment is not only being ravaged by this world’s greedy

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