Cress

“I can’t argue with that.” Grinning, Thorne pulled a small bottle from his pocket. “I came in here to ask if you would help me with this. These are the mystical eyedrops the doctor made. We’re supposed to put three to four drops in each eye, twice a day … or was it two drops, three times?… I don’t remember. He wrote down the instructions on the portscreen.” Thorne unclipped the port from his belt and handed it to her.

Cress propped the cane against the panel of instruments. “He was probably worried you’d forget, after such a high-stress…” She trailed off, her eye catching on the portscreen text.

Thorne cocked his head. “What’s wrong?”

The port had opened to a screen containing instructions for the eyedrops, and also a detailed account of why Dr. Erland believed the plague was a manufactured weapon being used as biological warfare.

But at the top of all that …

“There’s a tab labeled with my name.” Not Cress. Crescent Moon Darnel.

“Oh. It was the doctor’s port.”

Cress’s fingers glided over the screen, and she’d opened the tab before her mind could decide whether it wanted to know what was in it or not.

“A DNA analysis,” she said, “and … a paternity confirmation.” Standing, she set the port on the control panel. “Let’s do your eyedrops.”

“Cress.” He reached for her, his fingers gathering up the folds of her skirt. “Are you all right?”

“Not really.” She looked down at him. Thorne had pulled the blindfold around his neck, revealing a faint tan line around his eyes. Gulping, Cress sank into the pilot’s chair again. “I should have told him I loved him. He was dying, and he was right there, and I knew I would never see him again. But I couldn’t say it. Am I horrible?”

“Of course not. He may have been your biological father, but you still barely knew him. How could you have loved him?”

“Does it matter? He said he loved me. He was dying, and now he’s gone, and I’ll never…”

“Cress, hey, stop it.” Thorne swiveled his chair to face her. He found her wrists, before sliding his hands down to intertwine with her fingers. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It all happened so fast, and there was nothing you could do.”

She bit her lip. “He took my blood sample that first day, in Farafrah.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “He knew all this time—almost a whole week. Why didn’t he tell me sooner?”

“He probably wanted to wait for the right time. He didn’t know he was going to die.”

“He knew there was a chance we were all going to die.” Her next breath shook inside her diaphragm, and as the tears started, she felt herself being pulled toward Thorne. He drew her into his lap, scooping one arm beneath her legs to keep the enormous skirt from tangling around her. Sobbing, Cress buried her face against his chest and let the tears come. She cried hard at first, the release pouring out of her all at once. But she almost felt guilty when, minutes later, the tears already started to dry up. Her sadness wasn’t enough. Her mourning wasn’t enough. But it was all she had.

Thorne held her until the sound of his heartbeat became louder than the sound of her crying. He smoothed her hair back from her face, and though it was selfish, Cress was glad that he couldn’t see her then, with her red face and puffy eyes and all the unladylike fluids she’d left on his shirt.

“Listen, Cress,” he murmured against her hair once her breaths were almost stable. “I’m not an expert by any means, but I know you didn’t do anything wrong today. You shouldn’t tell someone you love them unless you mean it.”

She sniffed. “But I thought you said you’ve told lots of girls that you loved them.”

“Which is exactly why I’m not an expert. Thing is, I didn’t love any of them. I’m honestly not sure I would recognize real love if it was…”

She swiped the back of her hand over her damp cheeks. “If it was what?”

“Nothing.” Clearing his throat, Thorne leaned his head against the back of the chair. “Are you all right?”

Sniffing again, she nodded. “I think so. I might still be in a little bit of shock.”

“I think we all are, after today.”

Cress spotted the bottle of the eyedropper solution, beside the doctor’s portscreen. She didn’t want to pry herself away from Thorne’s arms, but she also didn’t want to think about the doctor anymore. The secret he’d kept. The words she couldn’t say. “We should probably take care of these eyedrops.”

“When you’re done shaking,” Thorne said. “I don’t like shaking things near my eyes.”

She laughed weakly and went to pull herself from his lap. Thorne’s arms tightened, but only for a moment before he let her go. She forced her guilt back inside. She wouldn’t think about it right now.

After reading the doctor’s instructions—three drops in each eye, four times a day for one week—she unscrewed the top. Drawing the solution up into the dropper, she moved to stand behind Thorne’s chair, her wrinkled gown swaying around her.