She laughed lightly. “That kind of messes with my head when you put it that way. I remember you telling me about this stuff when we were kids. Or trying to.”

“I was pretty obnoxious. Probably I was just trying to impress you.”

“Show me more,” she said.

He did just that; Michael traced the sky. Polaris and the Big Dipper. Bright Antares and blue-tinted Vega and her neighbors, the small cluster known as Delphinius the Dolphin. The broad galactic band of the Milky Way, running horizon to horizon, north to south, bisecting the eastern sky like a cloud of light. He told her all he could think of, her interest never wavering, and when he was done, she said, “I’m cold.”

Alicia scooted forward from the transom; Michael crossed over and wedged himself behind her, his legs positioned on either side of her waist. He pulled the blanket up, wrapping the two of them, drawing her in for warmth.

“We haven’t talked about what happened on the ship,” Alicia said.

“We don’t have to if you don’t want.”

“I feel like I owe you an explanation.”

“You don’t.”

“Why did you come in after me, Michael?”

“I didn’t really give it a lot of thought. It was a heat-of-the-moment thing.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He shrugged, then said, “I guess you could say I don’t much like it when people I care about try to kill themselves. I’ve been down that road before. I take it kind of personally.”

His words stopped her flat. “I’m sorry. I should have thought—”

“And there’s absolutely no reason you would have. Just don’t do it again, okay? I’m not such a great swimmer.”

A silence fell. It was not uncomfortable but the opposite: the silence of shared history, of those who can speak without talking. The night was full of small sounds that, paradoxically, seemed to magnify the quiet: each shifting touch of water against the hull; the pinging of the lines against the spars; the creak of the anchor line in its cleat.

“Why did you name her Nautilus?” Alicia asked. The back of her head was resting against his chest.

“It was something from a book I read when I was a kid. It just seemed to fit.”

“Well, it does. I think it’s nice.” Then, quietly: “What you said, in the cell.”

“That I loved you.” He felt no embarrassment, only the calm of truth. “I just thought you should know. It seemed like a big waste otherwise. I’ve kind of had it with secrets. It’s okay—you don’t have to say anything about it.”

“But I want to.”

“Well, a thank-you would be nice.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Actually, it’s exactly that simple.”

She fit the fingers of one hand into his, pressing their palms together. “Thank you, Michael.”

“And you are most welcome.”

The air was damp, mist falling, beads clinging to every surface. At an indeterminate distance, waves were hissing on the sand.

“God, the two of us,” she said. “We’ve been fighting our whole lives.”

“That we have.”

“I’m so…tired of it.” She drew his arm tighter around her waist. “I thought about you, you know. When I was in New York.”

“Did you now?”

“I thought: What is Michael doing today? What is he doing to save the world?”

He laughed lightly. “I’m honored.”

“As you should be.” A pause; then she spoke again. “Do you ever think about them? Your parents.”

The question, though unexpected, did not seem strange. “Once in a while. It was a long time ago, though.”

“I don’t really remember mine. They died when I was so young. Just little things, I guess. My mother had a silver hairbrush she liked. It was very old; I think it belonged to my grandmother. She used to visit me in the Sanctuary and brush my hair with it.”

Michael considered this. “Now, that sounds right to me. I think I recall something like that happening.”

“You do?”

“She’d put you on a stool in the dormitory, by the big window. I remember her humming—not a song exactly, more like just notes.”

“Huh,” Alicia said after a moment. “I didn’t know anyone was paying attention.”

They were quiet for a time. Even before she said the words, Michael sensed their approach. He did not know what she was about to tell him, only that she was.