“How’d you figure I’m into astronomy in the first place?” I turn the conversation back to her. I forgot to ask back at the New Amsterdam. “There’s always an astronomy book tucked under your arm. There was one in Italy, when you were on the balcony, and one the first time you came to Calypso Hall. It’s almost like your anchor. It grounds you, doesn’t it?” “It’s not a security blanket.” I scoff. “I think it is.” She arches an eyebrow. “Luckily you’re not paid to think, but to recite lines better thinkers have written.” “Spare me.”
