My heart thuds as we stare at each other. The wispfire growing all over the ceiling washes her skin with blue-green light. Her dark eyes are wary, but not afraid. I’m beginning to think she doesn’t have that in her. “We’re keeping this door locked.” I break the silence, my voice rusty. “I’ve got the key, and I’m going to keep it with me at all times. That shouldn’t have happened.”

She shifts, trying to sit up a little straighter where she’s leaning against the wall, but says nothing in return. If she’s relieved, she doesn’t show it, gaze skittering away from mine to fix on the door. “You called him McBride.” Her own voice is hoarse.

I flinch. “Yes.” And I know why she’s asking. McBride’s been at the top of TerraDyn’s most-wanted list for the last decade. To someone like Jubilee, getting her hands on him would be like…well, like us getting our hands on her.

“He’s got one of our guns.”

“He likes the poetry of it.” Killing soldiers with their own weapons.

She speaks through clenched teeth. “He’s mad.”

No kidding, I want to say. Instead I stay silent, reaching for the meager first aid supplies I’ve brought with me. She flinches when I reach for the bottom of her shirt, but she lets me ease the bloodstained fabric up and away from her skin. The gash my bullet made when it grazed her side is oozing, and above it I can see the beginnings of the sharp, dramatic bruising across her ribs. I wish I’d brought a lantern, but I don’t want anyone to catch me using our precious first aid supplies on a trodaire. Safer to work by the dim blue light of the wispfire. I clean the worst of the blood away with a boiled rag, then reach for a small tin in the first aid kit.

“What’s that?” There’s an edge to her voice as I prize the lid free and sniff the brown muck inside to test its freshness.

“Microbiotic mud from TerraDyn’s seeding tanks.” I’m trying to concentrate on the wound, and not Jubilee’s bare stomach as I run my fingers across her skin and test for the heat of infection.

“Mud.” Dubiousness cuts through the pain in her voice; she’s eyeing me like I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have. Her face is flushed—with anger, no doubt, or pain.

I pull my hand away and scoop out some of our makeshift antiseptic. “Mud,” I echo. “It’ll help keep infection away.” I carefully start to smooth it over the wound as she flinches and hisses with pain. Her skin twitches under my touch, and when I glance up, she’s staring intently at the ceiling with her lip caught between her teeth.

“The light,” she says finally, voice tense with pain, but softer now. “How do you do that?” Her eyes are on the bioluminescence lighting the cavern.

Though her face betrays little except that she’s braced against my ministrations, her gaze is softening, eyes sweeping across the ceiling with something like wonder. In this moment she could be one of us. I don’t think I’ve ever seen an outsider admire any part of Avon before.

“It’s a kind of mushroom or fungus,” I say, trying to focus on what I’m doing; it’s hard not to watch her face. “We’ve always called it wispfire.”

She’s silent for a long time. “It’s like a nebula,” she murmurs, almost to herself. I risk another glance at her, and though her eyes are glazed a little with pain, she’s still gazing upward.

“A nebula’s something in the sky, right?” I reply, keeping my own voice low. The distraction is making this process easier for her, and I want to get through it as quickly as possible. Or—and I can barely admit it even to myself—perhaps it’s because this softer, quieter version of Jubilee is fascinating. “I’ve wondered before if that’s how starlight looks.”

She blinks, refocusing with some difficulty on my face. “You’ve never been off-world before.” It’s not quite a question—but she’s surprised.

“How would I get off-world?” Despite my good intentions, I can hear the bitterness in my voice. “Avon’s my home, anyway. Clouds or no clouds.”

I’m bracing myself for a snapped retort, but it doesn’t come. I wipe my fingers clean without looking at her face, replacing the tin in the kit and reaching for the bandages instead.

“I’ve always thought nebulae were beautiful,” she says finally, her voice still quiet. She sounds tired, and I can’t blame her; the injuries I’m treating make my own side ache in sympathy. “When a star dies, it explodes; a nebula is what’s left behind.” She’s still gazing up at the blue-green swirls on the ceiling. “Eventually new stars grow inside them, from what remains of the old.”

“A pregnant star.” I smooth the adhesive bandage over her side, grimacing when she flinches. “I like that.”

The strangeness of the conversation seems to strike her at the same time it strikes me, and she cranes her neck to look down at her freshly bandaged side. “Look, why are you doing this?”

“Because not all of us are like him,” I reply, keeping my voice carefully even. “Some of us realize that just because it’s easier to pick up a gun and shoot than it is to talk, doesn’t make it right.”

“And yet you work with men like McBride.”

“You think I don’t know we’d be better off without him?” As though patching her up was keeping my frustration at bay, now it comes surging back. “If it were as simple as taking him out into the swamp one night and ending it, maybe it would already be done.”