He cannot see the girl’s smile through the darkness and that is perhaps for the best. He does not need any reason to resent her.

His learning to fly had not been a thing to be proud of. His mother had been a hard thing, a mean thing, and there had been no praise. (And Mariner had not praised the girl, not really, but he had perhaps come as close as he could.) There had been no reason for smiling, no reason for his heart to swell with anything resembling pride. Flight has never meant freedom for him, not really. It has always been a reminder of what he came from.

He feels her joy and he wants to destroy it. And perhaps he does. Perhaps his new ability to drain others of their emotions works better than he realizes even without his being aware of it.

But she calls out a question to him and, though he does not need a reason, he resents her anyway. Because it is much too personal a thing to ask. Because he is not a brave thing. He is a coward, he has always been a coward. Does he seem brave to her? He turns his gaze in her direction but cannot see her through the crushing darkness. 

He grits his teeth, tucks his knees, and drops out of the sky. He lands hard enough to kick the air up out of his chest. The child has gotten too close, he thinks. That is enough, plenty, there is no reason for him to linger any longer. But the galaxies splashed across his knees, the stars that streak down his face, they give him away. He cannot so easily take his leave. If she wants to stop him, she can.