“So he can make things out of trees. So what?” says Roon. Pek’s eyes leap to our youngest brother’s face. Though he’s the same age as Lees, Roon is not as naive. He gets the subtext of this discussion, and he intends to jump into the fray. “My brother Pek can hunt down a mammoth, skin it, butcher it, and make a boat from the pelt and bones. Can your friend Morsk do that?”
Lees doesn’t reply. Instead, she just stares at Roon as if she’s just noticed him for the first time. But if she overlooked him before, she makes up for it now. In all the ways she resembles her sister Seeri, she looks at Roon in the same way Seeri looks at Pek—with a look of sudden recognition. It’s as if she’s always known him and is somehow surprised to find him here—right here, in front of her—right where she left him before time began. “I’m sorry, what was your name?” she asks. A miniature version of Seeri’s smile blooms across her lips, and the trancelike expression I’ve seen on Pek falls over Roon’s young face.
My eyes sweep from Roon to my mother, who sits beside him. Her lips press into a thin line, and her usually bright eyes are dim with hurt.
That’s all I can stand. My mother’s pained expression pushes me to speak.
“These are all strong traits to find in a man—familiarity, friendship, family ties, and as the children pointed out—talents and skills in craftsmanship are valuable, too. We are fortunate to have not just one man, but several like this in our midst.”
“This is true,” says Chev. “Several men seated here would make very worthy husbands.”
These words of Chev’s are ambiguous, of course. He could mean Morsk and Pek, or he could mean only men of his own clan. But it is a bit of a concession, and my father seizes it.
“I agree,” he says.
“Yes, several indeed,” adds my mother.
I draw in a deep breath as the tension eases, if only a bit. Voices fall quiet as everyone eats.
But it doesn’t last long. My second bite of bison is still in my mouth when you speak.
“What about women?” you ask. No one replies at first, and I wonder if maybe I imagined your voice. But then you continue. “We’ve talked about the traits that make a man a good choice for a mate. But I wonder what might the necessary female traits be?”
“Well,” I say, without looking up. I shoot a quick glance at my brother Pek, hoping for help, but his eyes are averted.
Of course they are. Why should he help me? He probably blames me for all this—for coming here and killing the cat before he could.
Beside me, my father clears his throat. Could he possibly know about the friction between you and me?
I wedge my hands, palms down, under my legs, digging my fingers into the fur of the bearskin that covers the ground. The fur is coarse on the surface, but underneath, closer to the hide, it’s soft. My mouth has gone dry, but I force myself to swallow before I speak again. “The traits that make a woman a good choice for a mate . . . That list could include many things: even-temperedness. Cooperation. Patience.” I try to look at you—it would be rude to reply to your question while staring at my food—but I can’t force my eyes to meet yours. Instead I study a pendant you wear, a carved white disk of bone or maybe ivory that lies against the base of your throat. It hangs on a simple cord strung with a few bright white beads. “Above all, a lack of a certain kind of arrogance that might cause her to assume that every offered word or gift—whether a simple pouch of honey or the pelt of a cat—is meant as a bribe.”
I wonder if I’ve gone too far. My gaze finally flits up to meet yours. No discreetly dropped eyes—instead, you are watching me with a piercing stare. You are game for this exchange.
“That’s truly a shame,” you answer. Your eyes darken, but a fleeting twitch tugs at the corners of your mouth before you purse your lips, banishing any hint of a smile. “If those are the standards by which a woman is to be judged, then I will certainly never find a mate.”
“I wouldn’t say that. After all, every man is unique. Every man would have his own answer to your question.”
“I can only hope to find that to be true,” you say. The curl returns to the corners of your mouth—the most cryptic smile I’ve ever seen. Are you mocking me? Baiting me? My eyes drop back down to your necklace, lingering on the curved lines of your throat. My heart jumps around in my chest like a startled bird, its wings hammering against my rib cage.
Everyone continues eating, and I do the best I can to finish my food. Lees scrambles up from the ground and begins to collect empty mats. Roon and Kesh get to their feet to stretch, and Chev excuses himself to fetch another skin of mead. If his conversation during the meal was a bit inhospitable, he clearly intends to make up for it in the sharing of drink.
“I’d like to go down to the shore and take a look at the boats,” says Roon.
My father weighs this request as he climbs to his feet, and I wonder if he thinks acknowledging their craftsmanship might give Morsk too much credit.