Lo and I take the trail that winds through the thin forest of birch trees that grow in the rocky soil near the shore. This swath is among the few patches of trees we have within our hunting range—these weathered, spindly trees that manage to dig their roots into the narrow strip of soil that forms a buffer between the sea and the wide stretches of grassland. The path is steep in spots, climbing up the cliffs to a summit that overlooks the bay before turning and heading back down to the western shore. In a few spots, the forest floor grows rocky, and it’s dangerous if you don’t watch your step. Still, it’s mostly easy on our feet, carpeted by sedges and mosses that form a cushion under the soles of our boots. And it’s secluded and private, so it’s the path I choose. Lo doesn’t seem to mind.
The day is bright, and the path is covered in broken splashes of sun and shade. Wind off the sea stirs the branches, creating a rushing sound that almost sounds like rain. I glance at Lo as she walks just an arm’s length from my side. Her eyes are down, carefully watching her feet to avoid sticks and exposed roots. The light flits across her dark hair like stars in the night sky. Something inside me longs to reach out and touch her, and I find myself imagining her tripping, her toe getting stuck on the edge of a rock and her balance being lost just enough to justify a hand under her elbow or even better, an arm thrown hurriedly around her waist.
For some reason, this thought brings you to my mind. I remember the cold disdain in your voice as you made your excuses and ran away to your hut when I’d introduced you to Lo.
“Do you mind if I ask a question? If it’s something you’d rather not answer, just say so.”
Lo wobbles as her foot settles on a loose rock, and for a brief moment I think I will have to reach out to catch her after all, but she rights herself and regains her balance almost instantly.
“Ask me anything you want.” Her tone is open and inviting, and I convince myself that the reason she doesn’t look up is to ensure she doesn’t land on another wobbly rock.
“Well,” I start. I stop a moment and watch Lo’s hair bounce against her back, and once again, I can’t push the thought of you from my mind. Your hair is a bit longer and straighter than Lo’s. Hers has the waves of hair that’s been braided while wet.
“I wanted to ask you about the girls I introduced you to earlier. Seeri and Mya. Have you met them before?”
“Are you asking because they were so rude to me?”
A gust of breeze blows her hair, obscuring her face, but it doesn’t matter. As soon as she answers I know she knows you. There’s anger in her voice—a wound that hasn’t healed. Or a debt left unsettled.
“It was impossible not to notice,” I say.
“Of course it was. Those girls are worse than rude. They’re selfish. The whole family, the sisters, their brother . . .”
We walk a bit farther in silence. My heart quickens, but I can’t be sure if it’s reacting to the climb or to what Lo said. The path turns away from the coast a bit and rises to a rocky slope. I let Lo go ahead of me, but that denies me the benefit of watching her face. I feel that if I could see her face as she spoke I might decipher some sort of mystery. Not just a mystery about the cold reunion I’d witnessed, but a mystery about you—about what experiences in your past have made you so rude and arrogant.
Not that it ultimately makes a difference to me. If you choose to be unfriendly and superior, I can only feel fortunate not to have been matched to you.
In this stretch of the trail, the ground is eroded to the rock bed below. Boulders stand out at angles, allowing us footholds, but the steepness makes my heart pound harder and my breath come quicker.
“So, when did you meet Mya and Seeri? Do you know them from before they moved south? Did they visit your clan as they passed through five years ago?”
“Five years ago . . .” Each word crackles from Lo’s lips like new wood hissing in the flame. Finally, she stops and looks back at me. Even from a distance, her eyes are like fresh-cut obsidian, hard and dark, but with a glow deep inside. “They didn’t pass through my clan.” The whispering in the trees falls silent. “They are my clan.”
SIXTEEN
My pulse quickens, drumming in my temples. I hurry to catch up to Lo, leaving the trail and scrambling over a steeper section of rock, so that I reach the crest at the same moment she does. I take in the hardened angles of her usually rounded face—the tight lines drawn around the edges of her mouth—before she hurries ahead again.
“They are your clan? How is that possible? You’re from the Bosha clan. They call themselves the Olen. . . .”
She doesn’t reply, doesn’t speak at all. The thrumming in my head grows louder, making it hard for me to think.
Lo continues to climb, though she slows her pace. I stay as close as I can; I don’t want to miss a whispered word of her answer. Finally, without looking at me, she speaks. “Until five years ago, we were all one clan. They were part of the Bosha. Their father, Olen, was our High Elder. But there was a rift and they abandoned their own people. They left us—Chev, his sisters, and about half the clan.