“Another boy? Did he stay behind when the clans split?” It occurs to me that maybe the boy is still in the Bosha clan. Maybe you hope that you will be reunited.
“No,” you say. “He came with us when we left for the south, but he never saw it. Before we reached the southern shores, he died.”
The next few moments seem to stretch out and pass slowly. I feel your words hang in the air like a ghost. He died. Of all the things I’d expected you might say—all the reasons I’d thought you might give for not being promised—this was not one of them.
“As for the possibility of being promised to Seeri’s betrothed, you met him, right? He isn’t the most subtle or humble of men. Not that I’m particularly strong in those traits, myself. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t like me—”
“Seeri’s betrothed doesn’t like you?”
You slide back, the presence of the ghost grows heavy like a weight, and I wish I hadn’t asked so many questions. Your attention is on the space behind my shoulder, and your expression has turned dark. “I won’t lie to you—the possibility of marrying me instead of Seeri was offered to him, but he had no interest in the idea.” You drop your eyes to the floor and then quickly raise them to meet mine. If you are harboring any feelings of self-pity, they don’t show. “I imagine he had the same reasons you laid out yourself that night in my camp. Your thoughts on the traits that make a woman a good wife? I believe my sister’s betrothed would list the same characteristics—patience, a lack of arrogance—and Seeri has those things. And that, I assume, explains why he chose her.”
I search my memory, trying to recall exactly what I said that night. I know I deliberately chose things I believed you lacked. Why was I so confrontational? Was I hoping to humiliate you, to punish you for rejecting me?
But then I remember—it was you who wanted confrontation. As soon as things began to settle down, you had to ask a question that would ramp things up again. What traits in a woman make her a good wife? you asked me. I had tried to smother the confrontation, but you fanned the smoldering embers. You wanted the flames.
It’s my turn to slide back, drawing my damp palms across the coarse coat of a giant bearskin, a pelt I considered luxurious before I saw the riches of furs and hides in your own camp. I’m far enough from you now that perspective returns, and as I take you in, I realize the extent to which you have misled me.
For these few moments, sitting here in this close, dim space with you, my senses confused by unfamiliar scents and flavors and the curl of your lips, I almost forgot all that I learned about you today from Lo. I almost forgot the mistreatment she suffered at the hands of your family, at your own hands.
Hands that at this moment rest, palms up, in your lap, feigning innocence.
I glance at the ivory pendant around your neck and think of its bone twin around Lo’s.
Bone isn’t good enough for you anymore. If Lo can have bone, you must have ivory.
“How did he die?” I’m not sure when I decided to ask, but the question has been turning in my head since you first mentioned him. I know it might hurt you to talk about it. Maybe that’s why I ask.
“How did who—”
“Your betrothed. How did he die?”
“I’m not sure that’s a story you want to hear or one I want to tell. At least not right now.”
What’s wrong with right now? I don’t ask you; I don’t have to. You sit just as before: leaning slightly forward, your hair falling over the front of your shoulders. Your gaze flits all around the room, only occasionally sliding to my face and hovering there, your lips parted slightly as if you are anticipating something.
None of this is by chance, I realize. Everything about this moment—the lingering sweetness on my lips, the glistening expectation on yours—it’s all been set in place by you. I lean toward you, taking a tentative step into the center of your elaborate snare, then step back just before the trap can spring. “It is a story I want to hear,” I say. “We’re here. . . . Why not tell me now?”
“Fine.” Your voice is clipped and sharp. I’ve finally pushed you hard enough that you’re ready to push back. I knew you would. It’s in your nature.
You lean away, your hands balled into small tight fists at your sides, each knuckle a bright white spike. You let out an abrupt sigh, bite back an almost-spoken word, and those angry fists push into the bearskin as you jump to your feet.
“Where are you going?”
“Some people can see things with their hearts. Others need to see them with their eyes.”
I scramble to my feet. “It would be helpful if you didn’t speak in riddles,” I say.