Freya grabs for my right hand, but Oskar knocks her arm away just in time. “Remember what I told you about her hand!”
“Oh! Right,” Freya says, then grabs my left and begins to pull me toward their shelter. I look over my shoulder for Oskar, but he’s already striding toward the exit to the main cavern like he’s glad to be rid of my company. I push down a strange twinge of disappointment and follow Freya, flashing a smile at anyone who’ll meet my eyes. Most of them offer hard stares in return. I’m relieved when we duck into a shelter, which is sectioned into three small areas separated by walls made of animal fur. There’s a wide space at the front containing a small loom, a grinding stone with a pestle lying on top of it, a fire pit, and a large pile of tools, many I don’t know the names for. I’ve never seen such things outside the pages of the books used for my studies, and part of me wants to go over and pick each one up, just to see how they feel in my hands. The rest of me realizes that would only make me look more foolish than I already do.
The front chamber of this shelter is large enough to allow two tall men to lie head to head, and deep enough to allow one tall man—like Oskar—to lie straight. The fur walls, which are made from several different animal pelts stitched together with burlap string, are rich brown, glinting in the light of the small fire in the stone-bounded pit.
A woman about my height, her light-brown hair knotted into a bun on the back of her head, emerges from one of the smaller areas, moving aside a thick, furry pelt that’s been nailed to the tall wooden frame. She looks like she’s in her midthirties, her forehead creased and weather-worn. Her gray eyes focus in on my clearly ridiculous hair arrangement, and her lips press together. “You must be Elli.”
“I am, and you . . . ?”
“Maarika.” She’s much paler than Oskar, who clearly spent the entire summer in the sun, and her appearance is neat, not a hair out of place, the opposite of Oskar’s disheveled roughness. But they have one thing in common—they are both very difficult to read.
I curtsy again, because I have no idea what else to do, but Maarika only frowns at me. “Thank you for taking me in,” I say. “I’d like to do anything I can to—”
“Can you grind some corn for me?” she asks. “I’m trying to make Oskar a new tunic to replace the one he shredded last week, and Freya’s needed to fetch the water.” She doesn’t say it in an unfriendly or harsh way. It seems like she’s simply informing me of the reality of their lives. “Well?” she asks when I hesitate. “Can you?”
I blink at her, stiffly moving the fingers of my right hand within the long sleeve of my dress and trying not to wince as the raw flesh rubs against my bandages. “Ah . . . yes. Of course.”
She bobs her head. “Wonderful.” She points to a pile of dried-out corncobs, their husks pulled back, sitting in a basket woven from green twigs. “Corn’s there.” She points to a wooden bowl sitting next to the grinding stone. “Put it there when you’re done.”
She disappears back into the small, torch-lit chamber at the back of the shelter. I slowly move toward the corncobs, my heart thumping. I’ve read about this vegetable, how it’s planted and harvested, how it’s an important crop for our people. But . . . the only time I’ve actually seen real corn is when it’s been served to me on a plate, kernels roasted and plump and sweet. I know it can also be dried and ground into meal—and I also know that the pestle and grinding stone are used for that purpose. I smile. I can do this. It can’t be that hard. I kneel, pick up a cob, and place it on the grinding stone. The moment I reach for the pestle, I hear a giggle from behind me.
“Who taught you to do it that way?” Freya kneels by my side. She picks up the cob and strips the kernels off with strong, confident strokes of her thumbs. The tiny golden nuggets fall with little plinks to the grinding stone. When she’s finished, she piles kernels into the shallow depression, picks up the broad pestle, and crushes them with quick, decisive twists of her skinny wrist. She offers me the pestle. “Like that.”
I blow out a breath through my pursed lips. “Of course. Like that.” I accept the pestle. It’s heavier than it looks, rough against my thin, untested skin.
She tilts her head and gazes up at me. “Your kerchief really looks silly.” Without asking permission, she unknots it, then folds it on a diagonal so it forms a triangle instead of a long rectangle as I had done. I feel like such a fool, but am grateful as she flattens it over my head and ties it at the nape of my neck, beneath my thick locks. Next, she tugs on my sleeve. Seeing what she intends, I pull my arms in, and she turns my dress around so that it’s no longer backward.
“Thank you so much,” I whisper.