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.
“Bring a spear.” You step to the door and draw back the drape enough to reveal a piece of the western sky, tinged blood red. The sun hangs so low, it’s hidden beyond the distant hills, but this is the time of year when the Divine treads slowly across the sky, and the sun refuses to set. “You are aware that something happened five years ago, and our two clans almost went to war. To you, the events of that day are insubstantial—”
“That’s not true—”
“Maybe someone you knew died—”
“Yes,” I say, remembering Tram’s father dressed for the hunt, lying in his grave.
“But that day does not follow you. For you, it stays in the past. But not for me. That day five years ago never leaves me. Its ghosts are always here.” As you speak, your cheeks flush the same intense red as the setting sun. Your eyes widen with excitement. “There’s so much you don’t understand. In a way, I suppose I envied you your ignorance. But you should know the whole story about that day. Ignorance never protected anyone for long.”
What could your betrothed’s death have to do with the death of Tram’s father, or any of the events of that day? Somehow I fear that once I learn the whole story of what happened between our clans five years ago, nothing will ever be the same.
You duck out through the door and I follow. “Some people need to see things to understand them. So let’s go.”
NINETEEN
The world outside is dim and muted—the sky a muted blue, the voices floating from the center of camp a muted hum. We manage to