“Not just for a party,” Benjy said. “He came here to see me.”
“But it’s dangerous,” Ayla insisted.
Benjy was frowning now. “So? It’s worth it, isn’t it? We’re family. It’s important to stay connected to each other. In case you forgot, Ayla, that’s what we’re fighting for.”
Stay connected. Once again, she thought of the red thread in Kinok’s office. “I don’t have a family. And I’m still fighting.”
His expression softened. He reached out to touch her shoulder, thumb on her collarbone. “But you have the memories of them. You have ancestors, you have stories.”
“Not really,” she said. “My father’s family is all dead and my mother never talked about her side. All I know of her line is that I was named after her grandmother. That’s it.”
“Her grandmother’s name was Ayla?”
“Siena Ayla.” Ayla looked away, jaw tight. “A name. That’s all I have.” She clutched the locket under her shirt. A name, and a necklace.
“Ayla,” Benjy said quietly.
“What?”
“Nothing. I’m just saying your name. Ayla.” He stepped closer, letting her name whisper across her skin. “Ayla. It is a gift. It is a memory. And that’s one they can’t take from you.”
Ayla felt the strange urge to laugh. A memory was nothing like a gift.
A memory: the day before the raids. A stupid, childish fight, Storme and Ayla shrieking at each other for no reason, Ayla hurling a handful of dirt and then, when that didn’t make him stop teasing her, she hurled words. I hate you. She spat them out like poisoned water. I hate you. I wish I didn’t have a brother. I wish you’d go away forever. She was so angry, her small body vibrating with it, and he was laughing at her. Like the child he was. Leave me alone! she screamed at him, and never took it back.
And the next day—
“Sometimes I wish I remembered nothing,” she whispered, stepping back, her throat burning. “Sometimes it seems like that would be so much easier.”
Benjy opened his mouth to reply, but just then Finn returned, pressing masks into their hands: a fox for Ayla and a plain straw mask for Benjy. Ayla put the mask on, immediately feeling much more comfortable with her face hidden. The dyed wool was scratchy on her cheeks.
They joined the party, Finn shouting and laughing and dragging Benjy along behind him. A girl she recognized from the stables handed Ayla a cup of the pale wine. It tasted terrible, bitter and sour all at once, but she drank anyway. The wine burned all the way down, a line of heat from throat to belly, and by her second cup Ayla was warm and pleasantly tipsy, bobbing along in her own head. The drums pulsed in her rib cage. Whenever he wasn’t with Finn, Benjy kept touching her lightly, guiding her through the crowd, hand on her hip and arm and shoulder.
It was easy, for a while, to forget. Ayla drank her wine in great big swallows and let herself sway along with the music, so warm, sweating a little. She let Benjy pull her close and then closer, arm around her waist. She smiled at everyone she recognized and also everyone she didn’t, even though her face was hidden behind the mask.
“Aren’t you glad you came?” said Benjy when they returned to the casks of wine for a third cup. “Aren’t you glad you listened to me?”
“Maybe,” she teased him. “I don’t know. You shouldn’t ask me things like that when I’m swimming in wine.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“Because I’ll say yes.”
“Maybe there are some things I want you to say yes to.”
Ayla laughed. “What are you talking about?”
“Ayla,” he said, sounding very serious all of a sudden. She caught the movement of his throat, a nervous swallow. “Ayla, I need to tell you something—”
Suddenly, her stomach hardened.
No no no—
“It’s my fault Nessa died,” she blurted out.
The ensuing pause was terrible. Benjy stared at her for a second, confused, and then he shook his head. “Wait,” he said, “wait, what, what are you—Ayla, I really need to tell you—I want to tell you—”
“She lent me her handkerchief,” Ayla barreled on, quiet enough that no one else would hear her over the drums and singing but loud enough, sharp enough, to make Benjy’s mouth snap shut. She couldn’t do this, couldn’t hear whatever he wanted to tell her; she had a sick feeling that she knew what it was and she couldn’t, not now, not ever maybe. What