3 – 4

Clarke's idea, as it turns out, is a seat on the waterfront. The press and noise of the crowd fades as we put some distance and a few buildings between us. The crash of music, song, laughter, and conversation becomes the cry of hungry gulls circling overhead and the splash of water on the shore. Fathers take their sons to the very ends of the piers to cast lines into the water, either in an effort to actually catch something or to simply spend time with their child. Mothers walk the sandy shore, watching hawk-eyed as their children play in the shallows and dart beneath the piers. Others find quiet places on benches or beneath trees just to sit and be on this beautiful autumn's day.

There are even – as I had seen before – a few handfuls of boats out on the lake. Their white sails fat with wind as they carry people on a leisurely cruise across the waters. Don't they know there are eels out there? Big ones? They must. Valdenwood is a fishing town, there's no way they don't. If they want to risk being eaten by some knobbly, slimy snake-thing longer than their vessel, that's their business. I'll content myself with knowing better from here.

Between Clarke and me there is quiet, and has been since we left Mallory's. At first it was because it was too loud to talk to each other without shouting. Then, when we could speak at a volume kinder on our throats, we just didn't. It's the kind of quiet I dislike, the kind that's leaden and uncomfortable and I want to break. The longer it goes on, the more desperate I get, the harder it becomes for me to think of something to say.

It is extremely irritating.

Talking to people is never something I'd struggled with before. Not among my family, nor with Harlan. The words never stuck before, not like they do now. It's only with Clarke that this happens, only with her, and I've little idea as to why.

Of course, it's not as if she's helpless in this. This quiet could be ended by her just as easily as by me. So, why doesn't she? Is she suffering this same, strange affliction? Do the words that would otherwise come easily to her now abandon her in this time of great need?

Is she going to leave? Is it going to be my fault when she does, because I couldn't think well enough to keep her here? It's that thought that cracks the dam in my throat, that finally allows me to speak. “So,” I creak, and before I can say another word, I'm interrupted.

By Clarke. “Are you alright?” she asks. “You seemed troubled, earlier. At Mallory's.”

Troubled.

It's as good a word as any other. How else to describe the moonlit mess of homesick longing and strange offense from being mothered by a woman who isn't mine? “I was, I suppose,” I say, “I'm not used to so many people.”

Her brow furrows, hand rising to her throat, fingertips brushing against the ice at its hollow. A thoughtful gesture before, now one of comfort. Regret's on her tongue when she says, “I should have warned you, then, but we were dancing, and having fun, and...” She shrugs. “I'm sorry.”

“It's alright,” I tell her, and it is. “I was just...caught off-guard, is all.”

Clarke gives me a brief, grateful smile, just touching the corner of her eyes, and turns back to the waterfront. It's the other breed of quiet that falls now, the content and calm one. The kind I can bask in for hours as the wheels turn and the road rolls away. She breaks it by saying, “I don't think – no, I never did ask – where are you from?”

“I am from nowhere,” I answer, as all Royah must. “and call nowhere home.” Even if it's not, by strict definition, true. Home is a wagon with a rearing horse carved into the door. Home is Mother, Father, Tals, and Djan. Home is my family, who aren't here.

My words spark understanding in Clarke's eyes, brightening the blue of them even further. “You're of the Lost,” she says, “You're Royah.”

“I am,” I confirm.

She nods. “That would explain your accent.”

I come to a bare-footed halt. “What? I don't have an accent!”

Clarke's mouth turns upward at the corners. Understanding is not the only light in those eyes, not anymore. “Yes you do.”

Annoyed, I snap, “I should think that if I did – which I don't – then I would have noticed by now! Someone would've told me.”

She – there is no other word for it – saunters on ahead, tossing lofty, teasing words back over her shoulder. “Someone has. Keep up, will you?” I groan. She laughs, which means I can't be annoyed anymore. Rolling my eyes, I follow.

- - -

We're seated at the end of the shortest and oldest pier of the town's waterfront, looking out at the lake. It's quite beautiful, really. In the moonlight, the beauty is of a soft and placid sort. Under the sun it's more vibrant and mobile, I suppose. Looking at either the silver-soft, glassy surface or the dance of the white-capped waves gives me a feeling of calm, of peace. I think it's something to do with the vastness of it all. Clarke has set her back against one of the last two wooden pillars at the pier's edge. One leg she has folded beneath her, the other she lets swing above the shallow waters below. Instead of the lake, she watches me.

It feels nice. A lone, optimistic gull circles far overhead. Its cry is muted by distance and the wind. I've folded my legs beneath me – no eels will be sinking their horrid little teeth into my toes – and content myself with pretending I haven't noticed. What's she looking for? Why is she looking for it? I can't help but wonder. The wind blows my hair across my face, showing me the tangles and dirt. I haven't bathed in nearly three days. It's not nice anymore.

Here, away from the crowd and distraction, she can see clearly how terrible a state I am in. She thinks less of me for it, she must. She must be regretting her choice to dance with me, to share Mallory Knott's sweets with me, to stay in my company. It's intolerable to think, but it must be true. What else could she be thinking? Why else could she be looking at me?

Except she is a magi. There is no way she wouldn't have seen before now. She has also shown herself to be kind and considerate. Mallory has, as well. Neither of them has said a word. Perhaps that is what she is thinking of; a way to kindly suggest I take a bath. This, I find much more tolerable. Agreeable, even. Except, when Clarke speaks, what she says is, “I like it, by the way.” I look away from the lake. What? That I'm dirty? “Your accent, I mean. I...it's nice. I was only teasing.”

All that I had been thinking leaves, replaced by a warmth in my chest and a flutter in my belly. What is it that makes things this way? It's as if I have no control over my own thoughts and feelings. It's wonderful and irritating in equal measure. That's to say nothing of how – sometimes – I find myself simply at a loss for words. Times such as this. Eventually, I manage to say, “My – thank you.” She smiles at me, and there goes that flutter. “It's beautiful here.”

If she notices how eager I am to change the subject, she doesn't say. “It is,” she agrees, dipping her head. Ink-dark hair spills over her shoulder. “It's also quiet, and I sometimes find myself in need of that.”

I snort. “That, I understand well. There were times when I'd give anything for five minutes of my brothers' silence.” There's something soft and wistful in the way I say it.

It's noticed. “You miss them,” Clarke says softly. I nod, humming. I miss them terribly, which a week ago I'd have found laughable. Now, it makes me want to cry a little. Djan, with all his playacting at being grown. Tals, with his childish jealousies and joys. I do cry a little. It startles Clarke, who hurries to say, “I'm sorry, did I say something – are they – I mean, are they...gone?”

It takes me a moment to grasp her meaning. When I do, I snort again and shake my head. “No,” I tell her, wiping my eyes dry. “All alive. They're not here, is all, and I miss them more than I thought I would.”

“Then, if I may ask,” Clarke's hesitant now, perhaps worried she's offended and may be about to again. “where are they now?”

I shrug helplessly, “I don't know,” I confess. “I left to walk my road three days ago. That was the last time I saw them.”

“Oh,” she says, soft and understanding. It helps soften the keen edge of homesick longing that's made itself apparent once more. I should think I'd be used to it by now. The gull overhead gives a soft cry. I suppose I'm not.

For a time, I let myself feel. I let the sorrowful longing for my family and home run its course and feel its keen edge grow blunter. I will love and miss them always, I suspect, and there is that wounded part of me that will always regret leaving. For the rest, it's been only three days, and already I've seen so much; rain's gray-curtain advance through the trees. The beautiful strength, incredible wisdom, and kindness of the elk. Old, graying Harlan and his old, graying donkey. Market Day at Valdenwood. Mallory, and Clarke. My road has just begun, and already there has been all this. Even if I could go back, even with wanting to, I couldn't.

There's so much more for me to see.

My stomach rumbles, loudly. Which stands to reason; in the past three days, all I've eaten is some blueberries, an apple, and a blackberry tart. I need food, real food, something hearty and filling. I catch Clarke eyeing me from the corner of my eye and ask, “What?”

“Nothing,” she says. I don't believe her. If she knows of somewhere I can find something suitable to eat, I may consider letting it go. If not, I'll feed her to the eels.