Before I can get out the thoughts I’m struggling to form, Nico takes my hand, brushes off a bit of the mud, and finishes the sentence for me. “… You had more important things to do.” He looks straight at me through the dim lamplight, his eyes near-black, lashes thickly folding above them. Despite the darkness, I can distinctly make out the indent of the dimple on his left cheek. It shows deepest when he’s happy and when he’s disappointed. Pretty sure he’s not happy.
We’re both silent a beat too long, the wind howling in the background.
Nico places his hand on my shoulder. Layers below, my skin tingles with welcomed warmth. “You could have asked me to come along.” He always says this. “Let me help you.” He says this even more often.
“No.” And I repeatedly refuse his offer. “We’d both be in trouble if caught.” Nico’s brow furrows. “Actually, I’d still be the one in trouble.” I tap his Dogio badge.
“Veda…” His voice trails off because he can’t begin to argue.
But I’m sure to change the subject before he tries. “Why are you wasting your time at the Hole anyway?” I continue toward the exit.
“I told you…” He leans in, reluctant grin dancing at the corners of his mouth. “My Sun, Veda, don’t you ever listen?”
“What’s that?” I bite the inside of my cheek to fight a smile.
He shakes his head but laughs under his breath. “I’m going because James is assisting with the hourglass. I promised him I’d watch, say hi after.” Ah, right. Nico’s young protégé. Dogio are assigned a mentee as part of their training or something. As if going to school nonstop through their sixteenth year isn’t enough, then they mentor (basically more school), and eventually either join the Imperi or apprentice and take on a profession. So, basically, school from birth to death.
“We definitely don’t want to miss that, eh?” I say.
“Exactly. A promise is a promise.” He eyes me, but instead of the disappointment I expect to see, Nico takes the burden of my fishing basket off my arm and clasps my hand in his.
I hesitate at his touch. The fact that I want to hold his hand and the fact that I know I shouldn’t wage a small war.
But here in the dark, not a soul around, I close my fingers over his.
And for the first time all morning, I breathe.
* * *
OPENING INTO THE Great Sea, the Hole is a water-filled cavern, the shape of a crescent, tall ridges rising up around its perimeter allowing for a natural platform for fishing.
Just to our left, the Crag, a peaked, dormant volcano, rises out of the ground like a hooked claw, shading one half of the Hole so it appears to be a quarter moon. The dormant volcano is off-limits, forbidden after the first war and the mines the Imperi buried in the sand surrounding it to protect their weapons cache inside. Supposedly many mines were never found and might still go off if stepped on just right.
“The boundaries are this,” Poppy would say. “If the Crag hits the sand with its forbidden shadow, you’re too close.” The rule was further hammered in at school when we went on that side of the island to collect clams: Never step in the shadow of the Crag. As if the moment your toes hit darkness the entire world would erupt in flames. Still, no one ever dared.
Bodies cram from one end of the horseshoe-shaped fishing hole to the other. Like small strokes in a smudged, heavily layered painting, faces blur and blend until they’re only stipples of color. A sea of variegated, earthen hues. My fellow Basso.
The tide is high, but the water is calm, glassy, with one blinding line of light streaking through the middle as the Sun strikes down from the cloudless blue sky. If I squint just right, I can make out the dark silhouette of the Island of Sol; the tall arches of the Coliseum are dark, empty cavities, a series of large jaws yawning toward the Sun.
We arrive and an Imperi soldier slams the gate closed directly behind us, the bolt locking with a loud click of finality, announcing no others will enter. He then rings a loud bell to announce fishing will soon commence.
Nico and I immediately part ways. With a slight nod and a smile, he moves toward the viewing pier above, where Dogio and Imperi officers sit, as I find a good place to fish.
Once settled, I look for Nico, but he’s blended into a sea of black, red, and gold.
Above the fishing ridge where the Basso stand, suspended from an iron frame is an hourglass. It towers no less than twenty feet in height. Positioned before the hourglass, fists at her hips, is the Imperi Regent of Fisheries. She’s tall, slender, with a long, slick braid that stands out over the shoulder of her crisp black suit. The Imperi government crest, similar to Nico’s Dogio badge, a gold embroidered sun, is loudly emblazoned over her heart, setting off the delicate, golden thread that webs her crimson sash.
As the Head of Fisheries counts down, four Imperi soldiers—all wearing black uniforms and boots—tip the hourglass. From high atop ladders, they heave a rope and pulley, sending black sand spilling down the glass bulb.
This is when I spot James. He’s in a similar uniform, but with a flash of red round his waist—an officer in training—and all of twelve, he proudly coils the rope into perfect circles. Nico sits in the front row, eyes intent on his mentee, red scarf piled high around his neck. When James steps away from the rope, hands tucked behind his back, Nico stands and says something into the boy’s ear. Nico seems so proper, so important, standing shoulder to shoulder with the other Dogio. At the same time my stomach spins at the sight of him, my hands squeeze into fists around my pole. This version, while strangely alluring, is at constant odds with the Nico from the tunnel moments ago. The Nico I know so well.
And who is this version? Truly?
I’m both dying to know and terrified to find out.
For now, I’ll keep him at a distance. Closely observe the Dogio version as if he’s some other person and continue digging deeper to know the boy who holds my hands in tunnels and adores my grandfather almost as much as I do.
Surely, at some point, they meld into one.
Nico catches my eye, and my breath hitches like I’ve been caught thinking about him.
Which I have.
Then, subtly, so inconspicuous only I’d ever notice, he arcs his thumb over his heart, Ad astra, to the stars, no troubles, be well. Both my Nico and this version use the gesture to convey at least ten different expressions.
Ad astra … That sign … I’d never seen anything like it until the day I met Nico. We were tiny underneath the canopy of trees next to the pond behind his house. It was then, when he didn’t turn me in for illegally fishing on Dogio-owned soil, when he ran his thumb over his heart and spoke those two words, that I understood I could trust him. It was then I knew we’d always be friends. Always be together.
But that was a lifetime ago.
I give him a slight grin and quickly glance away, realizing I’m the only one down here paying any mind to the Regent and the Dogio. With everyone’s focus on their own poles and nets, finding a good spot, now is the perfect time to dig the beetle out of my bag and bait my hook.
Kneeling on the ground, surrounded by gear, I reach into my bag. When I find the small jar, I open it and pull the beetle out, skewering it with my hook.
Saying a small prayer to the Sun for one good catch, giving thanks for the plump beetle, I set my sights on a particular spot. I can tell it’s deep, the perfect home for a large fish.