As I pull back to cast, something cracks to my right, breaking my concentration. I know that gut-wrenching sound.
I turn to find the glassblower’s apprentice kneeling over what is now two pieces of a fishing pole.
When he glances up, our eyes meet. I see him around the island from time to time; we schooled together the few years Basso attend school before learning a trade or beginning work. Mostly, I remember him as the boy who threw rocks to scare the birds out of the trees in front of the glass shop. I yelled at him once to stop, and he sent a handful of rocks my way. I haven’t spoken to him since.
I glance back at the bird bully, and he’s actually trying to mend his pole with his line. He can’t be serious.
He looks back up at me. His knit hat slumps lazily down the back of his neck, and blond hair peeks out over his ears, but it’s his eyes that catch me. They’re brilliant. Like silvery-blue agate. “I’m not so great at this,” he says, holding the two sad pieces of wood up, clearly at a loss.
“Seems that way,” I say, smiling, wondering if he knows who I am. Remembers the child version of me yelling at him to leave the damn birds alone. That I specifically remember. Poppy wasn’t always the best influence. “Here.” I dig into my pocket and pull out a small ball of twine. “You can try to mend it and hope you don’t hook anything too heavy, or it’ll snap again for sure.”
Reaching for the twine, his hands are worn as if from hard work, the sleeves of his tattered muslin shirt rolled up to his elbows. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
When I glance toward the hourglass, Nico’s there. His eyes are already on mine and he motions toward the sand, how it’s quickly dwindling.
I’ve wasted several precious minutes helping the bird bully mend his probably hopeless fishing pole. Focusing back on that spot in the water, I cast my line and hit my mark.
“Should do the trick.” The bird bully breaks my concentration, but I don’t take my eyes off my line. “At least for today.” I watch from my periphery as he holds his fishing pole out in front of him and bends it back and forth so it bows without giving but still moans angrily.
“Dorian.” He shoves his hand out to shake mine.
“I’m Veda. Glad it helped.” Our hands only touch for a second when, without warning, I lurch forward, my line taut like wire. Dorian lunges and wraps his arms around my waist, keeping me from falling into the water. I barely get a second to catch my breath and say thanks when my line is jerked toward the edge again. Dorian makes to grab for my pole, but I dig my heels into the ground before he can try to help. “I’ve got it!”
He steps aside.
I skid closer to the cliff, but use my body weight to counter the monster of a fish. I will not lose this fight—Sun knows we need this beast roasting over our fire tonight.
My pole creaks and whines a painful cry, threatening to crack in two.
Dorian steps closer. “You still got it?”
I don’t have time to answer, but I know I’ve got it when I spot the creature flop at the water’s surface. It’s a true beauty.
The palms of my hands go raw, my legs are about to give, but I hold strong. Taking a long breath in, closing my eyes despite it going against every instinct I have at the moment, I heed the first lesson Poppy taught me about fishing …
I wait. I listen.
The sea stills and the beast finally tires itself out.
I open my eyes to find Dorian staring right at me, but I don’t have a second to spare on him because the fish is so heavy it takes all my strength and attention. The beast is a long-whiskered pantera, and as I pull it in, the line cuts into my palm. Ignoring the blood trickling from my hand, I drop the fish to the ground. It jumps twice before I snare it under my boot; I can’t stand to watch them suffer.
Long whiskers limp, near-black scales like inky ice, the beast is still. Jagged teeth poke up from its mouth, pushing its snout into a permanent snarl. It’s one of the loveliest ugly things I’ve ever seen.
I recite a silent prayer, thanking the beast for its offering, the Sun for his blessings. Gratitude is the root of all living, Poppy taught me. Take nothing for granted. Without appreciation, he says, all humanity is lost.
CHAPTER 4
Nico and I meet on the other side of the gate to the Hole, under the same tree as always. He tags along most days, but his excuses for being here are growing thin as his Dogio engagements only increase. Sure, today he had a valid story to be at the Hole, but what will he come up with tomorrow?
“How was James?” I ask as Nico approaches.
He smiles proudly, showing the deep dimple in his cheek. It’s adorable when he’s happy. Nico’s smile: one of my favorite sights in the world. “Nervous, but he did well.”
“You went over it enough with him—he could probably do the motions in his sleep.”
He laughs. “Sort of—he said he dreamed about it last night. Maybe I was a little too hard on the kid. He’ll make a fine Imperi officer in a few years though.”
At the word officer my stomach falls. My smile must falter because Nico’s dimple disappears. Expression replaced with concern, he steps closer. “What’s the—”
“I’m fine.” It’s like an automatic response these days.
“The Imperi stuff?”
I shake my head and shrug, but … “There’s no point getting into it.” I glance over his shoulder. “Especially not here.” His friend Arlen is quickly striding toward us. Always in a hurry. Always dragging Nico off to one thing or another after fishing, like clockwork.
“Denali!” Arlen shouts Nico’s last name. “Blessed be the light!”
“Blessed be the light.” Nico throws the greeting out even though he’s still facing me. He then takes a step away and frowns, disappointment showing in his dimple. Raising his eyebrows, he turns toward Arlen. “Let me guess—my father sent you.”
“What can I say; he knows who to turn to to get things done.” So humble. “Hey, Veda.” Arlen makes sure to stare several seconds extra at the place where my shawl is unraveling. “Blessed be the light.”
“Blessed be the light, Arlen.” I sort of smile by setting my mouth into a hard line, because he’s perpetually two steps behind Nico. Always spying over Nico’s shoulder. All thanks to Lord Denali. Since Nico’s father can’t be sure his son stays on task himself, he’s employed an annoying substitute. “Where to today?”
Arlen laughs. “Where to today…” He seems to size me up to see whether I’m being serious or not. I’m not. Of course, I know what event Nico’s being summoned to instead of attending his usual mentoring classes, but I keep the guy hanging for fun by shrugging. “Ever. Sol. Feast.”
“Oh … Right.” I catch Nico’s eye. He folds his arms over his chest, avoiding eye contact with me, probably to hold back a laugh.
“Are you serious, Veda? It only happens every year,” Arlen goes on. And on … He talks about how he’ll forgive me for not remembering … That he forgets Basso don’t celebrate the great feast when everyone brings blessings of lavish food and prays to the Sun to please shine throughout this dark night … That when it does happen—and it will happen, Arlen believes, he truly does—the Sun will finally snuff out the Night and their evil ways for good.