“It's really nothing,” Kalolin assured. She'd traded her stained dress for a simple nightgown of cream colored silk. Between the comfort of the nightgown and of her full stomach, she could have toppled over on the cushioned lounge chair and fallen asleep that instant.

But Miar was on her knees in the small sitting room, rubbing a salve for burns into Kalolin's first finger. It smelled severely of lavender.

“And you're sure it was an accident?” Miar asked. She looked up at Kalolin with concern in her down-turned black eyes. Her long braids hung over her shoulder in one tight bundle, held together by gold chains. Her clothes of amber silk made her deep brown skin glow.

“It's my own fault, I said,” Kalolin started to raise her voice. “Just a bit of a fumble.”

“You can't think Ainjrejeu is about burning women all of a sudden?” Nykol added. The buxom woman was laying languidly in a rectangular lounge chair, her black, wavy hair pooling on a red silk pillow.

“You were there this morning,” Miar said over her slender shoulder. “It wasn't like him.”

“That?” Nykol laughed. “He went from those theatrics to hot pokers in a single day, you think? Ainjrejeu is quite a trickster, granted, but we both know he is fundamentally good.”

Miar sighed deeply. “Of course. In his position, he's bound to sometimes act in ways I don't understand. It's only...sometimes he seems less like the boy I raised and more like his father.”

“His father?” Kalolin pried. “The King of Sarnai?”

“A name he gave himself,” Nykol laughed. “Virdas Kaelkarim is a pile of khet.”

“Aren't all men? I'd expect rich men to be doubly so,” said Kalolin with a yawn.

“Well, I expect more from his son,” said Miar, getting up from her knees with a huff.

"Does he take more after his mother then?" Kalolin asked. It took only half a second for her to realize her error, and she clapped her hands over her mouth in embarrassment. You can't go saying you're going to marry a man and then forget the second most notable thing about him! she chided herself.

"Sorry," she grimaced. "I know she's Benni, of course." There was no other way for someone to be born with that fiery, red hair.

"No need to apologize," said Miar reassuringly.

"Best not to," Nykol added. "Ainjrejeu would well see it as an insult."

Miar nodded agreement, taking a seat on a third chair beside the low table. "Though he doesn't often talk about it, Ainjrejeu is quite proud of his Benni heritage. In truth, he does take after his mother, much to my detriment."

“Aren't Benni violent savages?” Kalolin raised her eyebrows.

“Yes,” Miar chuckled. “Ainjrejeu's mother was certainly no exception.”

“That must be a remarkable tale,” Kalolin laughed. “The wealthy tradesman and the violent savage.”

Miar grimaced. “Remarkable, in that there are many remarks that could be made about it. Wealthy men typically marry the daughters of other wealthy men, so it caused quite a stir when Virdas took a Benni slave to wife.”

“Oh,” Kalolin bit her lip abashedly. There were no slaves in Hanzo. She hadn't known there were still any in Sarnai, either.

Miar began clearing empty teacups from the table between them, the clinking of ceramic deafening in the somber silence. It was fully dark outside the large, lattice windows of the sitting room. As though she could feel the cold night air through the glass panes, Kalolin wrapped her arms around herself.

It was again Miar who woke Kalolin the next morning.

“Isn't it early?” asked Kalolin, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and sitting upright, the stiff muscles of her back creaking against the movement. She was groggy and disoriented, not fully convinced the last two days hadn't been a dream.

“We're getting an early start today,” explained Miar. “Let's hurry and get you dressed.”

Kalolin swayed as she stood, yawning, and slipped out of her silk nightgown. Miar helped her into a pair of long, flowing red pants and a matching red breast-band decorated with a silver chain that went around her neck. Kalolin ran her fingers through her black hair, trying to remove any particularly large tangles, and tied it back with her red ribbon.

Kalolin followed Miar through the halls of the private house, tiptoe silent in the gray light. The sun had only begun to think of rising. Miar stopped by the door to another room and bade Kalolin to wait outside. After a few moments, Miar emerged with the shapely Nykol behind her, looking as lost as Kalolin. They continued down to the ground floor and out through the front of the house, the three finding their way to the gate of the Crimson Deer estate. On the street, a large wagon was set apart from the rest of the caravan, two horses yoked to it, nickering restlessly.

Miar continued, pulling aside the canvas flap covering the end of the wagon and climbing in. She waved a hand behind her for the others to follow, and they did so. The inside of the wagon was only slightly dimmer than the early morning outside, and Kalolin's eyes adjusted quickly. Small crates and traveling packs lined the sides of the wagon, laced to the bows supporting the canvas cover. The center of the wagon left a narrow space for passengers. Miar sat down beside the musician, Kalem, who now had a leather case for a long-necked Hanzo'an lute beside him. Nykol and Kalolin sat down facing them, on a soft blanket spread across the wagon's wooden floor.

At the front of the wagon, a driver sat upon a raised bench, wearing worn, brown traveling clothes rather than the colorful uniforms she had seen them parading around the city in. Just behind the driver's bench, inside the covered portion of the wagon, a cloaked figure was pouring over a heavy tome, managing to read by only the scant light drifting in around the driver.

Curly-haired Tareuk came in to the wagon then. Hunched over below the canvas cover, the tall man made his way to the front. “Everything's set,” he said to the driver, his voice deep and warm. He settled down onto the floor as the driver flicked the reigns and the wagon jerked into motion.

The musician pulled the lute from its case and laid it across his lap. The auburn wood was smooth and freshly varnished. Plucking sparingly at the thin, horsehair strings, he tuned the instrument by ear. The sound radiating through the wood was sweet, and rich, but there was a bite to it. Kalolin closed her eyes and could almost smell the flowers of the thornwood tree it was made from.

When Kalolin opened her eyes, she caught the musician looking at her. Then, with a smile, he began to pluck a dulcet lullaby. Kalolin knew it as Red Blossoms on a Summer Night. The words spoke of a beautiful flower that bloomed only under the gentle light of the moon, but her father had once caught her singing it at the orchard and chided her for being too young to know about such things.

She was no longer too young to know about such things. She tugged upward at her top, fighting the movement of her breasts as the wagon rattled over uneven cobblestones. As though there would be safety in numbers, she shifted closer to Nykol until their bare arms were almost touching. To her surprise, the woman closed the gap, pressing her shoulder into Kalolin’s reassuringly. Still, Kalolin almost sighed aloud when the mustached man's hazel eyes finally moved away from her.

She was lost in thought when Ainjrejeu's voice came to her ears, startling her so badly she jumped. The hooded figure at the front of the wagon had crawled closer to Tareuk, gesturing the heavy tome toward the larger man.

There was no mistaking the Kaelkarim heir's iced-cream voice. “Your estimated profits from the Tishrav cotton deal are incorrect,” he pointed a gloved hand down at a page. The glove was a supple, well-worn leather that matched his simple boots.

“Sorry, sehr,” Tareuk frowned in concentration and took the ledger in his massive hands. As his eyes scanned up and down the page his brow furrowed. “My apologies, sehr, but I'm going to have to disagree. Have you taken into account the change in weight as the cotton gets closer to the sea?” He raised an eyebrow at his employer. “It takes in water in the air such that the purchase weight and the sale weight are different for the same bale. The factor for that is...here,” he tapped at the page. “I believe you calculated it yourself.”

Ainjrejeu's back stiffened. “The apologies are all mine, Tareuk. I...did appear to forget that.” Kalolin didn't think such a man could feel shame, but he certainly sounded like it.

Tareuk moved to hand the ledger back to Ainjrejeu, but he held up a hand and shook his head.

“The young heir's a little short of sleep,” the musician smirked from beside them, his manner of address much more familiar than Tareuk's. “I swear I could hear you pacing for hours last night.”

“Aren't the thin walls just like home, Kalem?” Ainjrejeu glared at him out of the corner of his eye.

Kalem didn't respond, and Ainjrejeu didn't seem to expect him to. The younger man did pull his cloak from around his shoulders, roll it up into a ball, and lean back to use it as a pillow against the floor of the wagon.

With the cloak no longer covering his head, Kalolin could see that his red hair had been pulled into a neat braid down his back. His traveling clothes were modest, in neutral colors. He looked a far cry from the regal figure of the day before.

Without his silks and jewels, Ainjrejeu was scarcely intimidating. He was no more than a very pretty boy. Perhaps the somewhat rare, girlishly pretty kind, like the tightrope walker she had seen at the circus, or the apprentice at the bakery that always charged her full price for sun cakes and gave them to her brother for free.

“Are you ready to breakfast now, Ainjrejeu?” asked Miar.

“Mm,” he nodded against the rattly floor.

The dark-skinned woman turned on her knees to fetch a traveling sack that was tied to one of the wagon bows behind her. She pulled out some roasted meat wrapped in paper, a short, flat basket filled with rice balls, and a small sack of nuts. She continued digging through the bag, searching for something else.

“Tareuk?” she asked. “You didn't happen to pack a nut-cracker with the tools, did you?”

“No, don't think I did,” the big man replied, setting aside the thick ledger he'd been reviewing. “Need my help?”

Ainjrejeu sat up. “Don't bother yourself,” he grinned. “Lylia is a strong farm girl; I'm sure she can take care of it for us.” He stretched out, almost the full extent of his short body, to grab the brown sack with one hand. He waved Kalolin over to him with the other.

“You can do this one thing, can't you?” He asked, folding up the corner of the blanket to clear a patch of wooden floor between them.

“Of course,” Kalolin sniffed as she crawled over the wagon floor. “Anyone can crack nuts.”

Ainjrejeu tapped his chin with overplayed thoughtfulness. “Even myself? I don't think I've ever cracked nuts by hand before.”

“Well,” admitted Kalolin. “Maybe not anyone.”

“A wager, then,” he suggested. “If I can crack more nuts than you, you'll eat your breakfast off the floor like a dog.”

Kalolin snickered. “And what when I win?”

“You'll be spared from punishment. Isn't that enough?” he asked, slipping off his gloves.

“Just beating you will be enough.”

He poured all of the nuts into a pile between the two of them. Miar was passing rice balls out to everyone else, as though nothing unusual was happening.

“Ready?” asked Ainjrejeu smugly.

When Kalolin nodded they each reached to grab one of the large, wrinkled shells. She could have cracked it in one hand, but figured pressing her two palms together would be faster, and more reliable, in the long run. Ainjrejeu spun his around with his fingers, taking his time examining it.

Bits of brown shell sprinkled onto the wagon floor as Kalolin worked, blending in with the dark wood. She tossed the liberated chalky flesh into the open sack between them.

She had cracked open four nuts, and was feeling confident, when Ainjrejeu raised his first to his mouth and placed it delicately between two canine teeth. She could have been imagining it, but they seemed a little more canine than she expected.

The nut cracked with a nauseating pop. It was just around the right size to remind her of the skull of a small animal, and the noise was fittingly brutal. Kalolin dropped a nut from her hands onto the floor of the wagon. It rolled around haphazardly and she chased after it, hands scattering the broken shells even further.

The awful popping sounds continued, rhythmically, as the red-haired man split open one nut after another between his sharp teeth. When she looked up, he was using both sides of his mouth, a more monstrous version of a chipmunk, and outpacing her.

They reached out at the same moment for the last unopened nut. Ainjrejeu's hand flinched back and Kalolin swiped it, but it didn't matter. Sore in the center of both of her palms, she cracked the last nut and added its remains to her small pile of flattened, fractured shells.

Ainjrejeu's pile was decidedly larger, each shell marred by two precise puncture marks and split open along the middle seam.

“I guess anyone can crack nuts,” he said, sickeningly self-satisfied. Kalolin could see those four slightly-too-sharp canines in his toothy grin, now that she was looking for them.

“You tricked me,” Kalolin grumbled, sweeping up her mess of shell bits with the side of her hand.

“Don't make it so easy next time,” he chuckled back at her. He traded the sack of shelled nuts to Miar in exchange for his and Kalolin's breakfast.

“Count me out,” Kalem said between bites of roast meat. “Not interested in any nuts that have been in your mouth,” he said to Ainjrejeu.

“Has that been what's stopping you this whole time? My apologies,” the younger man smiled back, amused by himself.

“You're sick,” the musician sneered. He swiped a hand at the side of Ainjrejeu's head, but didn't make contact.

Ainjrejeu laid Kalolin's portion of food out carefully on the wooden planks of the wagon floor, all in a neat little line.

“No hands, no help. Simple enough?”

Kalolin sighed. She'd lost her appetite to her wounded pride, but knew if she didn't do as he asked, he'd only come up with a worse punishment. She tucked her sore hands behind her back and bent over at the waist.

“She's really doing it,” Nykol stifled a giggle with her hands. Beside her, Miar's face twitched for a moment into genuine concern, the same way she'd looked at Kalolin's burned finger the night before. Then she was all serene again.

It wasn't difficult to eat the food off the floor. Rice balls, and other food that traveled well, was much easier to eat than, well...anything wet. She grabbed a rice ball as daintily as she could between her lips and then sat upright, using gravity to get it the rest of the way into her mouth.

It wasn't particularly gross to eat off the floor, either. It was honestly cleaner than the dining table back home had been. There was a little added grit, and bitterness, from the tiny shell fragments she'd gotten all over, but nothing worse than that.

She'd only heard that Mister Kaelkarim was coming to Hanzo a few days before his arrival. In the nights leading up to it, she'd imagined what kind of man he would be, and what kind of things he might make her do.

Her father was always upset with her mother about something. It seemed he woke up every morning complaining that Jheni had given him too few children for all the work that needed done. Then he would go to bed at night complaining that there were too many mouths to feed. Her mother had given up trying to argue with him years ago.

Kalolin had felt prepared to handle a man like that. Ainjrejeu was proving to be a different kind of man, playing different kinds of games. She chose not to look up at him, though she knew he was watching her intently.

She caught sight of the musician, Kalem, watching her, too, from where he sat beside Ainjrejeu. With the morning light murky, filtered through the wagon cover, his face was the same warm beige as his employer's, though it had been clearly a shade darker in better lighting. They had the same strong, stereotypical Sarnain nose, and the same bright hazel eyes, adding to the uncanny feeling as they watched her in silence. Kalem's eyes had gone especially wide, enraptured like she was performing a feat of illusion where she appeared to actually turn into a dog.

Kalolin risked a glance over her shoulder to see Nykol's nose all wrinkled up, her sandy skin nearly turning a shade of green as though Kalolin was eating from the ground of a cattle pasture instead. Miar, like Tareuk on Kalolin's other side, was pretending not to pay any attention at all.

As though bugs were crawling on her skin, she could feel them looking at her, or not looking at her, respectively.

She chewed on a piece of roast meat and it wouldn't go down. Something was wrong with it, or with her. It turned into a gummy paste in her mouth but she couldn't convince herself to swallow it.

Her cheeks stung with heat, and tears burned behind her eyes. Her throat seemed to be closing in on itself; she was going to suffocate if this went on any longer.

Should she spit the contents of her mouth out now, or would that only make her seem grosser? Compared to these rich, beautiful people, she might as well be a dog.

Her eyes continued to wander as she chewed, back and forth in little lemniscatic patterns. She couldn't bear to look at Ainjrejeu, to see the look of disgust on his face. Or worse, would it be pity? Did he feel bad for making her do this, or was he reveling in it? When she could bear the tension no longer, she tilted her head upward, her jaw creaking with apprehension.

Ainjrejeu's eyes were big and round, his copper eyebrows pulled up in high arches, shocked, as though he hadn't really expected her to do it. But his mouth was stretched into a crooked, rakish grin.

She recognized that grin.

A few years back, her brothers had dared her to steal a bottle of sweet rice wine from Farmer Rhomeili's cellar. It had started as an argument, something about her not being able to tell them what to do because she was a girl, and something about her being able to because she was older. The dare had been the solution to settle it, for some reason, to prove that she knew what she was doing, and that it would serve them well to listen to her.

She went into the cellar under the cover of night and escaped with the rice wine, but made enough of a clatter coming home in the dark that she'd been caught anyway. Her brothers had denied any involvement and the bottle was returned to Farmer Rhomeili. Then her father had beaten her behind so thoroughly she'd had to sleep on her face the whole night.

The next morning, though, her youngest brother, Arhemang, had come up to her in the orchard when her parents were out of earshot. He'd looked up at her with wide eyes and a crooked grin.

“You really did it,” he had breathed. This was that grin.

The roast meat went down, and she bent again, starting on the white nut-flesh Ainjrejeu had arranged into a neat circle.

I'm not going to let some silk-wearing Sarnains make a field-mouse out of me.

She finished her meal and sat back, brushing the hair out of her face with her hands.

Kalem let out some sort of sighed laughter, as if he had been holding his breath. “What do you call a cow with tiger stripes?” he asked his companions. “A cow,” he answered himself with more raucous laughter.

“Oh, you think you're so funny, huh?” Nykol rolled her deep brown eyes. “Remember she's supposed to be a dog, not a cow.”

“Bred for work instead of bred for meat?” Kalem joked. “Either way you can still smell the farm on her.”

Ainjrejeu's eyes were narrowed, locked on Kalolin, as though he didn't hear a word of the conversation around them. The soft curve of his mouth seemed to mark him as genuinely pleased. “I bet your mouth tastes like the bottom of my boot,” he mocked. His voice was soft, like he was aiming for intimate insult, rather than public humiliation.

“I bet your mouth tastes like ass,” spat Kalolin, patience still a little worn thin.

His face crinkled into laughter. “How did you know?” he grinned. It helped to diffuse Kalolin's anger at least a little, and she willed her shoulders to relax.

“Everyone knows, Ainjrejeu,” Nykol turned her banter towards him. “You're a certified tylaes, after all.”

“Bleh,” he stuck his tongue out at her. “No point in doing it unless you're good enough to be certified.”

“Oh, hag's hairy tyts,” bemoaned Kalem. “I'm going to lose my mind stuck between you two degenerates. Of all the whores you had to bring the one who's worst at her job?” he gestured harshly at Nykol.

“She's my keptmaid, Kalem,” Ainjrejeu raised an eyebrow meaningfully. “She does exactly what I desire her to.”

“Oh, yeah, such as…?”

Ainjrejeu smirked. “She annoys you far more effectively than I am ever able to.”

Nykol burst into laughter, and Kalolin let herself laugh as well, relieved to no longer be the center spectacle. She crawled to the rear of the wagon, where the opening in the canvas cover formed a window looking out at the road behind them.

Positioning herself beside it, Kalolin was able to see where the side of the road swept down to the banks of the Elerhem. She watched the sunlight dance across the calm surface of the wide river. Side channels ran away from the body of the river into dense paddy fields, and it was peaceful.

In time, low-hanging sea willows gave way to sturdy, upright oaks as they moved further inland, the musky river smell losing the last tinges of salt. Kalolin hadn’t realized she was dozing off until she was jolted awake by the sound of the wooden wagon wheels on a wooden bridge. She glanced out from the wagon and her breath caught in her throat.

The Elerhem flowed beneath them before opening into a wide lake. Rows of colorful buildings stood back from the lakeshore. Older wooden houses lined the shore itself, with docks and bridges stretching out like tendrils into the lake. More buildings stood on stilts above the water in a dense network like a wooden spiderweb. The smell of moldering fall leaves wafted off the lake, and even the harsh noon sunlight was swallowed by its depths.

“Welcome to Laikeung Elerhem!” The driver announced over the rattle of horse hooves on wooden planks.

Kalolin didn’t recognize the name of the village, but she knew it meant something like ‘Over the Elerhem’ in Txhague, the old language of the Elerhem river folk. She tried to collect herself and not gawk too uncouthly at the scenery.

The bridge let them off on the North bank of the Elerhem where they stopped before a low stable. Ainjrejeu passed a small pouch of coins to the driver, Hakim, before pulling his hood low over his head.

Kalolin followed Miar's lead and hopped down out of the wagon. She sighed with relief as she stretched the stiffness from her legs.

Tareuk was nearly bent double exiting the wagon, but he turned swiftly around to extend a helping hand to his employer. Ainjrejeu batted the bear-paw sized hand away in a manner that was either frustrated or playful.

“I know how to walk,” the younger man insisted. He dropped down onto feet that only slightly wobbled, his arms crossed impatiently across his chest. As the last of them were setting foot on the ground, a grizzled old man emerged from a small building beside the stable.

“Good day to you!” He called out as he approached. It sounded less like a greeting and more like an accusation. He had a white beard that hung long and thin almost to his stomach and swayed as he walked. “May I ask who I’ve got the pleasure of?”

Tareuk stepped forward out of the group. “Hello, good sehr,” he greeted, standing heads taller than the old man. “I am Tareuk Dirmenji of the Kaelkarim Shipping Company and this is my retinue,” he gestured sweepingly at the others behind him. “We are here in official capacity to meet with any local traders interested in working with our company.

The old man sniffed. “Not sure how much of that you’ll find. We’re not so used to visitors these days, though I might know a few farmers looking to expand.”

As Tareuk and Ainjrejeu spoke to the bearded man, Miar sat on the step of the wagon, her flowy yellow dress a golden stream down the smooth curves of her body. The bright sunlight illuminated the rich warm tones of her near-black skin, and she watched the river with an enviable serenity.

Ample-bodied Nykol sat down beside her, her face instead an image of boredom, and beckoned for Kalolin to take a seat as well.

“We may be here for a while,” she said.

As though summoned, Tareuk and Ainjrejeu returned to the wagon.

“Expect us back in about two hours,” Ainjrejeu told Miar. “I won’t keep your man from you for long,” he grinned playfully.

Ainjrejeu turned to the mustached musician. “Watch the girls here, Kalem,” he instructed. “With your eyes.”

“You got it, sehr,” the musician shrugged.

Ainjrejeu and Tareuk headed on foot around the lake, and the driver paid the old man for horse feed before untethering the horses from the wagon and allowing them to browse. Kalem made his way over to him to make idle chatter.

“What are they doing?” asked Kalolin, gesturing with her chin in the direction Ainjrejeu and Tareuk had gone.

Nykol shrugged her bare shoulders above a frosty white top. “Business. Theirs, not ours.”

“They are collecting information about potential locations for a new branch of the company,” said Miar. “Tareuk has been talking about it since we left Sarnai.”

“And we have been brought along for…?”

Nykol chuckled. “Miar goes wherever Ainjrejeu goes. You and I are just the entertainment.”

“Well, I'm certainly doing my best to be entertaining,” said Kalolin. “What did Kalem mean, about you being bad at your job?”

Nykol let out a long sigh. “I have struggled, more than most, being a keptmaid. About three years ago I ran away from home and made it to Sarnai on my own. I believed that in Sarnai I could find a place for myself, that anyone could. And the city is amazing, but it still runs on money, which I didn't have. I found enough work to afford food, but not a place to live.”

Miar put a hand gently on Nykol's shoulder.

“Eventually, a merchant approached me.” She paused for a second, and swallowed before continuing. “I think he imported wines and sold them to restaurants around the city, or something. He told me it wasn't safe for a pretty girl like me to be sleeping on the streets, and he offered me a place to live in exchange for generally keeping the place tidy. It was a nice arrangement until he started pushing for other things, and suddenly the entire deal was contingent on it.”

“You...don't have to talk about it,” Kalolin shook her head.

“No, it's better to be open about this,” said Nykol. “That time in my life was the hardest. The worst. For me, being a keptmaid was just a slow, painful death. Then, one day, my patron attended a feast at the Kaelkarim Estate. He was such a minor merchant, and I was nothing more than an accessory, and so I just faded into the background, but somehow Ainjrejeu found me anyway. And…” her breath caught in her throat, and the morning sun danced across the tears welling in her eyes.

“Ugh, so stupid. Why do I always cry at this part?” she groaned and wiped her face furiously. “I had no idea where he'd come from, but suddenly Ainjrejeu was so close to me. He was looking me up and down, all in my space, but never quite touching me. I remember feeling his breath all over my skin and just trying not to vomit. He declared he ‘had to have me that very night,' and asked my patron how much. And, of course, no one says no to Ainjrejeu Kaelkarim, so I was sold then and there.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Well, not sold. Y'know, since that would be ownership and that's illegal. The city council calls it a ‘transfer of employment contract.'” She rolled her eyes. “Not that I think I had an actual contract written up yet. Anyway, Ainjrejeu took me by the wrist and started dragging me away from the feast, and at that point, of course, I was bawling like a baby. He said something like ‘cheer up, stray kitten,' and that did not help. I was all turned around and disoriented and I still don't remember where we ended up. But then, Miar was holding me and telling me that...” Nykol started to choke up again, and Miar started stroking her hair. “That I was safe, and I was perfect.”

“And then Ainjrejeu tried to negotiate your employment contract,” chuckled Miar.

“And you told him to shut his stupid mouth.”

“The official story is I told him it could wait ‘til morning,” corrected Miar.

“And it did, and I'm fairly sure the words ‘stand around and look pretty' were actually written in my contract.” Nykol laughed. “So I'm technically still a keptmaid, but without all the, uh, supplementary work.”

“That sounds...surprisingly kind,” said Kalolin.

“Ainjrejeu saved me,” said Nykol. “Behind all the attitude, and the tantrums, and the teasing, I know that is he is a good person. I hope some day he'll show that to you, too.”