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“Really?”

“We don’t get visitors often. I’m sure everyone wants a chance to talk to you.”

I was half-convinced she just wanted to end our awkward conversation, but then, so did I.

I opened my mouth to apologize again, and hesitated. What difference did it make? She already didn’t like me, and with good reason. I wasn’t like Oraik. I didn’t know the right thing to say, or how to smile when I didn’t mean it, or how to talk about something that didn’t matter to me. I would never belong here. Someone like Cliantha would never like me, even if I tried my best.

I walked to the edge of the square, grabbed my bag, and looked for a nice place to sit and read. Perhaps I ought to have kept Oraik in sight, but every table I saw had people talking or working. Odds seemed high that someone was going to interrupt me to talk about the weather or ask where I was from or to bring up some other mundane and uninteresting human topic. Then they’d realize I was terrible, too.

Maybe Oraik had wanted to come here so he didn’t have to be alone with me.

I started walking down the main street to the ocean. Most of the houses had doors right at the street level, but I paused at one with a stoop. As nice a place to sit as any, and if Oraik screamed, I’d probably hear it. I sat, pulled out my transcription of the Ward, and started to mull over it again.

It was easy to get lost in Tarelay’s enchantment. Every sigil seemed to hold meaning upon meaning. I found myself sketching them in the air, but they were so complex it was impossible, even if I’d wanted to try casting them. I’d always thought of written enchantments as stiff, but now it occurred to me that what they lacked in fluid movement they might make up for in capacity, for how many sigils could a pair of hands hold together in mid-air? Certainly not as many as Tarelay had drawn into the stone.

Tied to life. Keyed to a blood line.

“There you are,” Oraik said. I looked up and realized it had gotten shades darker while I read. Nightfall was nearly upon us.

“Is the food ready?”

“Yes. What are you doing out here? What is that?”

“Just some reading.” I stuffed it back into my bag.

“What, now? Don’t you want to enjoy the festival?” he sounded shocked. When I shrugged, his eyes widened. Oraik sighed and sat down beside me.

“I wasn’t planning to avoid all of it,” I grumbled. Oraik patted my knee, which I didn’t enjoy, and then looked me so squarely in the eye I couldn’t look away even if I wanted to. Which, coincidentally, I did.

“Meda,” he said. “Please tell me: why do you hate everything fun?” His big hand was still on my knee. I shifted my legs away.

“Since when is ‘avoiding kitchen duties’ the same as hating fun?”

“I don’t know. Since when is ‘reading alone’ a normal way to spend a festival?”

“Maybe since the festival is in a horribly boring little town?”

“Boring?” He leaned back, frowning up at the sky. “Is it? I didn’t think so.”

“Well, since I’m not interested in dancing with anything that moves,” I muttered.

“Is that an insult? Because I’m going to take it as praise of my joyous nature.”

“You do that.”

“Are you upset I’ve been asking others to dance? Did you want someone to ask you? I could make introductions. None of them are gray, though. Will that be a problem for you?”

“No. Don’t introduce me to anyone.”

“Is it your Kalcedon? Are you missing him?”

“Just stop,” I snapped. Couldn’t he see I didn’t belong here, that there was no sense in either of us pretending?

“Well, it’s hard to know how to cheer you up. Are you hungry? Should we eat?”

“I don’t need cheering up,” I said. “And you aren’t supposed to ask a dozen people to save you a dance. You’re—”

“I only asked four people,” Oraik said.