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“You are in the wrong part of the village right now,” she says to him, voice wary but.

..not empty. It’s not exactly friendly, but it’s not formal either.

I have never heard her talk to another this way; Wren usually only speaks to the Council or for the bones, and very rarely has any emotion in her voice other than that of the dead.

She is barely warm, but he smiles at her response with cold affection.

I know this Councilor, have watched him watch her; he craves her like he craves power, can’t tell the difference between that and love.

He stands on the stage with the others, but where they are smug and satisfied, he is silent and searching, the tension in his body never draining until his eyes touch on her face, however briefly.

No one else would notice — he never lets his gaze linger, never seeks her out to speak with her.

I’ve just played the same game too many times to not recognize myself in another.

To his limited credit, he is kind to her in the ways he knows how to be, and I think he truly believes he cares for her, but he would never go to the Sun God in her place, would never let her out again if he knew she were speaking to me, not the bones.

“Should you not be in council still?”

He hears her question with false ears, laughing because he thinks she’s tracking him in interest, rather than to keep him away.

“You follow my movements, BoneKeeper?” he says, voice low and seductive, though I’m sure she doesn’t understand the strangled note in his tone.

She has been kept away from the living for so long that the louder emotions of a beating heart are more a cacophony than a symphony in her ears.

She’s a creature made of whispers and half-breaths; anything more feels like an attack, not an approach.

He is too used to the women of this place, does not understand my Wren.

“Not follow,” she replies, almost thoughtfully. “I just know where you’re meant to be.”

His answering smile is pure satisfaction. “I know where you’re meant to be as well, and it’s not here.” But he’s not angry, just teasing, and there is an almost playful challenge in her words when she replies.

“This villager needed help finding his sister. You know that is what I do. The bones pull at me if I ignore them.”

This villager. This villager.

Here is a secret that no one will ever know.

Wren’s eyes went almost white on her 12th birthday.

There is just the palest ring of blue, so pale that unless you are close to her, in the right light, you would never see that it exists.

And no black is there at all. The Council believes she went blind so she could hear the bones better.

And she never corrected them, never protested.

Though she was the first BoneKeeper in history to be kept in a caged room for her protection , she has never said a thing.

But I know, and she knows. It is not even a grave secret that the bones would whisper about.

It is something beyond that. A secret of ash and dust.

“Can he not find his sister on his own?” The words cool, just enough that my skin prickles in warning. There is such a thin line between life and death in our village, thinner than anywhere else, I think, and the Veil between the two are the Council’s words and wishes.

“Could you?” She is truly curious, I think, a sound I am not used to hearing in her voice.

“Take me to your Old Mother,” she commands, stretching out a hand, tapping the wall beside her.

Whatever she hears makes her laugh, just the smallest birdsong of sound, and I can tell he is pulled into her orbit, as we all are when she is near.

“They think it’s funny, and ask that you join me.

We are on a new hunt now. Where is your Old Mother?

” Her smile is a flash of lightning, and he grabs the reins of his pony, shaking his head.

“You know I cannot,” he replies ruefully. “You know the bones shift.”

“But this man should find his sister on his own?” she chides gently, only because he is smiling, only because he is in a good mood. “You know he cannot. What is my purpose if not for the bones?”

Nodding, though he thinks she cannot see him, he moves toward her hand.

“I am taking your hand now,” he says, just before his fingers wrap around hers, and I am reminded that, for a Council member, he is not as bad as the rest. They all would just grip her like a sword, a weapon to be wielded.

She pauses, and reaches her free hand back toward me to take mine — an awkward chain of connectedness.

“I must go. Here, here she is.” And she puts my hand back in the hole, resting it on a single fingerbone. “She’s glad you’re here. You can whisper her all your secrets and she will keep them safe for you.”

I know this is her way of saying that Car will tell her any messages I leave, so I thank her in our way, saying the words we all say, the only words we usually say, to our BoneKeeper. “Thank you, Keeper. May the bones be quiet and calm for you.”

A sad look flashes across her face before she can help it, and she whispers, almost against her will, “The bones are never quiet, Tahrik. They sing to fill every silence.”

There is a pause, a sharp intake of breath.

There is too much affection in my name, too much weight, too much emotion.

Eyes widening, she shakes her head as though waking from a dream, and touches the bone wall again, covering her misstep.

“I…of course their song is a blessing, though. She is calling your name on repeat. It is resounding in my head. Enjoy your time with your brother, Cara.” Then, turning to the Councilman, tilts her head, feigning a look of interest. “Alright, Councilman. Lead on. If you’re up for the challenge. ”

He is caught, trapped like a fish, and smiles. “Always, Ceridwen.” Then, more cautiously, “If the bones aren’t pressing you too hard.”

I hate the sound of the name on his lips, as though he has a right to it, a right to some other part of her that is not his.

But he’s arrogant, and I can’t help the smirk that presses against my lips; his calling her Ceridwen shows how little he knows of her, and he misses the way her face tightens at the name.

“I didn’t mean to imply…I misspoke, Councilman. Nothing more. Their song is never pressing. It is always a gift. I would…” she swallows, hesitant, before continuing, “...it would be a favor to me if we would not speak on it again.”

“You have my word. And the Miller would never, I am sure.” There is a warning in his tone, which is laughable.

As though I would speak of anything that would hurt her.

As though I would not cut out my own tongue to feed to the Earth before I would say a single word that would harm her.

But I nod, and press my fingers to my lips, head bowed.

“There is nothing to say, Councilman. Of course.”

His eyes narrow in satisfaction, then tosses me the reins he is still holding.

““Miller. You’ll stable my mount.” It’s not a question, and he does not pause for a response before putting her hand through his arm.

“Come now, Keeper,” he says to her gently, comfortingly.

“Come and laugh with the bones at how I can’t even sense my own family. ”

She looks down at her hand, trapped in his elbow, and sighs, before turning her face up to him.

A curious look breaks through her worry like a sun through a cloud; she seems almost unsure of what to do.

He covers her hand with his own, locking her in more tightly, then gently pulls her forward.

They walk away together, her hand dragging along the bone wall next to her, his lips moving as he speaks to her quietly, and I press my face to the hole in the bones.

“Oh Car,” I whisper. “This cannot continue. But it cannot end.”

And I realize that I, too, am trapped.