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Laughter pours from him like water from a jug, bubbling and bright, and I am suddenly so thirsty that my throat clenches.

“It’s my fault. I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.

But it was nice to hold your hand, if only for a minute.

” He lets me go, and my fingers feel cold.

“In my culture, we shake hands when we meet.” He holds out his hand again, and I place mine in his again, the same way as before.

Smiling gently, he changes the position of my fingers until they cross his palm, and pumps my hand up and down twice.

The movement startles an answering song of laughter from me, and I jerk my hand away, covering my mouth in surprise.

I don’t…I can’t think of the last time I laughed like that, other than with the children or for the bones.

This sound, this sound was just from me though, no one else, and the look of satisfaction on his face is… craveable.

“I’m sorry!” I offer, voice still unsteady, though I fight against the amusement there. “I’ve never…I don’t understand the shaking thing. I do n’t mean to make light of your practices though. I apologize. Can we try again?”

He nods, eyes sparking like embers, and we shake hands again, this time quite seriously, and I commit the movement to memory.

“Does everyone do this?” I ask. “Or is this between friends? When do we use this? Our village doesn’t have such…

such casual contact.” Well. Our village doesn’t have such casual contact with me , in any case.

Kaden frowns, just the hint of one between his brows, but tries to smooth it out. “Everyone does it. In most formal situations, or first meetings. If we were closer friends, our greetings would be different.”

“How so?” I ask, curiosity overtaking me now. I don’t get many chances to just be like this, and don’t know when I will again. And knowledge is like water to me — rare and precious.

“Should I just show you?” he asks, and I don’t heed the eager warning in his voice, so I nod.

He stands and turns to me, grabbing my hands gently and pulling me to my feet so close in front of him that on a deep inhale, his chest would brush mine.

The thought catches the breath in my throat, and I look up at his face with wide eyes.

Something in them drains the humor from his own, and it is replaced by an unfamiliar hunger.

“We would…” he clears his throat, then continues in his deep voice, “...we would, for friends or family members, embrace, and then kiss either cheek.” Reaching out, he demonstrates, wrapping me in his arms and pulling me against him, before leaning back and placing a gentle kiss on either side of my face.

I am frozen, I am ice, unable to move. His face is smooth, lips soft, and I can feel his breath glide over my skin.

His clothes are almost luxurious, some fabric I have not touched before, and he smells of soap and summer hay-clean, warm scents that make me want to curl against him and make his arms my home.

With that thought, I pull away from him, but slowly, reluctantly, and steady my shaking breath.

Danger, danger my mind whispers again, but the bones around me offer no such warning.

They are watching, and waiting, but with interest, giving me no cause for alarm.

Kaden is shaky as well, and looks around as though to give himself a moment to think.

“Can you…will you show me your village a little, Flame?” The words curl my mouth to smile again — this Trader pulls a string inside me I thought cut many years ago.

Flame. Usually I am a ghost, a shadow, something empty til others fill me.

I have never been called something…something that illuminates, rather than fades.

Lorcan is…silent, yes, but tense , down my back. He feels like a clenched jaw, or closed fists, but says nothing, and I reach up, deceptively casual, to rest my fingers on his bones.

“I will. Though only the Keep. I’m not venturing into the chaos of the First or Second Ring today.” I shoot him a guarded smile. “You’re welcome to go back at any time, though. There’s not much to see.”

“Oh, I don’t know…” he replies seriously. “I think there’s plenty here to keep me interested.” His eyes are fixed on me, unwavering, and his meaning is very clear. Why is it so hard to breathe near him?

Motioning toward the wall, I walk slowly, and he falls in easy pace next to me. “I’ll take you to the far edge, near the cistern and the Oldest Mother, and we can walk from there?” I offer, and his brows knit together in a perplexed expression.

“I don’t understand a word you’re saying, Flame, but where you lead, I’ll happily follow.”

Being with him is what I imagine drowning would feel like — it is too much, too much, but the water would be impossible to turn down.

An excess of happiness in a place where joy is rationed in careful bites.

Out of nowhere, the image of a bright orange ball, the sting of citrus, and the feel of sharp lips tracing my own sends a wave of anxiousness through me.

I press my hand to my stomach, and change course.

“Perhaps we’ll start in the Gardens,” I say quietly, shakily.

Taking him to the secret, silent place near the cistern feels…

feels like a sort of betrayal. I cannot do it.

I’m sure he notices, but he says nothing, reaching out cautiously to take my hand in his instead, and squeezes it gently.

I shouldn’t let this happen I think, but to be a girl for a moment, just a girl and nothing more, is so overwhelming, that I let it happen. And I squeeze back. Just once.

“Will you not tell me your name, Flame?” he asks quietly, tone teasing, but something serious on its edges, and I stop walking to look at him.

I have met his eyes more in the past few minutes than most other villagers’ in the past year.

I am not used to seeing and being seen. “Maybe I should make you earn it…” I reply, and the sound of it makes me think of the unmarried women in the village during their dancing seasons, a pale echo of their siren songs.

Even so, my unpracticed flirtation is enough for the Trader, and he leans in towards me, eagerness clear on his face.

“Do you plan Labors for me, Flame? Some sort of trials to earn your trust?” Stepping back, he flexes his muscles playfully. “Is there a flower on the crest of the mountain I can pick for you to show you my worth? Or perhaps a wild beast I can tame?”

In truth, I barely hear his words. I am not a woman impressed by flesh, but he is not a man like I have known in my life.

It is…surprisingly difficult to think. He is too playful, too happy, too large, too bright.

This Trader is overwhelming, and is making me uncautious.

His face falls, just slightly, and he apologies, the words tumbling from his mouth like a rockfall.

“I’m sorry, Flame, I forgot. Your eyes.” There is a rueful humor in his words, almost self-deprecating.

“I was trying to impress you with a display of my manliness.”

He catches me off-guard, and I laugh again, a snorting sort of sound that horrifies me, but pulls a deep, rumbling laughter from him.

“Come.” Reaching out my hand towards him, I am rewarded with a lightning flash of victory in his smile, and shining eyes, and I lead him toward the Garden path.

“Can I ask you a question?” he says after a moment, courteous and cautious.

“More than you already have?” I say, teasing again. I do not recognize this version of myself.

He chuckles, then, “How do you know where you’re going?”

I shrug, not wanting to say anything about the bones.

“I grew up here. It is not that big, and I know my steps. If I get off balance, I find a touch point to guide me back. But the sounds and lines of the village do not change.” Making a face, I point vaguely off to the side.

“You can smell the tanner, yes?” He nods.

“And then…” tilting my head, I listen, and point in a different direction.

“You can hear the smithy. And then, as we get closer and closer to the Garden walls, the sound falls away. It grows cooler in the shadow of the mountain. The ground changes underfoot. The paths where I walk are smooth and clear of stone. If I hit too much gravel, I have gone off-track….” I am babbling slightly, each word tasting like a lie in my mouth.

Because they are lies my mind whispers. But I owe this Trader no truth, when lies buy my freedom.

We are close to the curve where the path splits, the high walls of the Council House visible at the fork, though we can’t see the square in front of it, and he looks up, up, up, at its black stone face, at the weathered white bones around it, at the stark ivory stairs leading to its large, obsidian doors, shining smooth in the pale sun.

Four large columns rise to either side of the doorway, each elaborately carved and topped with three glaringly white skulls — the original Council, still overlooking their village.

Those bones are some of the only ones I have never touched, never questioned.

They are too high above me; there is no way to climb to hear their whispered words.

It is not a welcoming place, by any means.

“Here you should be able to see the Council House,” I murmur.

“And…what is that?” he asks, still staring up, an inscrutable expression on his face.

“It’s where the Twelve live — The Councilmen, the leaders of our village.

And then the six Renders, six Reapers, if they wish.

The Protectors — twelve again, and again, only if they wish to reside here.

The Father, of course. Oh. And the Justice,” I add as an afterthought, lips twisting in a caustic smile, the feel of it much more familiar to me than the pure happiness from moments before. “When we have one.”

“When you have one? You have no…Justice?” he asks curiously, tilting his head like a bird.