two pairs of hands gently exploring each other, roving quietly over knuckles, cuticles, fingertips, the delicate details. Smiles like patches of sun.
Then it was gone.
Blinking, Sefia leaned on the side of the crate for support, digging the heel of her hand into the splintered edge, as if the pain would distract her from the upheaval inside her.
Nausea. That was familiar, at least. But the rest?
Sheâd done nothing different. But when she saw that scar, it was like her sense of the lighted world had boiled over all at once, rushing over her, revealing images, stories . . . or were they memories? History?
Was this magic something her parents had wanted to keep from their enemies?
Whatever it was, she was getting better at it.
The boy was fully out of the crate now. He was taller than her, maybe a year or two older. Looking wide-eyed at the shadows, he hugged his arms awkwardly, like he didnât know what to do with them. All he wore was a pair of ripped trousers, and his bare feet gripped tentatively at the ground. He was underfed, so skinny his bones protruded under his skin, and he looked so lost, standing there, clutching his own elbows. The scars at his neck glowed almost white in the moonlight.
Whatever it was she had seen in the flash of light, it had been real, she was sure of that. Somehow, sheâd peered into him, like watching a frothing sea through the eye of a needle, all those images and thoughts and feelings at once, all part of him. She knew what he had doneâwhat he had been made to doâbut she couldnât forget how tenderly he had touched those other hands. She didnât know whose hands, and that didnât matter. It was that sense of calm and warmth. Blinking back a headache that had begun knotting behind her eyes, she fastened the safety on her knife.
But she couldnât leave yet. She crawled inside the crate, gagging as she riffled through the bits of straw on the floor and felt the walls for signs of safes or hidden compartments. There was nothing.
She could have sunk into the ground.
There was
nothing
.
The boy shifted hesitantly beside her, still looking around like a lost child. Gritting her teeth, Sefia got to her feet, clipped the padlock back in place, and tapped him on the shoulder to let him know they had to go.
Instantly, his hand snapped over her wrist. Sefia went for her knife. But he looked surprised when he saw what he had done, and quickly released her. There was a horrified expression in his eyes, like he couldnât believe that was
his
hand. He hung his head. She let the blade slip back into its sheath.
With one last longing glance at the crate and the symbol on it, Sefia headed off into the jungle. The boy fell into step beside her, strangely silent, and together they stole away into the woods.
They walked for hours without saying anything, picking their way over logs and under low-hanging tree branches. Their pace was glacial, slow enough to set Sefiaâs teeth on edge, to make her jump at every branch snapping, every rustle of movement. But she couldnât leave him.
The boy soon began shivering in the moist night air. He didnât complain. His teeth didnât even chatter. But he hunched his shoulders and rubbed his arms and Sefia knew he was cold. Pausing a moment to pry the blanket from her pack, she offered it without touching him. He looked at her warily, but she forced a smile, and he took it and wrapped it around his shoulders.
They continued walking. She stopped once or twice more to give him meat to chew and a few sips from her canteen, but otherwise, they walked without speaking, and almost without sound. Sefia was glad he didnât try to make conversation. She didnât want to get close to him. Those who were close to her always got hurt.
It was near dawn when they finally halted. They had crossed streams and doubled back on their own tracks more than once,just in case the men had a tracker among them,
Then it was gone.
Blinking, Sefia leaned on the side of the crate for support, digging the heel of her hand into the splintered edge, as if the pain would distract her from the upheaval inside her.
Nausea. That was familiar, at least. But the rest?
Sheâd done nothing different. But when she saw that scar, it was like her sense of the lighted world had boiled over all at once, rushing over her, revealing images, stories . . . or were they memories? History?
Was this magic something her parents had wanted to keep from their enemies?
Whatever it was, she was getting better at it.
The boy was fully out of the crate now. He was taller than her, maybe a year or two older. Looking wide-eyed at the shadows, he hugged his arms awkwardly, like he didnât know what to do with them. All he wore was a pair of ripped trousers, and his bare feet gripped tentatively at the ground. He was underfed, so skinny his bones protruded under his skin, and he looked so lost, standing there, clutching his own elbows. The scars at his neck glowed almost white in the moonlight.
Whatever it was she had seen in the flash of light, it had been real, she was sure of that. Somehow, sheâd peered into him, like watching a frothing sea through the eye of a needle, all those images and thoughts and feelings at once, all part of him. She knew what he had doneâwhat he had been made to doâbut she couldnât forget how tenderly he had touched those other hands. She didnât know whose hands, and that didnât matter. It was that sense of calm and warmth. Blinking back a headache that had begun knotting behind her eyes, she fastened the safety on her knife.
But she couldnât leave yet. She crawled inside the crate, gagging as she riffled through the bits of straw on the floor and felt the walls for signs of safes or hidden compartments. There was nothing.
She could have sunk into the ground.
There was
nothing
.
The boy shifted hesitantly beside her, still looking around like a lost child. Gritting her teeth, Sefia got to her feet, clipped the padlock back in place, and tapped him on the shoulder to let him know they had to go.
Instantly, his hand snapped over her wrist. Sefia went for her knife. But he looked surprised when he saw what he had done, and quickly released her. There was a horrified expression in his eyes, like he couldnât believe that was
his
hand. He hung his head. She let the blade slip back into its sheath.
With one last longing glance at the crate and the symbol on it, Sefia headed off into the jungle. The boy fell into step beside her, strangely silent, and together they stole away into the woods.
They walked for hours without saying anything, picking their way over logs and under low-hanging tree branches. Their pace was glacial, slow enough to set Sefiaâs teeth on edge, to make her jump at every branch snapping, every rustle of movement. But she couldnât leave him.
The boy soon began shivering in the moist night air. He didnât complain. His teeth didnât even chatter. But he hunched his shoulders and rubbed his arms and Sefia knew he was cold. Pausing a moment to pry the blanket from her pack, she offered it without touching him. He looked at her warily, but she forced a smile, and he took it and wrapped it around his shoulders.
They continued walking. She stopped once or twice more to give him meat to chew and a few sips from her canteen, but otherwise, they walked without speaking, and almost without sound. Sefia was glad he didnât try to make conversation. She didnât want to get close to him. Those who were close to her always got hurt.
It was near dawn when they finally halted. They had crossed streams and doubled back on their own tracks more than once,just in case the men had a tracker among them,
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