“Be glad he died of a knife to the kidney, Maren,” Kye said quietly, the fingers of his left hand rubbing the knuckles of his right. “It was a better end than what I’d have done to him, if I’d found him alive.” Hidden in the dark shadows, I could see only his arms and his thighs as he leaned into the edge of the rocks. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I shook my head. I could barely grasp it myself, let alone put into words what had happened only a few hours ago in my garden. My throat tightened painfully as I swallowed, and my fingers prodded at the increasingly sore tissue there.
That was how I knew it was real. The ache in my muscles, radiating down to my bones. The stiffness in my neck and lower back. The scores of raw, jagged lines along the backs of my arms. The echo of torn ligaments in my elbow. The reverberating sting that lanced up my arm when I flexed my fingers, where my hand couldn’t seem to forget the memory of a knife in its grip as I forced it into the body of another.
My eyes lifted to the constellations overhead, my personal map written in stars above—my ever-constant guides while at sea in myva’a. The flying whale, the mother bird, the singing maiden, the lonely sea. The last was my favorite, a cluster of stars layered over each other like waves of water, frozen in the night.
“So. It’s just you and your father?”
I saw the words for what they were—a method of distracting me from my thoughts. Eyes on the stars, I nodded, numb. “And my Nani when I was little. And Nola, Naheso, and my aunt.”
My throat tightened. Beside me, Kye’s body remained still as he watched me in silence. I swallowed, searching my thoughts for a way to entice him to talk about himself rather than ask me questions simply to fill the quiet air. “Do you have brothers and sisters?”
“Two of each.”
“Oh.” Most island families were of similar size, but my house had only ever been filled with my father and me—and distant, foggy memories of my Nani.
“Well, my father remarried after my mother died. The youngest two are my half-siblings,” Kye explained softly.
“How old are they?” Above, the stars twinkled. I’d been staring at the sky for hours, waiting for the stars. Waiting to watch them turn, twist, flicker.
“Eleven and eight.” He leaned forward. “Do you—"
I cleared my throat. “And how do they see you? Are you a role model?”
He leaned into the rocks, thumb tapping his knee. Then he scoffed under his breath. “Their mother probably doesn’t think so. Are you tired?”
“No,” I lied, brushing sand from my ankles.
My eyeswereheavy. But I’d spent the last few hours reaching for sleep’s hand, only to have it yanked from my grasp. I hadn’t been able to sleep since arriving. I'd tried several times, but every time I closed my eyes, I was haunted by my uncle’s face as I left him, pale and disbelieving.
“So…you lost your mother young,” I murmured, then instantly regretted the conversation my words invited.
He was quiet for long enough that I thought he might not have heard me. But then, “She died of pneumonia when I was nine.”
I shifted, uncurling my legs and stretching them, every muscle in my body as rigid as the rock I leaned on. Why had I asked about his mother? Seconds ticked by and my cheeks grew warm. How obvious was it that I was so unpolished compared to him?
“How old are you now?”
“Twenty-six. How old were you when you lost yours?”
I dared a glance at him, but his dark silhouette was turned toward the sea, lashes stirring as his eyes roamed the waves.
“Not quite two.”
“Do you remember her at all?”
I inhaled, shaking my head. “No. I have dreams, sometimes, of her singing. Not with words, just melody. But I don’t know if it’s a true memory.” I faltered, realizing I’d never confessed such a thing before. “What do you remember of your mother?”
His mouth curled, thinking as he watched the waves. “A lot of things. Her tucking me in for bed. Kissing me goodnight. Playing on the beach with my brother and sister, finding seashells tobring home. Her funny stories. She had a low, rich accent. As a boy, it was like listening to someone speak in lullabies.”
Lullabies. Was it a universal idea to all children that their mother always sang to them? “How so?” I asked, grateful for the sound of his voice after hours of listening to nothing but the one in my head. Even if he only shared childhood memories.
He considered my question. “She rolled herR’swith the flick of her tongue, like they didn’t exist. She would have pronounced your nameMedden.” He dropped an octave on the last word, his voice like velvet.
A warm shiver ran down my back, and something pulled at my center, hearing him say my name, even in his mother’s accent. “Do you look more like her or your father?”
Fingers laced together in his lap, he sighed. “Her. You favor your father, but I see something else in you too. Where was your mother from?”
