I keep the sanding block moving. “Vakut?”
“Yeah.”
“No.”
She leans against the prep table. “That was fast.”
“I left young.”
“For military school?”
“All Vakutan children leave their families for training when they reach the proper age.”
Her face changes. “All of them?”
“Yes.”
“That sounds awful.”
“It is an honor.”
“That is not what I said.”
I pause because she has said this before. Because she hears the difference between tradition and wound.
“It was normal,” I say.
“Normal and awful are not mutually exclusive.”
I return to sanding. “Vakutan children are taught discipline, combat readiness, history, honor, strategy, physical endurance, and service. We are returned to our families when we are considered ready to choose our path.”
“How old were you when you left?”
“Younger than your schoolchildren who come for honey buns.”
Her mouth tightens. “Kauss.”
“It is our way.”
“Did you like it?”
No one has asked me that either.
I search memory. Early cold mornings. Dust under training boots. Older instructors shouting until their throats rasped. Pride when I first lifted a weight meant for older boys. Shame when I cried the second month and hid it badly. Letters from my mother that smelled faintly of mineral oil and the spice she put in everything. My father visiting once and telling me I stood like a warrior, though I only wanted him to stay.
“I was good at it,” I say.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I know.”
She lets the silence sit instead of filling it. That is one of the ways she is dangerous.
Finally, I say, “I missed my mother.”
Her eyes soften.
I brace for pity.
