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“I’m sorry,” Sadie said softly.
“I think you’ll find most of us have sad stories to tell,” Ora said, looking up to the milky constellation of stars. “When we get to Taigoska, we’ll play them for you.”
“Play?” Hector asked.
“Our stories.” Ora added another log to the fire, embers spraying up from the ashes below. “We could tell you what happened, but a song will make you feel it. It’s been the only thing I’ve found healing.”
“That sounds beautiful,” I whispered.
“One day.” Ora looked at me. “We’ll write your song.”
Grae’s hand clenched around mine and I dropped it.
“That would be nice,” I said, standing up and feigning a yawn. “It’s been a long day. I think I’ll retire now.”
“Good night,” the group called. “Sleep well.”
I was halfway to the tent when I heard Sadie say, “What about Valta? Any stories from there?”
Ora replied something I couldn’t quite hear and they all erupted into laughter. It hurt hearing that laughter, and I wasn’t sure why. They were all able to enjoy the bittersweetness of life while I only felt overwhelmed by it.
I couldn’t let it be. The world wouldn’t change if I accepted those stories of Navin’s family as just another part of the rhythms of existence. That anxious thought filled me, not knowing what action I needed to take, but knowing I must act. I couldn’t let Navin’s life be just another story. What they said about Wolves not caring about humans anymore... if I did nothing, it would prove them all right.
I entered the tent and kicked off my boots, sighing as I peeled off my woolen socks. I wiggled my bare feet against the chilly canvas. The moon was bright in the sky, but the space was dark, the heavy shadows leaching the color from the room. I stared atGrae’s single bed roll and blanket. We could both fit better than the bunk for sure, but it would still be snug . . . I’d sleep on the floor.
I opened the front flap of my pack and felt for the glass jar that held my tea light candles and flint. I lit only one and placed it beside my pack, just enough light to see as I searched for any clothes I could use as a blanket.
The canvas swayed as the tent flap opened behind me, and I didn’t need to look to know it was Grae.
“Are you okay?”
I hated that question. I pushed down the feelings threatening to rise up to the surface.
“Thank you for asking to travel with them,” I said instead.
“You were right. It’s a better plan to hide amongst them.” Grae’s discarded boots thudded to the floor, and his socks appeared beside me as I rifled through my pack. His gentle hand on my shoulder stilled my movements. “Talk to me.”
“I’m just tired,” I said, yanking out my cloak and laying it across the floor.
“Take the bedroll,” Grae insisted.
“No—”
“I’ll sleep by the door. Take it, you’ve had a worse few nights than me.” I could feel his eyes lingering on my bruises. “I promise to take a turn tomorrow night if that’ll convince you.”
I sighed, still not looking up into those dark eyes. “Fine.”
The air was too cold for me to undress. I’d sleep in my clothes. I crawled onto the bedroll, pulling the fur up to my shoulder and tucking my wounded chin over the top. It wasn’t a bed in a palace, but it was far more comfortable than being directly on the ground.
My eyelids drooped, the warmth of the furs tugging me down toward sleep. I listened to Grae’s ruffling, wondering what sort of makeshift bed he had constructed for himself but too exhausted to lift my head and look.
His deep voice carried easily across the silent room. “What Navin said . . .”
“Don’t,” I cut in, blowing out the candle flame flickering in front of me.
I screwed my eyes shut, as if the act alone could force me to sleep. I didn’t want to talk to him about Navin’s story or how many other Olmderians had similar tales to tell. What would my parents think? I felt the mounting weight of it all crushing down on me. Compared to the plight of humans, I had no sad song to sing. If I didn’t help fix their world, I didn’t deserve to mourn it. As I yielded to the warm tug of sleep, I tried to imagine what my song would sound like, but all I heard was silence.
Twenty
