I blinked. I opened my mouth, and then closed it again. Dirva pulled her into his apartment by her elbow. She half-stumbled through the doorway, head cocked to one side, watching me too closely, like I was a potential threat. Dirva’s sister, who had the improbably Semadran name of Abira, declared herself hungry as soon as she stepped inside. She found Dirva’s armchair, the single comfortable piece of furniture in the apartment, and curled up in it. She was dusty from travel and left a trail of sand wherever she went. She seemed bored and playful, and I was left at her mercy when Dirva went to go start dinner. I took a seat at the table and made a pretense of sorting through Dirva’s correspondence. There was nothing to sort through, just a handful of already-opened envelopes, and I could feel her watching me. The shaper in me fought to the forefront of my mind, reaching out to her, as curious about her as she was about me. I kept my eyes pinned to the envelopes. They passed through my hands, one after another after another in a steady, unending, and pointless march. I could feel her canniness, her curiosity. I hated the way she studied me; it made me feel meek and trapped. Periodically, she shouted something to Dirva, questions and quips for which I had no context, but her voice was distracted, and I knew I was what she really wanted to ask about.

I had hoped that when Dirva laid out the food that she would turn her attentions to him. After all, they hadn’t seen each other in at least four years and likely much longer. I thought, perhaps, that her interest in me was a placeholder until he came back again. He sat down next to me and pulled the mail from my hands. He waved her over, and Abira sat on his other side, right across the table from me. I very much wanted to slink into the other room. I paid far more attention to my food than was strictly necessary.

Abira leaned across the table, her head cocked to one side. Her hair was fine and straight; it slid in lazy waves across her forehead, this way and that as she moved. She had hair like mine, but her brother’s was coarse and tightly curled. “Kid, you are a copper, yeah?”

I glanced up and back down again, blinking fast. “I’m sorry, miss—”

“Miss?” she said, cocking an eyebrow. She turned to Dirva. “He’s a proper one, eh?”

“…a copper what?” I stammered.

“It’s City slang for someone with mixed parentage. Someone with Athenorkos and Semadran blood,” Dirva said. He waved at both of us. “Eat.”