I stuck close to Halaavi. I was fed, and I was given a set of warmer clothes. The children, especially, were fascinated with me. The adults kept to themselves and gave Halaavi and me a wide berth, but the children crowded around me. They touched my hair, my skin. I had a beard then, and they were fascinated by that, too. The gold elves, like the reds, don’t have much luck with facial hair. Around dusk, the herders drove the livestock back to the camp, and I had to be advocated for all over again. It was simpler this time since the rest of the clan had allowed me in, but valid suspicions take root quickly and are hard to eradicate.

After the evening meal—a stew of collected roots and nuts served with sharp goat cheese—Halaavi led me to a yurt on the edge of camp. “We sleep here,” ve said, holding the door open for me. Inside, a fire burned in a shallow stone bowl. It threw dancing yellow light around the circular wall of the yurt. Four other people my age sat around it in various states of undress. Three I had met already; the fourth seemed wholly uninterested in me. The floor was strewn with unfurled bedrolls and messy blankets, each like separate untidy islands. Open bags gaped next to the beds, full of clothing and trinkets. Next to one bed sat a set of drums not unlike Abira’s. The sight of them gave me pangs of nostalgia. As soon as I felt it, everyone in the yurt turned to look at me. The one I hadn’t met followed my eyes to the drums. “Do you play?”

“I don’t. I knew a drummer.”

“Ve sings,” Halaavi said.

One of the others cracked a smile. “We all sing,” ve said. “Does ve sing well?” Halaavi gave a noncommittal shrug. The other Droma laughed. The one who’d asked scooted over and patted the blanket. “Come, not-settler. Sit.”

I sat. I warmed my hands over the fire, and Halaavi squatted next to me. Ve was very close, almost protective. “Where do I sleep?”

“Anywhere there is an open bed,” one of them said.

“This yurt is for unpaired Vralas,” Halaavi said. Ve said it triloshilai-shaah, literally “without a shared skin.” Triloshilai was an elusive word, one I had a nebulous sense of from the stolen songs, but not a clear understanding of. I had taken it to mean marriage. Certainly, that was as close to its meaning as I could have gotten in isolation.

“Vralas?” I asked.

“Yes; we are Vrala, all of us. Vrala Halaavi,” ve said. Ve pointed across the fire. “Vrala Shinnani. Vrala Kishva.” Ve pointed at me. “Vrala Ariah.”

“You’re related?” I scanned their faces: some bore a resemblance, some did not.