We ported in Alassah. The Nakash mostly sail the southern swells, and they do not have much of a hold that close to the coast. In Alassah, Sorcha and Shayat are the Nakash fleet, and they are respected. Sorcha led me along the maze of floating piers, which make up the docks. I wore a lefta and no shoes, a Droma transplant through and through. The island is narrow, long and winding like a sea snake, and the buildings are built tall along skinny streets. After years in the open grasslands, it felt horrifically claustrophobic. Sorcha held my hand in plain sight in the street, and no one batted an eye. He walked tall, nahsiyya at a glance, and was not remarkable. I trailed behind him, fighting an urge to sing a walking song to these arrogant buildings. I knew it was absurd, but it seemed rude to enter the city without one.

We turned down an alley, and then another. A pack of children chased a chicken our way, shoving by single file to get past us when it ran through Sorcha’s legs. Sorcha frowned at them. “Hey, whose chicken is that?”

“Not yours, Fiddler, promise!” one of the children yelled back.

Sorcha shook his head. He counted his chickens later that night to make sure it wasn’t one of his. His grip on my hand tightened as we walked down that narrow street. I felt his heartbeat ratchet up through his palm. We came to a bright blue house with a white door. In the window hung a length of muslin with the twined Nakash serpents twined painted in black. Sorcha fished a key out of his pocket and led me inside.

Shayat stood in a doorway across the room with her back to us. Her short, white hair shone in the light. Her hips had a regal sweep to them. I gripped Sorcha’s hand tight. He smiled at me and laid his other hand against my arm. “Shayat,” he said. It came out low and lilting, half song.

She started. Toys clattered in the next room. She turned, already smiling, and froze. “Ariah,” she whispered.

“I found him.”

Shayat slammed into me with enough force that I fell against the door. “You’re here,” she said, “you’re really here.”

“I’m here.” She turned and looked at Sorcha. Her face in profile brought everything rushing back. “You look lovely, Shayat.”

She turned to me again and laughed. She plucked at my hair. “You look ridiculous! This hair? The beard? What are you wearing? You look like you’ve wandered the wilds.”

“I did.”

“I know!” she said, grinning, her hands on my cheeks. “You look it.”

I kissed her. She let it be soft, gentle. She let it be sweet. For me, she let it be sweet. When we broke apart, she looked over at Sorcha. “Did you tell him?”

“I did. Of course I did.”