“No, he came,” Abira said. Her voice held surprise in it, and triumph. She stepped back and pulled me over. “And he brought this with him. Ariah, that’s my kid brother, Sorcha. Sorcha, Ariah. Ariah’s gonna crash at the squat house.”

Sorcha noticed me for the first time then. He looked me over, up and down, measuring and final like Abira when I first met her. He has an extraordinarily expressive face, and I could read his mind without help from any gift; anyone could have. He looked me over, he smirked at my Semadran clothes, the stiffness of my posture, and then he grinned a silent proposition. I burst into nervous laughter. His eyebrows flicked up, and his grin grew that much more canny. Abira shoved me towards him. I landed about two inches away from him. We saw exactly eye to eye; Sorcha and I were exactly the same height. “You get him settled in, would you?” she said. “I just want to get back to the Refuge and crash already.”

“You could crash here for the night,” Sorcha said. I had long since dropped my gaze and was peering idly out at the Square on no pretense at all, but I could feel him staring at me as he said it.

“No, I’m all right,” she said. “Fond memories and all, but my roof don’t leak. It’s all yours.”

She left me there with her younger brother. He ran a hand through his hair—a bright, shocking red—and nodded towards the dilapidated house. “Well, let’s get you in, get you settled. Your name’s Ariah?”

“Yes,” I said tentatively.

“Well, is it or isn’t it?”

“It is. Ariah. Ariah Lirat’Mochai. A pleasure to meet you,” I said, holding out my hand. We were still standing too close together, and it was awkward, holding my hand out in the thin thread of space between us.

He took my hand. “Yeah, sure. Same. You hungry? Thirsty?”

I stole a quick glance at the disheveled house. “No. Just tired, I think.”

He ushered me inside with an arm draped around my shoulders. I didn’t know how to react to that, so I chose not to react at all. Somehow, the interior of the building was worse off than the exterior. He made no apologies for it. Inside, a dozen or so scrawny, hard-eyed youths milled around, all of them obviously of mixed heritage. “This is the gang,” he said. “The Natives. Nahsiyya to a man, and all City-born. With your eyes you’ll fit right in.” He whistled the same piercing, sharp whistle as he had out in the Square. “Hey! This is Ariah. He’s bunking with us.”

A woman with creamy skin and wild, woolly black hair poked her head around a door frame. I felt my throat close up at the sight of her. I was terribly attracted to her. “You vouching, Sorcha?”