callnameproclaims the crowd, gathergleansnatching her in. Darling’s voice is breaking now. She asks Astrid – the second child steps up – “But what if she’s got it wrong?”

Astrid’s a little bewilderstupified. “There’s always another year,” she says, vexed. Darling’s eyes are wheels. “How often are you allowed to take a name?”

Astrid: “Shush!” The name comes: “Kit!” “There’s no rule,” she mumbles, tight-lipped. Darling thinks for a little blankblink. “Could I give a name?” she asks, softgentlestupid.

Astrid doesn’t reply, and watches the last child speak to the Namer: Erikasbairn, sibling of Brenna. Øyvind starts when he hears the name.

A pauselullsecretsilence. “Astrid!” he callnameproclaims, and Astrid hears the Hall callnameproclaim her name, knowing that it’s not for her, but thinking that somehow it surely is.

~

The dance begins. The band gets going, snortcreaksqueaking at first like an engine left to sit for a year, but soon enough running well. Their leader calls out the names and steps of the dances:

a three-step first, to stretchreachexpand out limbs and for eagershakeanxious feet to find their beat, and for dancers to find their partners; then a set-dance, tae mixtangle them up, and then a waltz.

Darling wants to be the first to the floor. But Astrid holds her back, maybe out of wantneeding to see the old people’s example first,

maybe more out of fear, or just a motegrain of shame. But with the waltz she finds herself and lifts Darling up to the floor. There are plenty of people with them.

~

Eynar’s watching from behind his bottles for Noor to come. He doesn’t show it. He doesn’t know why he’s worried about it, or maybe he does: maybe he’s not going to see

another dance, and wants to dance with a new bodyperson who’ll make a meaning. He grins at Olaf with his child, lifting them and whirlrushdancespinning round,

and at the new-named youngsters dancing veryawfully solemn, carefulwatchful now as the old people, but without age’s grace and startstripburstjumps of terrifying speed.

And at the partners, futures toldwarned in how they hold each other: too close or too loose or gliding by with the ease of binary stars. (Yes, but

there’s always another bodyperson coming on another curve to make a puzzletangled problem, and gods know whathowwherewhy the calculation will come out.)

~

Noor isn’t coming. She’s at the Havenharbour, alone, not rememberknowreflectwilling, mumbling numbers, testing equations, searchplundercleardigging the most obscure articles

in the least reputable journals for every strangerweird formula to shape around the shape of the wrecks. Out of her eyeline the Lights are gathering;

behind her, patterns she can’t see. She’s putting her hands on the black walls: without a crackchink to wrenchripbreak at or knobbeakpointbutton to press, but she’s pressing, room by room.