“Mom said our village was built upon a place of strength. Bran once talked to me about energy centers. His house is built on one, near ancient dolmens. The village was a place like that. Mom said that it was the source of their healing powers.”

I nudge his foot with mine, and he reaches over to touch my hand. I ignore the fireworks and wait for him to continue.

“My mother’s father, a fisherman, died in a river accident just after she was born, so my guérriseur grandmother raised the two girls by herself. She was well-respected in the region, and the village chief let her do things her own way. But she got sick and before she died, she passed the gift on to my mother, who was twenty-three. At that point, the chief decided he wanted to control my mom’s power. He thought he could marry her and charge people for her services. Can you imagine?”

I can’t.

“The sisters fled in the night. In Bamako, they looked up a contact their mother had given them in case if they were ever in trouble. It was a wealthy businessman she had brought back from the brink of death. The man was so grateful that he arranged for my mom and her sister to travel to Paris. He found them lodging and jobs.”

Siaka stops, lost in thought.

“How did she meet your dad?” I prompt. “If he’s Bran’s cousin, that means he’s from a guérriseur family too.”

“They met through Le Corbeau,” he replies. “Mom said she was called to it. She was passing by, and something drew her inside. Gwenaëlle, Bran’s mother, was in the shop that day. She saw the tattoo that my grandmother had inked on my mother’s hand and recognized her as a fellow Flame-finger. She took the sisters in like they were family. It was just a matter of time before my mom met my dad at a family gathering in Brittany.”

“Good story,” I say.

He smiles sadly and nods.

“Do you have the same tattoo as your mother?”

“Didn’t you notice the other day in the armory?” he replies with a cheeky grin. Sitting up, he unzips his wetsuit. “I asked Mom to put it near my heart.”

There, perfectly centered over his sternum, is a hand, palm-forward with a flame topping each finger. It’s inked in a series of small dots, as if done by individual needle-pricks.

“Do you have any tattoos?” he asks.

My heart drops. “Nothing worth seeing.”

“Wait...what?” He shifts to turn toward me. “You have a secret tattoo and it’s not worth seeing? Come on. Now you have to show me.”

“Seriously, Siaka. It’s no big deal.” My face is burning.