On the porch of a neighboring building, Mara sat with a woman of the Yellow Wood clan, who had been teaching her the past few months since she had healed how to sculpt traditional Zuni pottery. She was crafting a rounded pitcher that Calliope recognized as the Cíbola-style whiteware, Kiatuthlana Black-on-white, patterned with diamonds and triangular mazes centering on two fingerlike projections pointing toward each other, whose original she had seen in archaeological exhibits dating from around 850 AD, ascribed to the Anasazi, though Calliope had corrected the curator: they are not the Ancient Enemy, a Navajo word, but The People or Ancestral Puebloans. Bisabuela had taught her Anasazi was not the correct word for their ancestors, who were a lot of things and not all of them pleasant, but they were not the enemy. Calliope found it compelling that Mara would emulate this ancient pottery style characteristic of the four-corners region, more specifically, Chaco Canyon. Did she think it would help? Or was it a coincidence she was making this particular pitcher?

Mara noticed Calliope watching her and waved her over.

Calliope nearly asked how Mara was feeling, in a voice of sympathetic concern, as she’d done every day since Mara had recovered, but she stopped herself. At this point it only annoyed the older woman, who seemed as spry as ever. Instead, she said, “That pitcher is a beautiful recreation of the original whiteware.”

Mara stopped painting but didn’t smile. Her tone purposeful, as though she hadn’t called Calliope over for chitchat, she said, “I’m taking it with us.”

Calliope narrowed her eyes at the pottery, considering. “Will a replica do any good?”

“We don’t know what will. Might as well try.”

Calliope glanced at the Yellow Wood clanswoman. They shouldn’t have been discussing this in front of her or anyone outside of the kiva Chance went to for help. His deceased wife’s older brother, Arlen Cooeyate, member of the Eagle clan. No one else knew. And for all of their safety, they needed to keep it that way. Arlen was the voice of their religion, a role he’d inherited after his elder brother had died. He was not the Elder she had expected to meet.

Mara broke her trance, said, “Are you busy after dinner? I need to discuss something with you.”

Had she and Chance been planning without her? “Chance needs to talk.”

“Then I’ll join you.”

Calliope nodded, and the corn girl threw the rattle drum at Mara, hitting the pitcher. It bounced off and fell to the wooden porch. Mara didn’t look amused. She handed the rattle back to Calliope.

Nala approached, a reddish-brown seed jar balanced atop her head. She was smiling widely, though walking cautiously.

Calliope asked the young woman, “Still practicing?”

“If we’re to live as the Ancients lived, then I want to do it right.”

“You’re doing perfectly.”