• 40 •

Grovea. Myra listens to the fading notes of Amber’s song along the boulevard, not understanding a word of it: “Mah ran en at qu flate vene mondu . . .”

“Pro al fit set Nov,” joins Tempest in sweet chorus. “Fo ri zett ob!”

The girls have a code between them, a secret language that is wonderful and carefree. They call it pa tabe dome. Now their feet jump so with happiness. Looking at the skip of their happy feet, heads dipping up and down in the distance until they are out of sight, Myra remembers a star dance she once saw in Otis. It held a pattern of blinking that spread from one diamond to another, until the whole sky was a symphony of light.

The children are once more in sight. Tempest is holding Amber by the arm and leg, giving her an airplane spin. Amber goes high, higher, squeal squealing as she flies. Their play spreads. It touches other creatures in Bruthen. Fireflies hover. Cicadas awaken and begin their chant. A Vulcan eagle moves its wings to a slow beat, and then boasts spectacular loops.

Myra and Vida catch up to the girls who are bouncing in topped-up excitement. The girls have discovered a burbling brook whose waters surge against and slap into the coast. Water-sprayed strands of hair streak across Tempest’s face. Amber’s hair is locked up in braids. The two of them now are nothing like the girls who at other times roared and pulled out claws, who leapt to tear at each other’s faces. It’s not like they laid in wait for a fight or angled to make it happen. There was no scornful planning behind it. A fight just happened in an instant: one mouth twitched, an eyelid fluttered, and—as if by unspoken pact—the girls flew at each other, and someone clasped ten fingers around someone else’s throat.

Now spent from water play, Amber and Tempest are on the ground, Grovean moonshine in their eyes. “In three days,” says Myra, “when the season dips into summer, the moon becomes bloodred, and the sun that rises afterward is a simmering emerald.”

Before they reach the tall doors of the Temple of Saneyth, Myra points at a flight of steps leading to a bell-tower. “Wait here,” she tells her clan.

She notices Vida’s look about him. He is disconcerted, she knows.

The girls are no longer skipping. They are as quiet as Vida, their eyes drawn toward a throng of late night worshippers. Near the temple’s entrance, robed men, women in leather sandals and pleated tunics, and a handful of naked children appraise their approach.

Myra finds Novic in the incense room.

“Y-yes?” he says without recognition.

The shadows in his eyes halt her approach. He is much as she remembers him, leathered skin furrowed into itself with age, clinging to bone. His eyes are as old as Jacob. His face looks like death. But his hair! A black magical mane falls to his waist. So black, it shines like metal. So soft, the tresses of it bounce with her words.

“It’s me, Myra.”

His expression does not change. With a lift of palm, he commands the door shut. The room falls into darkness. She feels rather than sees his approach.

“Are you not afraid, child?” The roll of rocks carrying echoes in his voice is more than she remembers.

“I should be.”

“But you are not.” His robe carries a reedy scent. The touch of his hand on her chin is coarse. “It is you,” he says. “And you bring something new.” He takes her hand. “Take me to your people.”

• • •

Tempest gasps at the sight of him, at his magical hair long and flowing like a spell. Novic crouches beside her, sits her on his knee.

“Dear child, don’t look so stupefied. We have never met.”

“But—” begins Tempest.

“I understand how you can be mistaken. Child—” he lifts her chin so her tiger eyes meet the fog in his. “I am not T-Mo.”

He puts her down, pulls something from his robe. It is a mouth harp. He plays music, a welcome hymn, Myra explains. His song tells of a pristine beach and falling rocks; of wet tropics and flowing rivers; of chrysanthemum leaves and budding coral.

“This,” he says, “is the song of Grovea.” He pockets the harp. “Come. I will take you to my clan.”