She looked almost hungry at the news. “Who?”
“My father’s talmid,” I said, feeling my face redden again. Rachel scrunched up her nose.
“Koen Maxwell? He’s kind of awkward, don’t you think?”
I thought about it—how Koen was always letting out loose bursts of laughter at exactly the wrong moment or how he pawed at his neck when my father asked him questions over the dinner table. But, to be honest, that was part of what I liked about him. He had a kind of nervous energy that was always spilling out, like he couldn’t quite contain it.
“He is,” I agreed. “But he’s got those gorgeous brown eyes.”
Rachel understood that. “And that hair,” she agreed. “So are you going to do anything about it?”
I squinted, trying to envision it. But I couldn’t. Every time the image of the two of us began to coalesce, it all evaporated again. “I don’t know. Things feel strange with him. Tense.”
“Oh, that’s just who he is.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.” She set a reassuring hand on my knee, gave my kneecap a squeeze right through my muddy trousers. “You remember how he used to get when we had to give presentations in class, don’t you? All red-faced and nervous. Glancing at the door like he was ready to bolt. I wouldn’t take it personally so long as he’s decent to you.”
I thought of the little circles Koen’s hand had made against my back, firm, insistent. And I found myself nodding. “Maybe you’re right,” I said.
Rachel flashed her teeth at me, straight and white as clean steel. “Of course I’m right, Terra,” she said. “Trust me!”
Beneath the flickering streetlights Rachel locked the shop door. Then she wrapped her arms around me and enveloped me in a long embrace.
“It was good to see you,” she said. “More, please?”
I let out a soft laugh. “Sure thing,” I agreed, and gave her shoulders a squeeze. A moment later I watched as she headed off down the street. She stopped at the corner, gave a small wave, then hustled off through the night.
I should have hurried along too. It was getting late—the streets were long empty now, everyone at home with their families, as they should have been. But I wasn’t sure what I would find if I headed home. No, that wasn’t true. I knew exactly what I would find—my father, drunk and angry that I was home so late. I couldn’t bear to face it, so I cinched my coat tight around me and headed out toward the dome.
It was too dark to draw—almost too dark to see anything at all. The wind shifted over the fallow fields, making the dry grass dance. I stumbled over the crumbled cobblestones and deep cracks that cleaved the concrete. A single owl called out, laughing at me. When I was a child, I’d been afraid of them. But then my father told me that they were here for a reason, just like I was. They were needed to control the population of field mice, who helped spread grain and nuts and berries, which we needed to feed the goats and sheep—which we needed to feed ourselves.
“Everything has its place,” he told me. “Everything on the ship plays its part in tikkun olam.”
He’d believed it then. I think I had too. Now, as I bumbled through the darkness, I wasn’t so sure. What part had Benjamin Jacobi played, or Momma? I couldn’t see how their lives or deaths had done anyone any good.
In the darkness up ahead on the path, I saw a tall silhouette. A boy rested on a footbridge that bordered one of the fields. He leaned his weight against the metal rail. For a moment I thought it might be a specter—a ghost. He was dressed all in white, funeral colors. His long coat seemed to glow in the dark. I frowned at the sight, wondering who had died. But that wasn’t possible—there was no way Abba would have let me miss a funeral. An affectation, then. But a strange one.
“You there!” he called out to me, shadowing his face with a hand. It was a rich tenor voice, the kind that made you want to listen. “Who is that?”
“Terra Fineberg,” I called as I reached the end of the bridge. I could see who it was now; the black curls that graced his shoulders were unmistakable. As was the gold and purple cord on his shoulder, the only touch of color on his otherwise spotless outfit. Silvan.
“Terra,” he said. I saw his teeth glint, bright in the night. And I tried to train back the instinctive smile that I felt forming too. “It’s a cold evening for a walk.”
“I don’t mind the cold so much,” I said. It was a lie; I hated the cold. But Silvan would be captain soon, due certain politeness. I didn’t want to inconvenience him with my complaints. Then an echo of my father’s words tumbled from my mouth. “Besides, it’s our duty to get used to the cold weather, isn’t it?”
“Mm-hmm,” came Silvan’s bored reply. I thought for a moment about what Mara had said, about how we might someday be stuck living in the dome if Zehava proved inhabitable. Surely if that were the case, then the Council would allow us our summers? I wondered if Silvan knew about that. But I didn’t know how to ask.
“Have you been enjoying your work, Talmid Fineberg?” he said at last, after silence had begun to stretch out uncomfortably between us.
“Sure,” I said, bristling at the formality of his speech. “You?”
He shrugged. I guess he was about as interested in this line of inquiry as I was.
“It’s late. Shouldn’t you be with your family? Not . . . alone?” I said, then winced. Who was I to ask such questions of a Council member? I expected him to rebuff me, but he didn’t. He only scowled.
“Abba tried to tell me tonight that I’m to keep a guard member with me at all times. I’m not a child. I don’t need a babysitter.”
Silvan’s eyes were hard, proud. If they hadn’t been so heavily lashed, I might have been afraid of them.
“I can’t imagine,” I said. He snorted.
“No! Who can? After all, your family let you out tonight. You didn’t have to ask permission.”
I slid my hands down into my pockets, unsure of how to answer. In my household it wasn’t a matter of rules. It was a matter of dark nights and drunk nights and navigating the space between them.
As he watched me, waiting for my answer, Silvan’s expression changed. It was like a light flickered on in his mind, pale at first, then growing brighter. In our silence he stepped close. Soon he stood only an arm’s length away. He smelled like strong tea and animal musk. I remembered that scent vividly, remembered the weight of his lips.
I remembered my dreams. And my jaw tightened. I told myself that Silvan wasn’t my bashert. No, no, Silvan belonged to Rachel.
“Terra,” he began. His tongue darted out, wetting his mouth. “You’re a specialist.”
“I am,” I agreed, casting a self-conscious eye to the braid on his shoulder.
“Have you had any suitors yet?”
“Suitors?” I began uncertainly. “Silvan, we’re not sixteen yet. You know that no one is allowed to declare their intentions.”
“Oh, I don’t mean all that pomp and circumstance.” He gave his head a fierce shake. “I just wanted to know if any boys have expressed interest in you. Yet.”
His eyes were so wide, they showed white at the edges. I didn’t like their hunger or their intensity. So I stepped away from him, trying to ignore how my heart was suddenly sounding in my chest. Had anyone expressed interest? I thought of what Rachel had said. And I thought of Koen and his long, paper-dry hands.