I stare in the cracked mirror on this day, fragmented slices of my face staring back. The bleeding has stopped. I poke a hesitant finger at my cheek, and it comes away clean.

I sigh. This means braving the bathtub. After I brush out my hair, pull out a bar of pink soap from the cabinet. After I hold the bucket, pouring water in fits and starts, into the tub. I poke a finger in, and it is cold. But warmer than ice, or snow, or the wind howling like a lost pup. So I get in. Clothes and all. I douse my face and rub the pink soap across my skin, lather it into my hair, cleanse my feet and hands.

I hesitate above my body. This body of mine. This body. I shut my eyes and pull my shirt off, the underclothes, thick leggings. And I rub the pink soap everywhere, with my eyes shut, pretend my hands are just holding somebody's corpse, because that makes it easier.

I come up, gasping, toes yanking out the drain to the wooden pipes and hands reaching for the bucket of sea water. I pour it over myself, squeeze my eyes closed, until the soap's sliminess rinses free. Body, some kinds of sliminess are beneath your skin. Between the ice cube of you and the raincloud you don't fit in.

I have forgotten a towel. I limp, freezing, past the mirror where arms hug myself. The air bites like fine needles of cold clear to the cabinet of my clothes, which are not really my clothes, but I use the towel. The one jet black as Skeleton Cook's eyes. I rub the towel over everything, warding off the air, and I don't shut my eyes this time. Over my chest. Shoulders. Hips. I cover myself up, kneel beside the drawers beneath the bed, where I keep the clothes that are actually mine. And I wear ribbons today.

Remember how, brain, you tied ribbons in his hair while he couldn't sleep? His hair was barely ever long enough, and he only kept it so long for you. Because as much as he pouted about how it tugged his scalp, he loved strutting around with every color of the auroras braided in his waves, rippling with his steps.

Even in the graveyards. That one night with the mist, your teacher Kolariq sent you, him, and another boy to the burial yard, between the cave and the further town, to fetch a skeleton. The morning before, you'd plaited only with silver and black silk because you'd both known the task was coming. And he said he almost felt like a deadly warrior boy twice that day, but he didn't take them out.

That night, the other boy vomited from the smell, since the body wasn't entirely gone yet, and you nearly got it to crawl from the hole, but then he said you were taking too long and used his hair ribbons to wrap the skeleton. Silk, tying the bottom jaw to the rib cage, tying the femurs to each other. The sight had you down on your knees laughing, then the scent hit you too so two of you wound up vomiting on the cairns of long ago strangers. Yet he never complained about lugging the skeleton by silver lace to the cave all on his own. He just plaited vomit-color ribbons of beige and coral in your hair the next night and said he would remember you laughing at his genius that way for all time.

I stand in front of the cracked mirror, turning, studying the magenta and yellow cotton braided through my pale hair. Skeleton Cook will of course say it is lovely. I make him say that, on account that somebody needs to. If it were just me, I would keep staring at the three accidental tangles until they grew into four.

I try to be dainty going down the steps. I try to smile at the front door. Keep my hands from itching at the sight of the magenta egg in the sitting room, with whatever it carries and where to place it whenever it hatches (the tub? Out beyond the fringes of the garden? As far away as possible?). I try to distract these hands with petting the sea cat instead, who jangles noisily and distinctly does not purr. But I try to tell myself that is okay. A purring sea cat would hardly be heard over a roaring ocean. A jangling sea cat might.

Skeleton Cook presents the empty place at the table with the mushrooms I did not eat yesterday. I try not to let them remind me, or squirm at the taste of crawling-fungi, since nothing else I grow is healthy enough after two days of leaking blood. And especially, I do not think about the spring, and how it's nearly ended so the summer traders will soon arrive at the coast, so I will have to soon leave. I don't think about counting steps, to the city, by the ocean, to trade for supplies I need. My mouth eats sodden mushrooms instead.

Skeleton Cook tells me my hair looks lovely. With a nod, I thank him, and tell him his cooking is lovely. It was more lovely yesterday, but of course, we both knew that.

I do the washing myself, in the sink by the stove that holds the old rock. I never found what lake this sink's running water went to. Or maybe it is a river. But the water comes out clear enough to wash dishes with, and it stains nothing with salt after it dries.

I bite my lips to keep from humming; I rub a dry cloth through white suds from pink soap across a stained pan. Skeleton Cook would like to dance with my silent hums, but I have him sit in the empty place at the table, in the chair that doesn't wobble. His foot starts to tap anyway, the many bones of his toes sounding like a tinny drum.

The sink drains of frothy suds and dirty water. The knife and plate and pan sit drying close to the stove. And I run a hand through the spiraling water, pulling out scum of crawling-fungi and bits of mushroom, then toss it to the old, generous rock. It splats wetly on the fungi's crusty surface, steaming faintly. I pretend that that means thank you.

***

He was a terrible singer, brain. Used to yodel sea shanties at the top of his lungs. Particularly in those days when you'd all stand in the ocean, training to manipulate your own blood, even beneath water trying to pull it apart. His singing would make one of the other boys wince and cover his ears and lose control of his blood ribbon in the waves, and yell about how awful the screaming was.

So he would shout back, "You couldn't yodel if you tried!" but Kolariq would tell you all to get back on your knees in the water. Concentrate on your blood thread underwater. Don't let the blood dissolve into the water.

Sweat formed on your forehead at the effort, and you held back a shudder at the grossness of it all, but kept both your hands level with the choppy water. Kept holding the odd, red blood in a thin circle, resisting the waves' tug.

Until the thought of salt distracted you; how could an ocean could be salty, and blood be salty, and same with your sweat? And the circle faded like ink beneath a water spill, and he was on his feet shouting again--or, singing. Another boy leapt at him, shoving him face first into the water. Then the other boys joined in. That was one day Kolariq's skirts were soaked before the sun hit noon.

***

I go out into the garden, again, trying not to count steps but ending up at one hundred and two anyway. I gather all the rocks I can, even the small ones. I gather all the mushrooms, and the seal's-fur herbs, but leave the crawling-fungi alone. They will just crawl away, when I store everything in the cave before traveling to the town.

My knife cuts the stems of the howling mint, my nails dig in the snow for snow witches but do not find any. A five-petaled hemlock peeps from the thick dirt, though I brought no shovel to dig up the tubers.

I put one rock in my backpack with the rest of the food, and hold a smaller rock in my arms. It's one hundred and fourteen steps to the door where I drop the backpack, and leave the rock outside. I walk to the garden twice more, lugging pairs of rocks, one hundred steps plus two, four, ten, eight. I try not to count so much. I still count so much. Skeleton Cook comes to help me carry them inside, to the belly of the cave, plucking up one in his thin arms and dancing.

***

This place where I store the food is the coldest, the darkest. Salted meats, dried and old, fill the shelves along the opaque ice walls. Ice crystals spike through skins of frozen fruits. And metal cans gather dust, opened some way Skeleton Cook neglected to show me before he died.

I push the dried, bloodless meat to the edge of the shelf. I stack the mushrooms and the mint and the rocks here, as Skeleton Cook brings them into the cave. I should bring him out to the garden, to dig up the bear-bulbs and the five-petaled hemlock.

***

Remember, heart, that panicked, drum-beat feeling of walking into a crowd and wondering what they would do to you? "Nobody knows what we can do," Tulimaq whispered, grabbing your hand. You thought he did that on purpose, so you could focus on the skin of you, instead of the way people look.

People's eyes uttered a curse all of their own. So many words played there, get out of my way. Who do you think you are? Go somewhere else, boy with the death-magic. But you told yourself there was nothing really there. Eyes were just eyes, for seeing.

Hands were just hands, for holding.

You and him entered the store, the air warm with caramel and candy. The sack of coins in his hand clacked, and like a call the doors in the back swung open.

A small woman marched into the bright lobby, round like a pearl, eyes screaming she would pull you apart like halves of a clam. "We just need some candy," you said.

She stared at your held hands and your fingers tingled; you'd forgotten to unmelt them from each other when coming through the door. He gulped loudly. But she broke into a grin and swept you both into a hug. Your jaw fell open; he grunted.

"Of course," she said, eyes shiny.

"Just taffy," he said. "However much this will pay for." He emptied the cloth bag of coins into her palms.

She stared at the ceiling, muttering numbers, then smiled at you both again and dashed away.

"I guess...the entire store-owner's guild isn't a follower of Alaruq?" he said.

"Alaruq?" Your eyebrows furrowed. "The wolf deity?"

He nodded, then must've interpreted your confused face correctly. "They're also the fertility one. Real big about having babies. Also real big on hunting and pack mentality."

You frowned, certain your education of the Uqik-speaking people was entirely lacking. "Strange combination. I thought they all just hated us holding hands."

He raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Us as in two boys, or us as in teenagers--"

"The first one, baft-face." You bumped his hip. "If they hated teenagers doing it, no one would be open for business."

The woman returned, bundles of wax paper clamped in her fists. "Here you go, boys." She nodded and palmed something to him, making his eyes widen.

"Thank you." You unmelted your hand from his and took half the taffy bundles. He took the others, and you both slipped out the sliding door.

"She gave me a coin back," he whispered, ducking around a clattering wagon. "I think it's at least what Kolariq gave us to spend."

You glanced behind you, at the candy shop. "Really? All because we were holding hands?"

He shrugged. "Just don't question it."

"I'm questioning it," you muttered, inhaling the sweetness of sticky candy rolled in the wax bundles.

***

Skeleton Cook clanks to the garden, and I busy myself with packing, though there is not much to pack. I can forage for food on the way, since the trail to the city extends through the frost orchards, ripe with ice berries and plum apples that never go bad.

The frost orchards are untamed, brought up by magic: someone, long ago, was greedy enough to believe they could live forever, until they discovered on their deathbed that they could not live forever. Now any brave soul may wander through their orchards, stomp through them, pick as much food to fill their stomach and then some--and the hanging fruits will still be there the next time you turn around. Yet, nothing survives past the borders.

I take a cloak, and ribbons, and the money hidden in the wardrobe, and the face paint, and the sack under my bed to hold it all in.

Skeleton Cook knocks at the door, and I clomp down the stairs, anything but dainty. His arms hold bundles of bear-bulbs, paper-thin skins shedding dirt. A single, fat hemlock tuber perches atop the heap, bright orange.

I throw the cloak over Skeleton Cook's shoulders, snug it into place between his collarbones and shoulder blades. Then he clanks to the fridge and flutters into the mouth of the cave.

I...I should follow, to move the backpack, with the diamond knife, where nobody can reach it. Robbers are rare, especially this far south, but it is too precious to risk losing.

But. I tiptoe to the sitting room, where the sea cat lies in the corner. With a tiny breath I blow a dust ball off their paw, stirring a faint cloud into the air.

The magenta egg looms in the corner. I can't leave it here. I have no idea when it will hatch. No idea what it even contains, other than it almost certainly is not a fish.

Kolariq...neglected certain areas of education. Not that he ever pretended that was his goal. Not that we didn't learn more from him than we would have in our villages. Because we were all from little villages.

But what if I leave the egg, and it breaks open, and the thing with a beating heart eats the rug and the couch and gnaws apart the door?

I can't leave it here. So I scoop up the egg, fingers shaking; it's coming with me to the city. Maybe I can ask someone what it is. So I slink from the sitting room, ribbons in my hair, whispering that the sea cat will be alright here by the dusty rug, all alone.