Emory's eyes scour the blue sky. The sun is behind the volcano, which looms up behind the village, and the moon is already taking shape. In an hour, they'll be painted in shade.
"They'll be home soon," says Emory kindly. "Come on. We can help set the tables for the funeral; it'll take your mind off it."
Her eyes flash toward Matis guiltily. She should be spending these last hours with her grandfather, but he silently shoos her away.
Forty minutes later, the six schoolchildren come running through the gate, to the jubilation of the village. Magdalene engulfs Sherko, earning a squirming giggle, as the rest of them are hugged and kissed, bounced from adult to adult until finally they reach their parents, mussed and laughing.
The crowd murmurs warmly, parting to let Niema through. There are three elders in the village and they're all revered, but only Niema is loved. The villagers stroke her arms as she passes, their faces bright with adoration.
Niema bestows smiles on each of them in turn, squeezing their hands. The other two elders, Hephaestus and Thea, keep to themselves, but Niema eats with the villagers every night. She dances along to the band and sings at the top of her voice during the chorus.
Niema lays a comforting hand on Magdalene's shoulder, then lifts her chin with a fingertip. Niema's a head taller than most villagers, forcing Magdalene to crane her neck to meet her gaze.
"I know what you're worried about, but I'll never put any of these children in harm's way," she says, her voice a low rasp. "There's so few of us left. We need every one of them kept safe."
Tears brim in Magdalene's eyes, her expression awestruck and grateful. Unlike Emory, she didn't catch the hitch in Niema's voice, the faint drag of doubt.
After laying on a little more sentiment, Niema works her way back out of the crowd, gracefully linking arms with Emory on her way to the barracks.
"That should hold her for a few days," she says when they're out of earshot. "Come fetch me next time she starts fretting. I was worried she was going to swim out to the boat."
"I've been trying to calm her down for an hour," says Emory, glancing at Magdalene's beatific expression. "How did you do that?"
"I'm just old," replies Niema brightly. "Wrinkles look like wisdom to the young." She lowers her voice conspiratorially, tapping Emory's hand. "Come on. I have another book for you."
Emory's heart leaps in excitement.
Arm in arm, they walk in companionable silence through the humid air, which is filling with fireflies as twilight descends. This is Emory's favorite time of day. The sky is pink and purple, the stone walls blushing. The fierce heat has receded to a pleasant warmth, and everybody's back inside the village, their joy pouring into the empty spaces.
"How's the carpentry coming?" asks Niema.
The villagers leave school at fifteen, and they're free to choose any occupation that's of benefit to the community, but Emory's been cycling through jobs for a decade, struggling to make headway in any of them.
"I gave it up," she admits.
"Oh, why?"
"Johannes begged me to," replies Emory sheepishly. "It turns out I'm not very good at sawing wood, planing beams, or making joints, and he didn't think a wonky cabinet was worth losing a finger over."
Niema laughs. "What about the cooking? What happened to that?"
"Katia told me that dicing an onion should be the start of my kitchen skills, not the end of them," says Emory dejectedly. "Before that, Daniel told me that it didn't matter which way I held a guitar, because it would all sound the same. Mags lent me her paint for half a day, then didn't stop laughing for a week. It turns out I'm hopeless at everything."
"You're very observant," remarks Niema gently.
"What use is that when Abi sees everything we do anyway," replies Emory disconsolately. "I want to be of service to the village, but I have no idea how."
"Actually, I've been wondering if you might like to come and work in the school with me," says Niema tentatively. "I'm going to need somebody to take over, and I think you'd make an excellent replacement."
For a second, Emory can only frown at this suggestion. Niema's been the village's only teacher for as long as anybody can remember.
"You're giving it up?" asks Emory in surprise. "Why?"
"Age," replies Niema, climbing the rattling steps toward her dormitory. "Teaching is wonderful for the soul, but it's a torment for my poor back. I've lived a long life, Emory, but my happiest memories took place in the classroom. Seeing the elation on a child's face when they finally understand a difficult concept is an astonishing feeling." She pauses her ascent, glancing over her shoulder." I truly think you'd be good at it."
Emory's excellent at spotting lies, and Niema's altered pitch makes this one particularly easy to pick out.
