Alexandra Duncan - Salvage

“Right so.” My voice croaks. I clear my throat and say it stronger. “Right so.”

“Okay then.” Ankur adjusts his strings. A few of the people around us hush, then others turn their heads our way. “When you’re ready.”

Ankur picks out a single, soft, vibrating note. Another cluster of people go quiet. At that moment, I spot Rushil standing in the doorway, a bundle of plastic tubing under his arm. I close my eyes to block out all the faces looking my way, sink anchor deep in myself, and let out one of the songs I’ve heard through the walls, one I’ve sung inside my head at night in my bunk with my sisters warm at my sides. Saeleas’s song of mourning, the song she sang through her tears as the Earth slipped away, those thousand-some turns ago.

“Farewell to rock and tree and vale,

Farewell to birds high-flying,

For duty calls me far away,

So sing my heart through sighing.”

Ankur strums to match my voice, soft at first, then louder as he catches the scheme. The whole room has gone quiet.

“Pick up, pick up this heavy thread,

Quiet, child, your laughter,

For we must leave this world we know,

And wander e’er hereafter.”

I open my eyes. Rushil stands still past the sea of heads, looking at me as though my song has run him through. I raise my voice and sing Candor’s answering verse to his wife. Ankur doubles the tempo to meet my urgency, his strumming fast. It molds together into something new, something both of this world and not.

“Think not on rock and tree and spring,

Think not on birds high-flying,

Our freedom calls us high away,

For here were our hearts dying.”

My voice breaks and the room blurs, but I blink away the salt from my eyes and fix them on Rushil.

“Mourn not for what you’ve lost, my love,

Think not on what you’re leaving,

Let all your heart and mind hold fast,

This new life you are breathing.”

As the last line rings out of my chest, I let go. Let go Luck, let go my crewe, let go what might have been. Rushil holds my eyes, and I stand empty and clear, ready to be filled with what my life might yet be.

I creep back to Soraya’s in the dull gray of morning. The house welcomes me with a low beep and a click as the door seals itself shut behind me. I pull off my boots and tiptoe to the stairs, thinking of nothing but soft pillows and the dark comfort of my bed. But then I turn the corner to mount the stairs, and run headlong into Soraya. She loses her grip on the full metal ewer she has balanced in her arms. I stagger forward and manage to catch it before it clangs across the floor, but not before it sloshes cold water down the front of my shirt.

I freeze, soaked through. “Sorry,” I gasp.

Soraya stares down at me, lips parted in surprise. She’s draped a pale blue scarf over her head in preparation for her morning prayers. She looks like some kind of holy woman, clean pressed and fresh from sleep. I’m all too aware of the dust and dried sweat stiffening my clothes and the sour taste of a night without sleep in my mouth. My face goes hot as I remember how I left. Shouting like a spoiled smallgirl.

I shift the ewer in my arms. “You want me to carry this for you?”

Soraya’s breathes out. “Yes, please.”

I haven’t seen her use it before, but I know the water is so Soraya can wash her hands and face and feet before her morning prayers. I’ve seen the ewer newly emptied by the gray-water sink and sitting by her bedside in the evenings. I carry it to the corner of the common room where Soraya keeps her prayer mat rolled and pour the water into a basin.

“Thank you.” She casts an eye at my wet shirt. “Why don’t you go and change, and then we’ll talk?”

I nod and slink away to the stairs, but something makes me look back as I reach them. The sun tips pink light through the glass doors on the east side of the house. Soraya unfurls her prayer mat and eases herself to her knees. She holds her hands together before her and murmurs into the early morning light. I duck my head and disappear up the stairs. If I were her, I’d want to be left alone to my praying.

I look in on Miyole, fast asleep in the rosy darkness of her room. Her breath comes even and her face is peaceful, free of the little furrow that appears between her brows when she’s been worrying. I change my shirt in the close quiet of my room. I spend a long moment contemplating the bed, but I shake myself awake. I owe a talk to Soraya, and better sooner than later.

By the time I shuffle down, the ewer and basin stand empty at the sink again. Soraya has tea going. She sits by a collection of cups, spoons, and saucers laid across the table, waiting for me. She waves a hand at the chair opposite her. I sit.

Soraya pours a cup of tea for me. “I was worried about you.” She speaks quietly to match the early hour. “Where did you go?”

“Walking.” The word comes out scratchy and raw. I sip my tea and try again. “I went down to the ship.”

“The ship?” Soraya sets her own teacup down, surprised. “Miyole’s mother’s ship? How did you get in?”

“I have the keycode,” I say. “From back when me and Miyole were living there.”

Soraya frowns as if she’d rather not remember where she found us and drops a sugar cube in her cup. “That ship is important to you, isn’t it?”

“It is,” I agree.

Soraya heaves a sigh. “You know how I feel. The Salt isn’t a safe place to go wandering around at night.”

“You don’t need to worry, I was with Rushil the whole time,” I say, and wish at once I’d kept my mouth shut. Stupid, stupid.

“Rushil?” Soraya says.

“Rushil Vaish,” I say. “He owns the lot where we have the ship docked.”

Soraya looks sharp at me. “That young man? The one with the glasses and all the tattoos?”

“Right so.” My voice goes small. “That’s him.”

Silence grows around us. Soraya pours herself another cup of tea. “And what did you two do all night?” There’s another question buried in there. Her eyes shift past me to the antique books behind my head.

“Talk.” I look down. Even if I’m not lying outright, I can’t look at her when I’m not saying the whole truth. “And we went over to his friend’s house.” I don’t want to tell her about the singing, or the electric burn of his lips. I want those memories to myself.

Soraya sighs and pulls the scarf from her hair. It lies in rumpled swaths around her neck. “You know, I can send you back to the doctor, if that’s what you want.” She closes her eyes and rubs the bridge of her nose. “There’s a shot they can give to keep you from conceiving.”

I sit straight in my chair. Heat rushes to the tips of my ears. “But I’m not . . . We didn’t!”

Soraya raises her eyebrows at me. Truly?

“We didn’t,” I say again.

Soraya taps her fingernails softly against her teacup and nods to herself. “I believe you.” She fixes me with her big, dark eyes. “But if you ever think you’re going to, promise me you’ll come talk to me first. Promise you’ll take care of yourself.”

I nod, face raging hot.

“Children are so much . . .” She trails off and smiles sadly. “I only want you to be able to be a girl for once. I want you to have that chance.”