I slam a fist down on the table and my mother startles. Good. At least it’s an expression besides the calm mask of certainty she usually wears.
“Can’t you just consider my wishes tomorrow?” I ask her. “Please?”
“And what are you wishing for, exactly?”
“It might be nice to be matched as a tutor.”
All the tutors I’ve ever known have outlived both their hearing and their eyesight. Even when they’ve made mistakes, none of them have ever hurt their pupils with anything more than a sharp tongue or unrelenting high standards. It’s the safest vocation I can think of.
“That’s an interesting choice,” my mother says. “And certainly something worth considering.” She slices off another piece of apple and offers it to me. It’s a poor substitute for a promise, but it’s the most she’s willing to give.
The next morning dawns bright and cold.
The townsfolk are gathering in the square, shoulders hunched against the chilly bite of the early spring morning. Those of us turning seventeen this year are milling around the Marrow—the circular stone hut where my mother waits with the velvet-lined boxes that hold our futures.
There are eighty-three candidates this year—forty-one boys and forty-two girls—and a box for each of us. I counted them myself, fingers trailing over silver scrollwork and polished wood, all while a cord of anxiety cinched tighter and tighter around my neck. All of us will at least have a chance to be matched with an apprenticeship today. Not like several years back, when one box was missing and Callum Elliot didn’t show up to the kenning. He was the youngest of ten children, and by the time he turned seventeen, his family couldn’t afford anything more than mouse bones. My mother offered to waive her fees, but it wasn’t enough. Between the hefty cost of bone preparation and the kenning tax charged by the council, the family couldn’t scrape together enough coin.
In the end, it probably wouldn’t have made a difference. Mouse bones were unlikely to work well for such an intricate reading. But even the most expensive, well-prepared bones can sometimes fail to produce a clear kenning.
The possibility is a weight on every heart—no one wants to be a leftover.
I have the opposite problem as Callum. Affording a bone reading—any bone reading—has never been a concern for me. But my worry is useless now. I won’t get another chance to appeal to my mother before my reading, so I try to focus on something else instead—the hundreds of brightly colored paper lanterns hanging from spindly branches; the giant bonfire in the distance; the children with arms full of snowy-white blankets, bouncing on their toes from either cold or excitement.
“Saskia.” A familiar voice sends a thrill racing up my spine.
Declan’s breath dances against my neck. He probably shouldn’t be standing so close to me. Not yet. What if one of us is bone-matched with someone else? The thought opens a pit in my stomach. My mother wouldn’t dare. Not when she knows how we feel about each other.
I step out of Declan’s reach before I spin to face him. A wide grin notches a dimple on his left cheek, and his vibrant green eyes spark with mischief. He has combed his normally unruly hair into submission, save for a disobedient whorl just above his forehead that makes him look like a kitten that’s been freshly groomed by its mother.
“Morning,” I say. He lets his gaze hold mine for a beat too long, and my cheeks flush. Another slow smile creeps over his face like drizzling honey.
“I’ll be waiting for you over there.” He winks at me before he walks away. I glance at the other girls to see if anyone noticed the brief impropriety, but no one is paying any attention to me. It’s the kind of day where our thoughts are only of ourselves.
I watch Declan until he is swallowed up by the crowd of boys, my heart swelling before worry shrinks it again. I should know better than to love anyone before the bones have spoken. But there’s something about Declan—his easy smile, his full-bodied laugh, the carefree way he approaches life, as if he has no doubt that fate will always work in his favor. If anyone is confident about the results of the kenning, it should be me. But I’m not. Not at all.
Movement at the edge of the courtyard catches my attention. A lone figure strolls toward the throng of candidates. Bram Wilberg.
Late to the kenning.
He stops short of the Marrow and settles beneath the shade of a giant oak tree, right where a wide expanse of grass borders the cobbles. He closes his eyes and tips his face toward the sky, resting his mop of chestnut hair against the tree trunk and folding his muscular arms over his stomach. No one approaches him. When it comes to Bram, everyone steers clear.
Especially me.
A breeze trembles through the cherry blossom trees and petals drift onto my hair and shoulders like pale pink snow. I close my eyes and breathe them in. The subtle fragrance has always been intertwined in my mind with springtime and new beginnings and the kenning day.
I never imagined being this nervous.
A hand falls on my shoulder and I turn to find Ami, her eyes shining with excitement. The muscles in my back unwind, and I pull her into a quick embrace. “You’re late,” I say, my voice muffled against her collar. “I was starting to worry I’d have to do this alone.”
The bones chose Ami as my friend before either of us could walk. Our lives are woven together like the strands of a rope.
Ami pulls away. “Sorry,” she says, circling her hand in the air near her head. “Mama wouldn’t stop fussing.” Her dark hair is swept away from her face and pulled into a twist, and her cheeks are pink from the cold. She wears a lemon-yellow cloak that flatters her complexion. I finger the ends of my hair. It hadn’t occurred to me to do something special with it today. Then again, my mother wasn’t at home to help me get ready. She left before dawn to prepare for the kenning. I wonder what it must be like—to have a mother invested in your present instead of your future. A mother whose only task on a morning like this is to braid your hair and hope for a result that will make you happy.
“Has your mother given you any hints about what’s going to happen?” Ami asks, as if she can read my thoughts. The question bumps into something raw inside me.
“No,” I say. “She won’t tell me anything.”
Ami squeezes my fingers. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”
As if on cue, the bugle horn sounds and a hush falls over the square. It’s time. All the candidates start moving closer to the Marrow. I can almost feel the anticipation rolling off Ami. She has nothing to worry about because she will be happy with any outcome. What’s meant to be will be, she always says. But my stomach feels like a clenched fist.
“Good luck, Saskia.” Ami plants a quick kiss on my cheek before taking her place in line. It’s an ironic wish, considering that luck is the very thing we’re trying to outfox. But I return the sentiment anyway.
I look around for Declan and when I find him, his eyes are already trained on me. I offer him a shaky smile, but his grin is unfaltering. I try to remember if he was always this certain of the future. For the past year he has been, I know that much. He has whispered it against my ear in stolen moments, promised it to my fingers in fleeting touches. His confidence is like a shelter against the storm that rages inside me. I can envision a life—a safe life—by his side. And it doesn’t hurt that the sight of him hurries the blood through my veins.