The first girl in line—Meisha—disappears into the cottage. We watch her go, a thousand pairs of eyes glued to the closed door, afraid we might miss something if we blink. Silence hangs over the square for a few minutes, but soon the expectation of a quick answer fizzles away. Children begin shuffling their feet. Mothers and fathers whisper to each other, no doubt fretting about the pairings. Some of the candidates dress up their worry in banter—elbows nudging ribs, heads thrown back in exaggerated laughter. But others don’t speak. Some of us won’t have a clear enough result to be matched with an apprenticeship today; others won’t be happy with their reading.
Meisha is probably only gone for ten minutes, but it feels like days. She steps out of the Marrow with her eyes cast down, and at first I think she’s crying. But then she looks up and a shy smile spills across her face. Good news, then.
Instead of heading toward the bonfire, she walks to where the boys are standing with abruptly stony expressions. A chorus of gasps ripples over the crowd. Meisha’s parents must have paid handsomely to secure a matchmaking reading along with her kenning. Most of the townsfolk save for years just to afford a bone match for an apprenticeship. Only the wealthiest can pay for a bone-matched partner, too.
Meisha holds out her hand to Bunta and the square erupts in applause. A love match is always cause for celebration.
Watching the new couple walk toward the bonfire hand in hand fills me with bittersweet longing. What a gift to have so much confidence in fate. I hope my own reading won’t include a matchmaking—I want to be chosen because I’m loved, not because fate decrees it—but I’m not optimistic. My mother has never been able to resist knowing my future, no matter the cost. I wrap my pale, unmarked arms around my middle. I wonder how long it will take for the slender red tattoo to etch itself around Meisha’s wrist. I wonder if it already has.
One of the children races forward with a teetering stack of pale blankets. Bunta plucks one from the top of the stack, and he and Meisha settle in front of the snapping fire to have their first conversation as intendeds. I sneak a look at Declan, but he’s not watching me this time.
Several more candidates come and go—apprenticed as bakers, craftsmen, merchants, farmers. A few of them are apprenticed to one of the bone magics—as Masons or Healers. But so far, no Bone Charmers. The line is shrinking and my courage along with it.
I drag the toe of my boot along the edge of the path that leads to the Marrow. The cobblestones are still shimmering and rain-slicked from last night’s storm. I think of my mother’s creamy, soft hands, of the way she used to take my face in her palms after she’d tucked me in at night. “You have a hundred possible futures, my love,” she always said.
But of those hundred possibilities, my mother can only pick one. And unfortunately for me, she’s always cared more about what the bones tell her than what her daughter does.
Saskia
The morning inches along like a river of syrup and yet, when it’s finally my turn, I don’t feel ready.
The door to the Marrow opens and the smell of sandalwood incense hits me full in the face. A girl with curly black hair and copper skin steps into the sunlight. “How did it go?” I ask.
She gives me a tremulous smile. “I’ve been apprenticed as a tailor,” she says, “which is close to what I hoped for.” Her smile falters. “I really wanted to work as a seamstress, but”—she shrugs—“at least I get to work with fabrics.” She’s trying to put on a brave face, but it’s clear she’s disappointed in her match. A surge of anger rises in my chest. Why should she have to spend her life doing something she didn’t choose? But saying it won’t do either of us any good.
“I hope it brings you joy,” I tell her.
“Thank you,” she says. “I hope so too.” She squeezes my arm before turning away. “Good luck.”
I watch her as she makes her way down the path. As she marches toward a future she’s only half-excited about.
The impulse to run rises inside me like a wave. I lay a palm flat against my stomach and pull in a deep breath. My father’s face floats to the surface of my memory. Trying to escape your fate is like trying to make a toad croon like a songbird, he used to say. No matter how good your intentions, you’re just wasting your time. And he was right.
The bones said he would die young, and he did.
Death came for my father just months after we lost Gran, and sometimes I can feel its breath against my neck like it’s looking for any excuse to come for me, too. In a few minutes my mother might provide one. There’s nowhere to hide, no way to avoid this. I can only hope of all the potential directions my life could take in this moment, she chooses one that will please me.
I bite my lip and push open the door. The Marrow is dimly lit and it takes my eyes a few moments to adjust. Flickering candlelight sends long shadows crawling up the stone walls, and thin tendrils of smoke curl toward the ceiling. In the center of the room, my mother sits on a large white rug. An empty stone basin rests near her knees, and a silver velvet-lined box is at her side.
She’s dressed in red silk robes that bring out the blue in her eyes, and her pale hair is braided and looped on the top of her head like a crown. She looks like an older version of me.
“Saskia,” she says. “Come. Sit.”
I settle across from her. My heart is a hummingbird inside my chest.
“Are you nervous?”
I swallow. “Should I be?”
She opens the clasp of the silver box and tips its contents into the basin. Gran’s finger bones clatter against the stone. The sight of them tugs at my grief. I’ve suffered far too much loss in the last few years. I pull my gaze away from the bones and find my mother studying me intently. “Do you trust me, Saskia?”
“Do I trust you? Or do I trust the bones?”
She presses her lips together. “It’s the same thing.”
But it’s not. I know how the reading works—the blood and flame will combine, and my mother will see multiple possible futures for me. Branches that head off in opposite directions. Paths that diverge toward different destinies. But as a Bone Charmer, she’s taken a sacred oath. She’s duty-bound to pick the future that best uses my talents to meet the needs of the people of Kastelia. Even if it’s not the path that would make me happiest.
“You have a choice,” I tell her.
“Saskia—”
But I hold up a hand to stop her. “Don’t. Just do the reading.”
She opens her mouth, as if she’s about to argue, but something about the look on my face must make her reconsider, because she snaps it closed again.
“Very well, then.” She reaches for me and I wince as she pricks the pad of my middle finger with a sewing needle. She squeezes gently until a drop of blood wells at the surface. I hold my hand above the basin and let the blood spill onto the bones.
“It’s not enough,” my mother says. She pricks another finger, and then another, until Gran’s bones are speckled in crimson. Once she’s satisfied I’ve bled enough, she picks up a rock and a piece of flint and, with practiced hands, sets the bones alight.
My head swims, and I’m not sure if it’s the nauseating combination of the smoke and incense, or the loss of blood, or the prospect of these particular bones being used against me. My mother’s eyes flutter closed. She breathes deeply and the smoke seems to rush to her, as if it’s ready to do her bidding. Several minutes pass and my eyes grow heavy. My limbs go slack. I forget what I was so worried about.