Page 11 of Carousel

“I’m sorry about what happened today,” I say, softly. Like I’m treading silt.

“I was on that ship for five years,” he murmurs. “I knew many of the people better than my own family.”

I feel my heart break for him.

“Those poor people.”

His shoulders square out. “They knew what they signed up for.”

I say nothing. It’s not my place.

Abruptly, he turns to me.

“How long have you been in Hevalla?”

“Five years.”

His thick black brows knit together. “You were traded at the start of the war?”

“Y-yes,” I stammer. I wasn’t expecting an interrogation.

“How old were you?”

“It’s impolite to ask a woman her age.”

“I didn’t ask your age.”

“But you would know it from the answer.”

“That was not⁠—”

“Fourteen. I was fourteen. My brother was ten.”

“You were children.”

“Yes.”

He pauses, then throws me another question. “Who do you want to win the war?”

I huff. “Are you serious? Rhavna, of course. Hevalla is the worst country in the world⁠—”

“Even though you live here?” he presses. “Even though Rhavna sent you away?”

“They had their reasons.”

“Mm.” It must be his favourite word.

“Mm, what?”

“Why save an enemy soldier? Risk execution? If you really are living here, safely, and left alone… you have everything to lose.”

I choose my next words carefully, hunching up. “You were dying. I would have saved you if you were a Hevallan soldier, too. I would have saved anyone.”

Quietly, he says, “Then you are a better person than I am.” His face, which has been hard-edged until now, softens. “And I do not believe I caught your name.”

“Ara,” I reply.

“Ara,” he repeats, flat.