Free Bloodmind by Liz Williams Page B

lichen that grows in cracks.’
    ‘And how do you know? That it will make blue?’
    I laughed. ‘We just did it until we got it right. We’ve been here a long time – enough time to make a great many mistakes.’
    ‘I want to learn.’
    ‘I’ll ask the women in the workshop. I don’t see why not. There’s always room for another pair of hands.’
    She grimaced, suddenly, and for a moment I thought it was because she felt ill, but then she said, ‘Food. I don’t want to cook.’
    ‘You don’t like cooking?’
    She scowled. ‘No.’ She held up her scarred hands. ‘This – this was oil. Hot.’
    ‘You had an accident while cooking?’
    ‘No. Not accident.’
    ‘I see.’ We walked in silence for a while, then I said, ‘Look. You can see the shore.’
    We had left the colony wall a little way behind and were now heading down the bumpy track that separated it from the cliffs. Once, perhaps, the city had stood directly on the shore, but now the
waves lapped a safe distance from the walls. From this vantage point, the ochre walls were a contrast to the black rocks: transparent in places, with swirls and spirals inside them. When I was in a
certain mood, I would half-close my eyes and imagine that there were creatures trapped in the rocks, peering out, faces gaping in horror. But there were no faces, only marks.
    Khainet still moved slowly, like an old woman; stiff from walking across the mountains. But now her true age was apparent: she was only around her late twenties. I can’t remember noticing
beauty when I was in Iznar, though my daughters’ faces made me light up inside, so perhaps that was it. But there was a subtle arch to the bridge of Khainet’s nose, an arch, too, to her
brows and cheekbones. It made me uneasy. I told myself that perhaps I was jealous: so ordinary myself, I disliked beauty in others. Why should this be, when we put so little stock on appearance
here, just glad to be alive?
    We walked together across the black rocks, down to the beach. The sand, too, was black, gritty at the poisonous edges of the water, but soft as fur further up the shore. The wonder was back in
Khainet’s face. She bent and scooped up a handful of it, letting it sift through her fingers.
    ‘It falls like hair,’ she said.
    ‘It’s very soft,’ I agreed. ‘But don’t touch it beyond the tide line.’ I pointed to the glitter in the sand. ‘Beyond that, it’s sharp enough to
cut your hands.’
    She nodded. ‘I won’t.’ A pause. ‘It’s so – different. I never knew the sea was there.’
    Did I want to show off my knowledge a little, or instruct? I said, ‘There are lakes along the northern coast, they say – not poisonous water, but water you can swim in.’
    ‘Swim?’
    I decided to explain it to her. She was frowning. ‘How do you know about the north?’
    So I tried to explain that, too, about the handful of women who had come here from beyond even Iznar, but I don’t think Khainet believed me. She gave a little smile, as if to say that she
could see through my game of trying to tease her, and walked along the sand to the tide line. A graceful walk, I thought, and was back to wondering again.
    I walked more slowly than she did. I caught up with her at the tide line.
    ‘It’s so quiet,’ she said. There was nothing but the breeze, the skittering cries of the efreets that lived in the cliffs – different to those of the bell tower, with long
curved wings and beaks like tubes – and the soft hiss of the sea on the shore.
    ‘It’s a quiet place,’ I agreed.
    ‘Not like the other.’
    I didn’t ask her which other. I simply waited.
    It’s common for memory to come back in shards and fragments, to be pieced together like a broken pot. The pot will never be the same: it may look similar, but it won’t hold water any
more, there are too many leaks and holes. We mend pots from a glue made from resin – it dries thick and lumpy, it’s impossible to spread it thinly, and you can