His name was Orlen, and he had been trying all afternoon to catch a fish with his hands.
The other children could do it. They stood knee deep beside the old pier, letting the little silver fish shelter in the shadow of their legs. A quick scoop, a flash, and the fish lay in cupped palms before being released again. Orlen always moved too soon. By the time his hands closed, the water held nothing but his own knees.
Ysabet noticed because she sat mending the sling for the mouse box. Pip rested beside her on the broad lower landing. The shell had grown hard enough to protect the left side of its back, but the upper rim still gleamed soft. A few pale ridges ran inward from the edge, unfinished supports beneath the translucent surface.
Chaska was helping Deren repair a net on the pier above them. Lilt lay on the bank with her fins spread. Ashaun and Suth had gone to buy bread for the next road. The village seemed, for a little while, entirely occupied by ordinary things.
Orlen failed to catch another fish.
An older girl laughed. Not cruelly at first, but he heard cruelty in it. His face went hot. He left the shallows and climbed the lower steps, dripping onto the planks.
