Bazekiyl stirred. “I think that’s all for a while.” She eased herself free from her bondmates, crawled to the window, and pulled down the blackout curtain. “They must have gotten a new supply of shells from the smugglers.” She tugged the blind fight, clicked the hooks at the lower corners through the eyes screwed into the wood of the wall, then groped about for the candle lamp. “You know how wasteful they are when that happens.” A flare from a match lit her face from below, then the candle was burning. She fitted the chimney down around it. “Shashi, bring me the other lamps, will you? Then we’ll start fixing dinner.”

Thann gestured, and Isaho pushed her chair back as quietly as she could manage and stood to sing grace for the meal.

Before she was ready, a nightbird, a weh-weleh, sang its three note courting song. It was a good omen. Bazekiyl laughed and snapped thumb against forefinger, Mandall clapped his hands, and Thann whistled a soft breathy appreciation.

Isaho giggled. Then she crossed her hands over her heart and sang, “Part of the stream of all that lives/Part of the bounty the Living God gives/We come from earth, to earth we go/From God to God our lives do flow.” She had a strong true voice that sounded older than her small count of years, eleven almost twelve.

Bazekiyl closed her hand tight about Thann’s. Xe returned the pressure and swallowed a sigh at this reminder of what might have been before this God-cursed war began. If Isaho were trained, they both knew she would be one of the great singers. There was no chance of that. Not now. No teachers, no theaters, only the radio and maybe a chance of clandestine songwires passed from hand to hand, the promise in the voice, but unfulfilled. Back when Isaho was still in shell, they’d had a lot of dreams for her. No more. Staying alive was about all there was.

“Shashi and Thann and I went over to Cousin Fokoza’s for tea.” Bazekiyl slipped a kaslik on Isaho’s plate, a thin pancake rolled around chopped up meat and greens in a cream sauce.