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T h e We i g ht o f a So ul

“It’s just . . .” Amal’s black curls shifted across his
forehead. “He doesn’t know—”

Lena understood. “Your engagement.” A stab of pity
hit her. Of course, a father was supposed to give his
permission before a marriage was arranged. But he’d
been gone for over a year, and Fressa had promised Amal
that they would ask upon his arrival—which meant that
neither of her parents knew what their younger daugh-
ter had already planned. But Nana, Amal’s mother, was
aware of the engagement and had offered her support.
That would be enough. They hoped. “Your mother will

defend you both. Don’t worry, Amal.”
He nodded too many times. The ship was far enough
away that they couldn’t discern any figures, but it was
no longer moving. They had reached the shore.
Lena glanced back, surprised to find a throng of
villagers closing in. Some wore earnest hope across their
faces, eager to see their husbands or brothers or fathers.

Others wore the tired, sullen masks of a people who
swayed between victory and desolation too often to have
kept a steady footing in either.
One face, brighter than the rest, broke off from the
crowd walking to the shore, and ran instead to where
Amal and Lena stood. A brief burst of relief spread
through Lena’s chest as their friend approached. Bejla’s
hair glowed gold, even in the pale light. Here was one

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