“Did Eunny kiss your boo-boo to make it all better? Ruffle your hair and chuck you under the chin?”
Ollas made a rude gesture at him.
Gransen laughed. “So, how’s it going, pining after my boss?”
Wonderful. Horrible. “She’s not your?—”
“It’s an informal agreement. Stop stalling, Nevin.”
Nevin, but not Nev. Which was good; Ollas didn’t want Eunny’s shorthand being appropriated by anyone else.
He bounced between the euphoria of having Eunny around all the time, suffused in her exuberance and sharp wit, and the despair of knowing Eunny’s jokes were just Eunny being herself. A manifestation of her outgoing nature, harmless, good fun. Friendliness, but not flirtation. Not with Ollas.
How long had he nursed his unrequited love? He’d been intrigued, awed, by her as a kid. But true attraction, that had grown a little slower. He’d admired her fierce loyalty. To a shy town boy, seeing a tween outsider, a slip of a girl, get into shouting matches with grown men who dared to hassle her aunt and disparage the Mighty Leaf had blown young Ollas away. But they’d only been kids. A boy’s infatuation. What of the man?
“It’s— It’s not, I guess. I didn’t know we were even friends until Initiate Two,” Ollas murmured.
“That’s okay. Leave it to Papa Gransen to?—”
“Not a word.” Ollas pointed at him. “Not one?—”
Gransen gave a short, low whistle, his gaze focused on a point behind Ollas’s head. “Look alive, Olly.” He waved, calling out, “Hey, boss!”
Eunny made a face at him as she came over. “We’ve talked about that. You’d have to work for me?—”
“I willingly subject myself to your abuse on a weekly basis.”
“You don’t get paid. You’re not an employee.”
“Oh, Eun, we don’t deal in anything so crass as money.” Gransen dismissed her words with a shrug. “Speaking of, when can I get back in there?”
Eunny rubbed her temples. “I’ve barely had a chance to go through the salvage piles.”
“Let me. I’m the manager, let me manage.” Gransen made a flourish with his hands.
Their argument over duties to Song’s Scrap—real or otherwise—were called to a halt when Eunny’s aunt Yerina came over.
“Hello, Ollas, dear,” she murmured as she hugged him, mindful of his tender arm. “For your mama.” She pressed a small bag of tea into his hand.
Straightening, Yerina looked to her niece. The older woman was usually so warm and cheery, but now, concern dimmed her eyes, and a frown line marred her round face. “Eunny, the new distributor from Central District I’ve been in talks with came up early.”
“That’s fine. I can hang around until you’re done, or I can come back later to—” Eunny squinted at her aunt’s wary expression. “What’s wrong?”
“I didn’t know that a representative from the Coalition would be coming up with them,” Yerina said.
“Didn’t you just have your check-in with them last…” Eunny’s eyes widened. Then narrowed, her expression going flat. “You mean she’s here.”
Yerina nodded. “Stay, please? It’s been so long.” She gave her niece an imploring look.
Gransen raised his hand. “Who’s she?”
“Ah, there they are. Yerina, what are you— Oh. This is a surprise.” A short exhale, somewhere between a sigh and a false laugh, sounded behind them. “Gentlemen, I don’t believe you’ve met my daughter, Eunji.”
Even if she’d never spoken, Ollas couldn’t mistake the woman striding toward them as anyone other than Eunny’s mother. Same athletic build and same oval face with soft features, though Eunny’s chin leaned toward stubborn. Where Eunny’s dark hair skimmed her shoulders, her mother’s was long, its gentle waves reaching her ribs.
Everything about the woman marked her as someone from Graelynd’s Central District. Her black cloak bore a glimmer of silk blended with fine wool. She wore a long black dress as well, the draping fabric tailored to fit. Her only accessory was a silver belt woven from wires scarcely larger than thread.
A glamorous figure, and cold. As she made the flurry of introductions, Ollas tried to reconcile the image of the woman before him with the one from a memory now six years old. Bioon Song hadn’t been so coiffed the only other time they’d met. No, she’d been bruised and worn, as so many of the delegation had been by the time Ollas’s Sentinels group rescued them. But her eyes. The way she always seemed to be analyzing everything, everyone, measuring their value. That hadn’t changed. It created such a stark contrast between her and both her daughter and sister. Yerina’s face bore laugh lines, her hair touched with gray, but even when she was tired from a busy day at the tearoom, she always possessed an aura of joy. Bioon Song seemed like the kind of person whose smile never touched her eyes.
