They left the small motel on the edge of the island the next morning, as the sky and the sea turned the same shade of glassy blue. Flying to the first island was quick--it couldn't have been too far past noon when they landed, Hawk swooping into the shade of a gnarled old mangrove, Teige leaping ahead of him in a streak of heatless green flame.

It may as well have been a swamp. Their shoes sank into the smelly mud on the shore of the little island, which was choked with groves of spindly pines and mangroves that had seen too much cold over the years. Teige tried to kick the mud off his shoes only to sink in to his ankles; Hawk ignored him, watching a blue heron in the shallows spear a fat red snapper and pull it thrashing from the salty water.

By dusk Hawk had fixed himself and Teige up with bendy, green lengths of sapling wood, whittled to a fine point. They stalked snapper themselves in the shallows, as the night fell, the water cooling rapidly. This had been his and Liya's job back home, Hawk reflected. She was good at fishing, always caught the first one. He speared a fish just behind its head with practiced ease and looked back to see Teige missing his mark spectacularly, and the snapper around his knees darting away.

He explained how to gut a fish to Teige with the last light of the day to guide him, and laughed when Teige curled his lip. He'd've been lying if he'd said he and Liya both hadn't reacted with similar disgust when Emry had first taught them how to gut and clean--years ago, when Liya was still small enough to sit on his shoulders....