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behind them.
    Some members of the Camp became aware of the action, and with mischievous grins began to make a game of it. But itdidn’t seem funny to Ayla. She knew she was doing something wrong, and watching Jondalar didn’t help. He was trying to urge her forward, too.
    Mamut came to her aid. He took her arm and led her to the bone platter of thick-sliced mammoth roast. “You are expected to eat first, Ayla,” he said.
    “But I am a woman!” she protested.
    “That is why you are expected to eat first. It is our offering to the Mother, and it is better if a woman accepts it in Her place. Take the best piece, not for your sake, but to honor Mut,” the old man explained.
    She looked at him, first with surprise, and then with gratitude. She picked up a plate, a slightly curved piece of ivory flaked off a tusk, and with great seriousness carefully chose the best slice. Jondalar smiled at her, nodding approval, then others crowded forward to serve themselves. When she was through, Ayla put the plate on the ground where she had seen others put theirs.
    “I wondered if you were showing us a new dance earlier, said a voice from close behind her.
    Ayla turned to see the dark eyes of the man with brown skin. She didn’t understand the word “dance,” but his wide smile was friendly. She smiled back.
    “Did anyone ever tell you how beautiful you are when you smile?” he said.
    “Beautiful? Me?” She laughed and shook her head in disbelief.
    Jondalar had said almost the same words to her once, but Ayla did not think of herself that way. Since long before she reached womanhood, she had been thinner and taller than the people who had raised her. She’d looked so different, with her bulging forehead and the funny bone beneath her mouth that Jondalar said was a chin, she always thought of herself as big and ugly.
    Ranec watched her, intrigued. She laughed with childlike abandon, as though she genuinely thought he’d said something funny. It was not the response he expected. A coy smile, perhaps, or a knowing, laughing invitation, but Ayla’s gray-blue eyes held no guile, and there was nothing coy or self-conscious about the way she tossed her head back or pushed her long hair out of her way.
    Rather, she moved with the natural fluid grace of an animal, a horse perhaps, or a lion. She had an aura about her, aquality that he couldn’t quite define, but it had elements of complete candor and honesty, and yet some deep mystery. She seemed innocent, like a baby, open to everything, but she was every bit a woman, a tall, stunning, uncompromisingly beautiful woman.
    He looked her over with interest and curiosity. Her hair, thick and long with a natural wave, was a lustrous deep gold, like a field of hay blowing in the wind; her eyes were large and wide-spaced and framed with lashes a shade darker than her hair. With a sculptor’s knowing sense he examined the clean, elegant structure of her face, the muscled grace of her body, and when his eyes reached her full breasts and inviting hips, they took on a look that disconcerted her.
    She flushed and looked away. Though Jondalar had told her it was proper, she wasn’t sure if she liked this looking straight at someone. It made her feel defenseless, vulnerable. Jondalar’s back was turned to her when she looked in his direction, but his stance told her more than words. He was angry. Why was he angry? Had she done anything to make him angry?
    “Talut! Ranec! Barzec! Look who’s here!” a voice called out.
    Everyone turned to look. Several people were coming over the rise at the top of the slope. Nezzie and Talut both started up the hill as a young man broke away and ran toward them. They met midway and embraced enthusiastically. Ranec rushed to meet one of those approaching, too, and though the greeting was more restrained, it was still with warm affection that he hugged an older man.
    Ayla watched with a strangely empty feeling as the rest of the people of the Camp deserted the