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It’s still too cold for s-swimming.”
    Han swung around. Dancer’s cousin Digging Bird sat in the shallows, her mop of dark curls plastered around her face, her wet linen blouse clinging to her upper body so the light fabric was rendered nearly transparent. She grinned at him shamelessly, her eyes traveling up his body in turn.
    He resisted the temptation to duck back under the freezing water. His face burned, and he knew it must be flaming red. It took him a minute to get his voice going. “Bird?” he whispered, mortified, knowing he would never hear the end of this.
    “Maybe we should change your name to Hunts Bird,” she teased.
    “N-no,” he stammered, raising his hands as if to ward off a curse.
    “Jumps in the Creek? Red in the Face?” she persisted.
    That was all he needed. Clan names constantly changed to fit until you were grown and thought to be stable. You might be Cries in the Night as a baby, Squirrel as a child, and Throws Stones as an adult. It was always confusing to flatlanders.
    “No,” Han pleaded. “Please, Bird…”
    “I’ll call you whatever I want,” Digging Bird said, standing and wading to the shore. “Hunts Bird,” she decided. “It can be our secret name.”
    Han stood there helplessly, waist-deep in the water, thinking she was the one who needed a new name.
    He and Bird and Dancer had been friends since he could remember. Every summer since he was small, Mam had sent him up from the city to live at Marisa Pines. They’d camped together, hunted together, and fought endless battles against imaginary enemies throughout the Spirit Mountains.
    They’d studied under the ancient bow master at Hunter’s Camp, chafing at the requirement that they build a bow before shooting it. He’d been with Bird when she took her first deer, then burned with envy until he got his. When he did, she’d taught him how to slow smoke the meat so it would last through the winter. They were twelve at the time.
    They played hare and wolf for days on end. One of them—the hare—would set out through the woods, doing his or her best to throw the other two off, by walking over solid rock or wading miles in a streambed or detouring through one of the high-country camps. If one wolf found the hare, then they’d walk together until the third player found them.
    Bird was great to travel with. She found the best campsites—sheltered from the weather and defensible. She could build a fire in the middle of a rainstorm and find game at any altitude. Many nights they’d shared a blanket for warmth.
    The three of them had tasted hard cider for the first time at the Falling Leaves Market, and he’d washed the sick from Bird’s face when she drank too much.
    But these days he always felt awkward around Bird, and she was the one who had changed. Now when he walked into Marisa Pines Camp, she was likely to be sitting with a group of other girls her age. They would watch him with bold eyes and then put their heads together and whisper. If he tried to approach her, the other girls would giggle and nudge each other.
    He’d once owned the streets of Ragmarket, and people made sure to get out of his way. He’d had his share of girlies, too—a streetlord could have his pick. But for some reason, Bird always put him off-balance. Maybe it was because she was so damnably good at everything.
    When they were younger, wrestling in the creek would have been prelude to nothing. Now every word between them crackled with meaning, and every action had unintended consequences.
    “Bird! Hunts Alone! What happened? Did you fall in the creek?” Dancer had appeared at the top of the slope.
    Bird squeezed water out of her leggings. “Hunts Alone threw me in,” she said to her cousin, a little smugly.
    “I thought you were someone else,” Han muttered.
    Bird swung around to confront him, her face darkening. “Who?” she demanded. “Who did you think I was?”
    Han shrugged and waded to shore. That was another thing. Where