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Zenn that he’d deliberately sought her out for the purpose of talking with her. She couldn’t be certain, but she thought he might be trying to be friends. A towner, trying to be friends. This was just odd. And, of course, she couldn’t allow it. That would mean breaking the Rule. Unlike the rule she’d been given about not leaving the cloister when she was young, “the Rule” was a law of her own making. But just like the earlier rule, the Rule was meant for protection. And for years now, it had kept her safe. The Rule came about because emotional attachments had proven to be, quite simply, a luxury she wasn’t willing to pay for. Expect something good from people, and they’d invariably disappoint. Rely on someone, and they’ll end up leaving. Or dying. It wasn’t a complicated formula. Otha, Hild, Hamish, and her father were exempt, of course. And frankly, she still had occasional doubts about Warra Scarlett.
    And besides, what was the point of even considering friendship with someone from Arsia? Towners were, as a group, irrationally suspicious of the cloister and its inhabitants, both human and alien. No, suspicious didn’t express it; paranoid and hateful summed it up better. Towners feared alien creatures with such automatic, ingrained intensity that it made these people impossible to engage with in any meaningful way. Zenn had given up trying years ago. There were, she conceded, a handful of scientifically literate towners who knew better, but these few kept their opinions securely to themselves. So, could Liam Tucker be added to the list of people actually worth talking to? Zenn was skeptical, but told herself to try to keep an open mind.
    “Alright then,” her uncle said, coming over and rubbing his hands together. “We’ve all got work to do. Liam, tell your Aunt Vic I got her message. About worming the goats. We’ll get that taken care of soon as we can.”
    “I’ll tell her.” He gave Zenn a parting smirk and hefted up the barrow handles. “Lead on, boss-bug.” Hamish started off and Liam followed, heading for the garden.
    A few moments later she and Otha were inside the cave-cool darkness of the infirmary building. He turned to her.
    “Zenn, is it Warra? Is that what’s been bothering you lately?” He folded his arms across his chest. “If it is, you need to stop being such a worrier.”
    “But it’s been almost two months,” Zenn said, going over to the tank-pack. “And I’m not just being a worrier.”
    It seemed so inconsiderate of her father, not to get in touch. She worked to keep her voice calm, level. “We should have heard something by now.”
    “Not necessarily. There’s no rule saying your father has to contact us every time you get a little anxious.”
    Zenn scowled at this dismissal. In fact, she was more than a little anxious. Worse, she didn’t know why. Two months really wasn’t all that long without a message. But somehow it was making her jumpy and irritable. Two things she couldn’t afford to be right now.
    Instead of arguing the point, she picked up the tank-pack nozzle and jabbed at the keypad, entering the sequence for low-pressure, narrow stream. She checked the setting twice, locked it into place and checked it once more.
    “You mustn’t blame your father for going away, after… what happened to Mai. You mustn’t be angry with him for that.”
    Was that what was unsettling her? Still? No. Yes. Maybe. She couldn’t even say for sure what she was feeling about it anymore.
    Yes, her father had left. And there was no doubt about why he’d gone, at least as far as Zenn was concerned. Warra Scarlett had loved his wife, deeply, unconditionally. And she’d died. Afterward, it seemed clear to Zenn, he had simply hurt too much. Her father’s entire being was like a fresh wound. He couldn’t tolerate contact, couldn’t make any sensible response to those around him, no matter how much they wanted to help.
    When she was young, she was constantly reminded