The Elementalists

Chapter 4

Sammi

'Are you alright, Samma? You've hardly said a word all evening.'

I jerk as something kicks my shin and fight to hold back a wince; Auntie is leaning across the table, her face full of concern. Musa, on the other hand, is a picture of innocence. My mum and dad prod their rations in silence.

'Fine.' I nod, spreading my features into a smile. It's not easy—you could cut the tension with a knife. A typical evening in the Fazil household.

'And Nura? How has she been today?' Auntie continues, a little wary now, cautious. I have to give her credit. She's persistent.

'How do you think, Mum?' Musa rolls his eyes and gets a slap on the arm in return.

'Same as ever, I guess,' I shrug, raising my eyes to my parents, left to dad, right to mum. Dad's face sours, but other than that, he doesn't react. Mum has a glazed look about her—I doubt she can even hear our conversation. 'Maybe she dreamt a little this morning, but it's hard to tell.'

'I know, sweetie.' Auntie sighs. 'Musa, honey, please stop kicking your cousin under the table. I know what you're doing, I'm not stupid.'

Musa scowls. 'I made Sammi something for her birthday,' he says, swiftly changing the subject. 'Look, Mum. Show her, Sam.'

Dutifully, I hold out my wrist, and Auntie coos over my new bracelet, making all the right noises. I don't expect my parents to notice, and of course, Mum doesn't even flicker. But my dad actually glances up, and for a moment, my stomach wiggles with excitement. Then I see his look of revulsion.

'Get that abomination off your wrist now.'

My eyes meet Dad's with defiance. He frowns deeper than ever before rounding on Musa instead.

'What were you thinking, giving her something like that? What will people say? They'll get the wrong idea. Don't you want Samma to ever meet someone?'

Something in my chest twists.

Musa's face glows fuchsia. 'What, now she's sixteen you're instantly ready to palm her off to another family?'

'You know what I mean,' Dad growls, scratching the rash on his arm. 'Don't be facetious.'

'People can think whatever they want,' I say through gritted teeth. 'We've done nothing wrong.'

'You want people to think you're promised to your cousin? You're a funny girl—'

A clattering noise makes me jump; Musa stands up so fast, his chair topples over. He kicks it out the way and storms from the room. 'At least I bothered to get her a gift.'

The rest of us remain, mute and awkward, at the table.

'You understand, don't you, Samma?' Mum's voice rings out at last. 'Without Nura . . . what is there to celebrate?'

'I understand.' I get to my feet and tuck my chair carefully under the table. I understand—that's what makes it worse. Mum's expression is all it takes to bring the guilt flooding back to the pit of my stomach. How can I complain about something as petty as my birthday when Nura's dying? How can I justify the burning in my heart? 'May I be excused?'

'You may.' Dad waves his hand at me, in disgust, or dismissal, I don't know. Regardless, I bolt for the door. I need Musa. I need him.

It's raining; I yank on my wellies and tie my rain-hat haphazardly around my chin as I pull the door shut behind me. I scrunch up my eyes, trying to force the clouds away but I just can't concentrate, so the stubborn drizzle remains. My mind is elsewhere. Where did Musa go?