Twenty-Seven
Raised voices carry from the center of the village. Raging, frightened. Two of them are voices Solma recognizes: the croaky tone of Piotr and the high-pitched wailing of his younger sister, Gracie. The other voices are unknown, though the clip of a Westwater accent and a desert twang catch her ear. Solma nudges Maxen’s arm.
“Let’s go,” she says.
Maxen sighs. “Everyone’s going mad,” he grumbles, but he squeezes her hand before they head towards the commotion. Maxen glances back over his shoulder. “Aldo’s in charge,” he says. Olive looks thunderous but doesn’t reply. What’s the likelihood she’ll start bossing around the other two the minute Solma and Maxen are gone? She never was good at following orders. Solma pauses for a moment to fix Olive with a hard scowl but Olive only
