Finder's Shore Read Free

around us, clotted with memories. I thrust them aside. “Brenon says there’s a place with his unit if I want it.”
    Truso’s eyebrows hitch upwards. “And do you?”
    I reseal a slightly musty smelling jar of anti-fungal preparation. “Some of these medicines need replacing.” I can feel him waiting for an answer. I glance up. “I don’t think so. But not for the reasons Amar would want to hear.” The argument I made to Marta over my choice of profession flashes into my mind. “My interest is in life, not death.”
     
    When Ronan slides his plate onto the table next to mine, I move along to give him room. With the influx of scouts, mealtimes are crowded. “I hear you’ve been running clinics,” he says.
    “Thanks to you, apparently.” I smile to banish the guilt that flits across his face. “I didn’t think there’d be much demand, but it’s been steady.”
    “We could do with a medic at Summertops.”
    “The population isn’t large enough for the governors to approve it — although with the scouts as well perhaps …” I toy with my knife, my thoughts sharp-edged. “Do you miss the sea?”
    Ronan’s fork stops in midair. “Why do you ask?”
    “I would, if I left Vidya.” 
    Shrugging, Ronan shovels food into his mouth, barely chewing each bite before he follows it with the next. “Skipped lunch,” he mumbles, with a hint of apology. “We’ve been turning in a green-crop on the field behind the barn.”
    It’s months since I’ve done any real physical labour. “I’ll come out tomorrow and help.”
    Ronan shakes his head. “Tino doesn’t allow women in the field crews. His niece was among the girls living here when the Paras invaded. She took her own life last winter rather than live with the memory of what happened to her.”
    I stare at him, shocked. But still. “There are women in Scouts.”
    “Brenon’s problem.”
    As if he has an antenna for his own name, Brenon strides into the cramped room. I duck my head.
    “Was there enough food in Vidya last winter?” Ronan asks, mopping the remains from his plate with a hunk of bread. “Truso said we were down by more than half in what we were able to send through.”
    I think back over the past year. Soup had been the mainstay of our diet. “We coped,” I tell him. “The shortages worked in Lara’s favour. People were reluctant at first to eat the fish Explorer brought in, but as their hunger grew, their scruples shrank. Sea-sci has approval to commission another boat and put together a second crew.”
    “You’ll not get me eating any filthy fish,” says a voice on my left. “I’d rather starve.”
    I turn. The man who spoke glares belligerently, chewing open-mouthed. “They run rigorous tests, and harvest only where the contamination has dropped to a negligible level,” I tell him.
    “Killed my wife and son. Fish is poison.” His tone is accusing, as if he wishes to lay his old grief at my door. There’s a sourness in his face that’s only partly explained by loss.
    “My mother died too, years ago,” I say. “But I ate fish last winter.”
    “And you call yourself a medic.”
    I feel myself colour.
    “Leave it, Varn. The lass is all right.” The man who speaks in my defence is one of the scouts I saw in the clinic today.
    Beside me Ronan pushes back his chair. “Let’s get some air,” he says.
    “Do that. Stinks of fish in here,” Varn mutters.
    Brenon’s voice whips the length of the table, stilling every conversation. “Problem?”
    No one answers. Silence surrounds us as I follow Ronan out. “Don’t take it personally,” he says, as he closes the door. “Varn’s a fool, eaten up by his own bitterness.”
    “Is he with Scouts?”
    Ronan stops beneath the deep shadows of the eaves. “Resident — one of the new settlers. Vidya was probably glad to see the back of him. He’s a troublemaker.”
    “It’s not just him. The whole place feels … uneasy,” I say, hunting out the word.
    “How could