“Have you been to all of them?”
“Of course. Well, except yours.”
I stroke my fingers along the mane of the mighty stark white beast carrying us. It’s him that breaks through the ambient sounds of the forest this time. “How old are you?”
I hesitate. Most of the Shrouded are married off before the age of fourteen. My father drug his feet with me and Syra. We’d begun to doubt that we’d be wed at all instead, expecting to become matrons, destined to devote our lives to God. “Twenty-three,” I admit.
He snorts. “You’re lying.”
“I am not!” I say haughtily.
“Then why did you hesitate?”
“Because…” I crinkle my nose. “Twenty-three is quite old to be just now getting married.”
“You’re worried that you’re tooold?”
“Not worried, but…most of the Shrou—of us,” I correct. “Are married off much younger, and I think in Eden, at least a good deal of men would be…” I trail off.They would be disappointed. “Did you wish for younger?”
He snorts again. “No, the fact that you’re not a literal child is a small respite to this whole situation. Yet I’m not certain whether to believe you because you certainly look like you could be twelve.”
“I’mnottwelve.”
“Surely you have some more growing to do.”
I stiffen. He’s unhappy with my size. Perhaps he wished to breed giant babies to take after him. “I’m afraid not,” I say hoarsely.
He chuckles. A deep pleasant sound that involuntarily loosens the notches of my spine as I realize he’s only poking at me.
“What year were you born?” he asks, obviously still suspicious.
“671.”
He barks out a laugh that shocks me even more than his chuckle. “That might be a little old to be getting married.”
“What?”
“I thought you all were living in the 1600’s but I was a thousand years off seeing as you’re living in the 600’s.”
“What?”
“By all accounts, the year is 2023.”
“Oh. I think our records started when the Wall was built.”
“What year do you believe it to be now?
“694.”
“671 to 694. You truly are twenty-three?”
“Truly.”
“That’s good,” he murmurs.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven.”
