"Na'na!" Mother tuts. Mother to me, Miss to all the other children. "You are doing it wrong. Say it again."

"Pul-kree-choo-dinn-uss," I repeat dutifully.

"No, Na'tila. Pul-kri-tude-inn-us. You're lengthening the sounds, but this is not Marak. It is English. They will respect you if you know this."

I bite my lips, already feeling the skin weaken. I let go before the blood gushes out of the scabs.

"Pull-kri-tude-in-us."

"Pulchritudinous."

"Pull-Pull-"

A heavy sigh. We spend the rest of the morning working on pulchritudinous.

------------------

"Calla!" I cry, running to my best friend. "Mis'yal therr van!" I missed you in Marak. 

Calla hugs me, smelling of fresh citrus and rose as she usually does. Her mother provides the rosewater for the village and her father is a farmer. "Mis'ysal corva!" Missed too. She whispers into my shoulder, pulling back and flashing me a wide grin of perfectly straight teeth. 

Calla is probably the prettiest in Shriv. But I don't mind-she chose to be friends with me. "Shouldn't you speak in English? Mada Riska would be mad." Her voice is sweet and deep, lilted with the heavy accent of Marak. I cross my arms at the mention of my mother. 

"Lo no cass. Pil'torr, nad rafa lo Mada." I don't care. Don't talk, don't mention my Mother.

Calla shrugs effortlessly and spins, showing off her new dress. "Till gyen?" What do you think?

I give her a thumbs up. "Dula!" Amazing (Marak version of like "Slay", slang word)

Calla's eyebrows furrow. "Bellen?" What's that?

I glance at my hands, still frozen in the position my mother taught me that English people use to express good wishes. "Lo Mada ferr'lo." My mother taught me. "Rafa sett." It means good.

Calla gives a shrug of her shoulders again. "Morsett. I don't mind. I have to speak English also, or van mada will tell lo mada as she will get so very angry since we have to go on the voy-vo-lava, lo res man'yal-the travel to there soon." OK, your mother, my mother, ugh, I don't know the word for it.

"Morsett." I shrug too and look up at the sky. "Speak English if you want to. The sky is getting pink. Lo rosen? Anh van lass?" OK. My house? Or yours?

"Lo lass. I will ask lo mada." Mine. My mother.

"Fair. Mother asks you a riddle in English every time van sor'kass." you come over.

Calla smiles. We walk to her house, looking at the grass and being mindful that the sky doesn't get dark too quickly, that we don't tread close to the forest edges, or the monsters will wake and swallow us whole.

-----------------------------------

Calla's mada throws down a rag in dirty anger. "This sky is getting dark now! I knew I could not clean. That fool, dana, I told him to clean it and he didn't. Now it will stay dirty until tomorrow!" Idiot.

We can hear her from the upstairs. "She has to be quiet soon," Calla speaks, her voice stilted with fear. "Or la barsko will take her." The monsters.

I lay my hand on her shoulder. "She will be sett'kan. Come, roff la." Okay (physical health reference), sleep now.

----------------------------------

Calla's mada was not quiet.

She is not in the kitchen.

Lo mada is crying.

Calla looks devastated.

And I know something has to change.

No one takes my friend's mother and gets away with it.