If Khouri or Rhajj or any of the others had been present, Rastaban would have been horrified at what he was doing, but there was something oddly soothing about standing beside Kana, helping her feed the chickens. Maybe it was the rhythmic mindlessness of casting seeds in a circle about him.
Or maybe it was the way Kana smiled up at him.
“It’s so kind of you to help,” she said. “It’s not easy, with so many of our men...gone.”
“Gone?”
“Killed. In the wars.” Kana’s smile faltered. “But you don’t want to hear about that. Ever done laundry?”
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