He had awoken with a longing to see people, talk to them, to be surrounded by life. All the interesting markets and people were up the spokes, so that’s where he went. Aino’s workshop lay in an artisan quarter on the third spoke, close to the hub. The little space was almost entirely occupied by a large table covered in patterns and scraps of cloth. Fat rolls of fabric jostled one another on shelves on the walls. Aino stood at the table, a lanky woman with skin and hair the color of pale sand. She looked up at Mika with gray eyes, straight at him, not gently sideways like normal people. Mika fastened his own gaze somewhere by her right shoulder. “Mika Johannisson,” he said in Swedish. “I’ll be interpreting at the meeting with the ambassador.” Aino was still looking at him. “What do you want?” Wha’ doo’o wan? Her consonants were partly smoothed away, the vowels rounded in a musical arch. Mika smiled at her. “I was in the neighborhood. Just curious, is all.” “Well.
