She was sitting outside Two Fist’s lodge splitting a chunk of white whale sinew into strands for thread. Two Fist had bought the sinew from a trader, boasted to the other women of how well-sewn her husband’s boots and parka would be, bound at each seam with strong beluga sinew. But she was not the one who had to tease out the stubborn strands, so much more difficult to split for twisting than caribou sinew. What did it matter? K’os told herself. In payment for her hard work, she had managed to sneak away a bit of lynx fur from a pelt, only a small piece cut from the belly edge, but enough for her needs. She had tucked it away with the other treasures she had already accumulated—the eye of a fresh-killed fox, now dried so it was only a brittle circle, thin as a leaf; the beak from a kingfisher and the breast skin, still feathered, of a flycatcher. When she heard Vole coming down the path, K’os did not look up from her work. One advantage in being a slave was that most people ignored her.
