"To be one of the children of the Exodus, I mean," she added.
"Me? What are you thinking of, Letha?"
"Of your face. It looks suddenly like a nomad's face. You remind me of an old schnorrer who used to wander through our gardenboro every year to play his fiddle, and sing us songs, and steal our chickens."
"I don't fiddle."
"But your eyes are on the sky-fleet."
Evon paused, hovering between irritation and desire to express. "It's strange," he murmured at last. "It's as if I know them—the star-birds, I mean. Last night, when I saw them first, it was like looking at something I expected to happen ... or ... or...."
"Something familiar?"
"Yes."
"You think he has the genemnemon, Marrita?" she asked the blonde girl who sat on the cool rock by the spring.
Marrita looked up from dabbling her toes in the icy trickle. "I don't believe in the genemnemon. My great grandfather was a thief."