Lost Creek Hollow there is black coal filling up our homes

When she spoke of the length she had spent on her own, Mordecai used it to make a better guess of her age. She was younger than he, but then again so were the majority of their subordinates. Yet he could understand the sense of it being hectic; his first foray as a dispersal had been very much the same. He had covered good ground, gotten the taste of adventure that he desired and up until the Wilds he had not relented from continuing such ventures. And given the subtle changes that had come along, he had yet to entirely admit to himself that the days of long journeys were slipping behind him, and that he would stick closer to the regions that had yet become familiar to him, unlike the expanse of land over the distant western mountains.

His wandering consideration of her scattered when she turned the scope of their conversation back to him, and he knew he could not fault her for curiosity. Yet for as much as he wanted to draw that solitary eye to look elsewhere, he kept it focused on her own deference, aware of the shyness that emanated in her posture. His jaw set uncomfortably for a moment as he tilted his own head in thought, having to ask himself that question. Was it weird? "It is," he said, wondering how it set him apart from the others. It was a definite disadvantage and his awareness of such felt not unlike an icy pierce of mixed emotions. "It will take getting used to."

And that was a part he found he did not enjoy.