Winterkill (12 page)

It's unsettling.
He's
unsettling.

And I'm already full up to the brim with worry.

That night at dinner my pa looks skittish. I serve the turnip stew quick, hoping to get dinner over with, but he lingers over his bowl.

I don't like the way he's looking at me and I truly hope he's not thinking about jawing over the false attack. I take out my jar of arrowheads and start sorting through them, positioning them on the table smallest to big.

“Got some things to speak on,” he says as he scrapes his bowl clean. “First matter is new chores. Now you're sixteen, you're meant to be learning Soeur Manon's skills.”

I nod.

“You'll practice her tinctures and medicines. She's in charge of you now.”

My ears prick up at this. The woods. With Soeur Manon in charge, might there be more chances for me to get out there?

“But remember to mind Sister Ann—she'll need you for chores now and again, mostly to run gatherings to the south quarter for storage.”

I nod again and hope my skin doesn't give me away at the words “south quarter.” I adjust the arrowheads. My thoughts flash back to Kane sitting on the riverbank, forearms on his knees, dark eyes fixed on my face—

“—paid a visit.” Pa pushes aside his bowl and my thoughts
snap back to the room. I think I just heard Brother Stockham's name. “Thanks be, this time, it was a good visit.” Now Pa is surely nervous; he's twisting his hands together. If Brother Stockham visited and it wasn't about my Waywardness, why is he jittering?

“It was about your eligibility.”

I stare at him. “Sorry, Pa—beg pardon? Did you say
Brother Stockham
paid a visit?”

“I did.” He takes a breath. “Em, this morning the good Brother visited about your eligibility.”

“What about it?” My head feels stuffed with wool and my tongue works slow. I can't put together the who and the what in my pa's words. Because if he called about that . . .

“He asked for your hand.”

My hand? I stare stupidly at Pa. He's smiling wide. Haven't seen that big a smile on him for as long as I can remember.

“Whatever for?”

His smile dies. “What do you mean ‘whatever for'?”

“Well, I mean, I know why . . . why someone asks for . . . for someone's hand, but . . .” I'm stuttering, trying to find the words and losing all my thoughts.

“He wants you for a life mate. He came to ask.” He leans forward, his hands clasped on the table. His eyes get shiny. “It's a real good thing, Em. Think on it: You bound to the good Brother would mean you could forget about chores, forget about taking on that old woman's trade. Almighty, Em, you'd never have to gather again, never have to go near the woods. You could rest up that foot, mayhap . . . heal a bit—”

The guilt in his voice near undoes me.

“It's a real good thing.”

He's right: me bound to Brother Stockham could change things for us. But my head swims because . . . because why me? Why in Almighty's name would the revered leader want a Stained for a life mate? After all these years he could have chosen someone?

I thank the Almighty for this.

My skin feels hot and tight. Brother Stockham looking at me as though he knows something. The familiar way he touches me—those hawk eyes and determined hands . . .

I don't go to the woods
.

The hope in my pa's eyes is so bright, it's burning a hole in my heart.

“The good Brother wants our answer by Affirmation,” he says. “Says until then, we'll keep the proposal quiet.”

Three weeks from now. Affirmation is a three-day ceremony: one day for giving thanks, one day for affirming our commitment to the virtues, one day for declaring bindings. Once the Ice Up arrives we're all stuck inside the walls with not much else to do but attend those bindings.

“Why does he want to keep it quiet?”

The shine in Pa's eyes dulls a bit. We both know why. No one on Council will be too pleased he's asked for me, knowing my grandma'am's legacy. They might even wonder if I've done something untoward to get him to ask.

No. They'll
surely
wonder. All these years of being eligible without a life mate? He doesn't want to have to weather the jawing and hard looks about proposing to a Stained, not unless our binding is certain. What I can't figure is why he'd want me at all.

“No sense in ruffling feathers just yet,” Pa says quiet.

“Course,” I say quick. But the “just yet” tells me Pa thinks the decision is made. And why wouldn't it be? Neither of us thought I'd be asked to bind to anyone at all, much less Brother Stockham. What can I say? Something about him skitters me? I saw him in the woods and he won't admit to it?

There's this Cariou boy . . .

Pa's sitting straighter, like someone just told him
La Prise
won't be coming this year after all. He reaches across the table and squeezes my wrist with one hand. “My girl,” he says.

I'm of two minds: one to flinch and throw his hand away, the other to bury my face in his scrawny chest. I do neither, just get up from the table and scrape the arrowheads back into the jar. They clatter against the clay.

“Goodnight, Pa.” My voice is raw. I'm doing my best to look grateful, but as I cross the room and escape to our sleeping quarters, I feel the walls of our home, the entire fortification, crushing in on me. I set the jar near my bed, hoping it brings me some comfort.

Tonight, though, sleep is a long time coming.

IN MY DREAM, I'M RUNNING AGAIN, QUIET AND
sure. The woods whip past in a blur of greens and browns and the air is soft on my skin. The girl's voice is calling to me as I run.
Find us
. But I can't figure which direction it's coming from. I stop under
les trembles
and listen for her, listen to the tinkling leaves. I see a piece of sky-blue cloth, a trail leading up a hill—but then it's too late. The ice winds of
La Prise
rush in and deafen me.

When I open my eyes, the morning is bright and warm. The dream lingers.

That girl's voice. Is she . . . could she be my Lost People? Are my dreams telling me to find her before it's too late? Before
La Prise
—

Brother Stockham's proposal shatters my thoughts.

I hurry through my porridge. I can tell by the look in my pa's eyes that he expects we'll speak on the proposal again soon, and I don't want to. Guilt cuts me, seeing him all puffed up and proud. The worry in his eyes is all but disappeared.

Thanks be, he's on his way to chores. A herd of bison was spotted close to the fortification, and every able east-quarter man is needed to help with the kill. Using both arrow and the odd precious rifle, they usually only pull down two dozen before the herd spooks and disappears for another week or so. Pa has to go; we need the stores. And he'll be busy for days skinning and cutting and curing, so there'll be no time for speaking on the proposal.

I'm headed to the Healing House for chores that afternoon when I spy Brother Jameson gathering his crowd in a corner of the courtyard. He's talking loud—on the virtues again, no doubt. I'd have to duck back around the barns to avoid him and I'm half thinking on it when he looks up and sees me.

I swallow and keep walking. As I get close, I can hear him plain.

“Though the dangers are great, we survive.
Nous survivons le malmaci
. But it waits for us to make mistakes, and punishment for those who would make those mistakes must be swift.” His eyes sweep his followers, who are murmuring assent. His brow shines with sweat. Most times he's cold as a river rock, but these speeches light a fire in his eyes.

“The
malmaci
is cunning; it is an ancient evil. It Takes, it rends bodies limb from limb, it causes sickness we have never seen. And we do not know for certain what it is truly capable of.” His voice gets low. “But sometimes, Brothers and Sisters, I wonder if it hasn't found a way into some of our minds and hearts. I wonder if it doesn't already live among us.” He pauses.

And stares straight at me.

Several heads in the crowd turn my way. I stop dead, heat coursing up my toes to my brow. I'm frozen in their stare, want the ground to open wide and swallow me whole.

“Emmeline!” It's Soeur Manon, peering out her door.
“Viens ici. Maintenant!”
She sounds real cross.

I don't think twice. I turn away and limp fast for the Healing House.

She shuts the door behind me and presses her back to it. I can't think what I've done wrong, but I'm so relieved I decide I won't mind a tongue-lashing. She looks at me a long time, saying nothing.

I shift.

“You gather today.” She's giving me my task.

I nod. Wait.

“Alors.”
She crosses to the table toward a book, starts flipping through the pages.

I cross the room, trying to figure if she's angry, trying to shut Jameson's voice from my mind.

I wonder if it doesn't already live among us.

“They trouble you?” She flips the pages, tilts her head to the door. She means Jameson, the crowd.

“No,” I say quick. I straighten and try to look unconcerned.

She stops and sizes me up another long while. Finally she points to some late-harvest mushrooms in one of her books and sends me out. I skirt the Healing House and head through the gates, out of sight of the crowd.

As I'm crossing the Watch flats, the fever under my skin starts to simmer.

I know I should stay gathering. Shouldn't go back out to that trail. Not after Andre's warning. Not after Jameson
eyeballing me that way and Soeur Manon cross about something. I should just find the mushrooms and get back. But . . .

My dream with the girl calling to me—it won't stop running through my head.

And that trail leads somewhere and Brother Stockham lied about it. Could it lead to her? To what she needs me to see?

Might we talk about this later?

Would Brother Stockham tell me the truth about it if we were alone?

A chill shoots through me. I don't want to be alone with him. If I want to find out about that trail, I'll have to go see with my own eyes.

I linger just inside the scrub line, my eyes scouring the deadfall, hoping to get my task over quick. But I can find hardly a handful of the bleeding mushrooms Soeur Manon wants. My satchel stays near empty as I move further into the trees. Several minutes of searching later, I find another handful growing on the side of a fallen log. They're right next to a bunch of withering bittersweet. I make sure not to touch the poison berries as I pull the mushrooms from the log. When I straighten, I realize I'm out of sight of the Watchtower.

I forget searching for more mushrooms.

I go. Fast as I can. Even so, it takes me a good ten minutes to get back to the grove. It's quiet and still, like the other day. Like it's been waiting for me to return. The piece of cloth lies where I dropped it, next to the trail.

This time I'm quiet on the path, moving real slow, watching for any shifting trees. The woods are still; no strange
fluting noise this time.
Les trembles
drop silent, gold leaves around me.

I pass the spot where I saw Brother Stockham. I want to head the way he did the other day, but the sensible part of me wonders if I'd get lost out here with no markers to look for. Everything in these parts of the woods looks the same: thick underbrush and row after row of golden poplars. The sun glimmers through the boughs ahead of me, so I can tell I'm still headed west. I squint hard for the trail—a snapped branch here, a flattened piece of earth there.

Concentrating on following it takes over my senses; the seconds and minutes blur and disappear into the damp smell of the forest.

Finally I can see the brush part and empty into a clearing. My heart skips a beat. I've reached something; I can feel it. I burst from the bushes.

And stop dead.

The woods have given way to a clearing, flanked on three sides by high earth walls. A long birch pole is set in the middle of the space. Tied to it is a single red cloth.

I know this place. I've never been here—have only visited in my mind when Brother Stockham speaks on it, warning us away—but I know it. This red flag is a signal that I'm approaching a place I should never hope to see.

The Crossroads.

The bodies of the Waywards are there, set high off the earth in precious metal cages so their souls never have rest. Council sends the Waywards there alive, hoping it might appease the
malmaci'
s appetite, dissuade it from Taking the innocent, the good.

I should go. I should turn around and head back down the path and finish my mushroom gathering and head home. But my feet refuse it. I stand in the grove, aware the sun is dead ahead of me. The shadow of the flagpole stretches long.