Winterkill (15 page)

A woman with a mane of red hair is hurrying across the courtyard toward us. His sister? Her face is real scared and she's aiming to bust right through the crowd.

The Councilmen have Jacob on his knees, and Brother Jameson has put the twine around his neck and he's pulling at it. Jacob's not thrashing anymore, just making a horrible, strangled cry.

The crowd is getting louder. Some people see his sister and move aside.

“Brother Stockham?” Brother Davies's voice booms across the clamor of the crowd. He waves his arms, warning the crowd to give the Councilmen space.

Brother Stockham's arms are folded across his chest, but
there is a muscle moving in his jaw. His eyes flick to the woman running across the yard, then to the crowd that's surging forward, then to Jacob. There's a moment his eyes look pained, like they're looking on the saddest thing.

He won't let them kill Jacob here. He couldn't possibly—But his eyes harden and he nods to Brother Davies. Once. No remorse now.

Brother Davies barks over his shoulder at Brother Jameson: “Do it.”

Jameson tightens his grip by shortening the rope, making Jacob's eyes go even wider. His cry is coming out more like a whine now, like his breath has closed off fully and it's all he can do to make any sound at all.

There are more exclamations from the crowd, but they're retreating now, away from the scene, and the woman is fighting her way through. “No!” she cries, clawing her way to the front. Brother Davies wades into the fray to grab her.

Jacob's not making that sound anymore.

Brother Stockham's eyes sweep the crowd and rest on me, his face expectant—like he's daring me to say something. The crowd is murmuring, crossing themselves. A woman utters: “Almighty's will be done.”

I force a step backward.
Move, Em, move.
It's long moments before my syrup-slow body answers. I turn and take several stumbling steps toward the east quarter. I'm almost to our door when I stop and give up my stomach onto the hard-packed earth.

By afternoon, everyone's heard about Jacob and everyone's talking about it in hushed whispers. I close my ears to it all
and put my head down. But I can't stop a picture forming in my mind: Council has me tied up, and I'm begging and thrashing and fighting for all I'm worth while Brother Stockham looks on.

I'm standing around back of our quarters, pulling the dried river grass from Pa's mattress to replace it, when a shadow falls on the wall before me.

It's long, the way shadows get this time of year, but the way it moves is unmistakable. I swallow a sour taste of fear and wait for him to speak my name.

“Emmeline.” It's not a punishing voice. Not happy, neither.

I turn and find him standing with his arms folded, cloak washing around him.

I drop the grass in my hand and offer him the Peace. “Brother Stockham.”

“I don't mean to interrupt.” He nods at the mattress.

“You're not.” I lay it against the wall.

There's a heavy pause as I wait for him to speak. I tell my heart to beat slow.

“I came because . . . ” He stops, then unfolds his arms. For the second time I've ever seen, he looks like he's not real sure what to say.

“My pa told me. About the proposal.” I speak quick.

“Yes,” he says.

“I'm—I'm real flattered,” I say. “And I know not to say anything before Affirmation.”

He smiles thin. “The settlement—Council—can be . . . difficult. But I think you know this.”

A chill takes me. After years of enduring his hard stare, him speaking this familiar unnerves me. Unless . . .

Unless that's not why he was looking on me all that time. I shove the thought down deep.

He studies me a moment and I realize the proposal isn't why he's here. I look to my hands. Will my skin to stay cool.

“That was unfortunate. Today.”

My eyes snap to his face.

“It was upsetting,” he says.

Is he checking to see how upset I am? Can he see my guilt? “I'm all right,” I say. But my stomach clenches again at the memory of the Councilmen wrestling Jacob to the ground. My mouth waters and for a heartbeat I'm sure I'm going to lose my stomach again. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

“I wish you hadn't been there to see it.”

My eyes fly open. He's staring at me, but now his eyes aren't so hawk-like. They're wide and full of something like . . . worry.

I should reassure him; it would cover my guilt. But images spill into my head: Jacob's eyes, his sister struggling, Stockham's cold nod, giving the order . . .

I can't meet his eyes. I focus instead on his neck, on a small part of skin between his jaw and his cloak. There's a thin line: pink, raised. A scar.

“My father taught me many lessons,” he says soft. “Ensuring our survival at all costs was the most important.” He's speaking on Jacob, that's plain, but the way he's looking at me says he means something more. “He . . . he had no use for anything that might compromise order.”

I swallow. He means me. My Stain. My Wayward legacy. His father would have no use for me.

“He was a strong leader,” he says, “but he may have been wrong about some things.”

“Like punishments?” I say before I lose my nerve. I risk a look at his face. He knows what I'm asking.

He speaks quiet. “What would you have had me do, back there?”

I have no idea what Jacob did, no idea what he deserved or what choices Brother Stockham had. “I . . . don't know.” My heart's beating fast now.

He stares at me a while longer, but it's not a disapproving stare; there's no ire at my brazenness. “You don't know what it's like to wonder about the wisdom, the choices, of your father,” he says. “To want to carve your own path.”

But of course I know. I know exactly. But what I think my pa is wrong about—that Stockham and I should be bound—I can't share. And what I can't figure is what kind of path Stockham's hoping to carve by binding to the Stained girl.

“But I hope you can understand that I still have a duty to uphold.” He hesitates, then steps closer. “Because I need you.”

My breath is tight in my throat. He's standing so close now, if someone came around the corner and saw us—

A flash of black catches my eye. It's a Councilman moving along behind the stables. Brother Stockham follows my gaze and the moment breaks. He steps back, drawing himself up. He looks every inch the all-important leader, but I can see it: there's a spark of something desperate in his eyes.

Then he turns on his heel and walks away. The day at the river comes rushing back, his words:

You are not the only one who lives with a family burden.

SISTER ANN SENDS TOM AND ME TO GATHER EGGS
that evening, before the hens roost for the night. We walk quick between the shacks, our breath making clouds in the cooling air. The days are getting shorter and now, when the sun gets low, the cold of night rushes in quick.

Tom's quiet—I suspect it's because he's thinking on Jacob Brigston. My insides are still in knots from the afternoon.

I bend my head to collecting eggs quick as I can. I'm halfway done my side of the coop when I find a hen already nesting. I reach forward to move her from her perch, and she bobs and pecks the top of my hand, drawing blood.

“Almighty!” I curse, flinging her from her perch. She squawks as she hits the floor and Tom swings round, his blue eyes wide. I duck my head and grab the egg the hen was guarding so stubborn.

“Everything all right?”

“Just fine,” I mutter, looking in the next box and finding
nothing. I complete the row and turn, hoping that Tom can't see my red cheeks. I pass him, heading for the coop door.

He puts a hand on my arm, stopping me midstride.

“What's going on, Em?”

“Nothing. I don't know. I just—” I close my eyes and grit my teeth. “Got some things on my mind is all.”

“That why you don't want to meet at the river anymore?”

The hurt in his voice pierces me straight through. I open my eyes. His face is anxious, sad. So that's why he's been quiet. I need to tell him. I don't want him thinking something's the matter with him, with our friendship.

“Course not.” I say. “Just been busy with Soeur Manon.”

His brow creases.

“Truly. Been out gathering and such.”

“You find anything new?” There's that look again. Longing. Just for a heartbeat.

“No.”

“'Cause you're looking unwell, Em.”

I swallow. “Saw that shearer being sent to the Crossroads today.”

Tom's face blanches. “You were there?”

I nod.

“You know why they sent him?”

I shake my head.

“Was it awful?”

“Real awful.” I hesitate. “He didn't . . . he didn't make it there. He was fighting so hard they put a rope around his neck in the courtyard . . . They choked him . . . They . . .” And I'm crying, tears blurring my sight, my face hot with shame. I stumble, looking for something to lean against.

Tom grabs my shoulders, puts his arms around me, and pulls me close. I cry into his shirt, trying to wipe Jacob from my mind. His wide, scared eyes—and the Councilman pulling the noose tighter . . . until he just stopped moving.

It takes me a long while to get hold of myself. Tom smoothes my hair as I pull back. I lean into his touch. Glad, so glad, he's here. He takes my hands in his scarred ones and clears his throat. “Well, at least we're all still safe.”

Still safe
.

“Em?” He squeezes my hands. “What's wrong?”

I'm going to burst if I don't tell him. “Last week I missed the gates.”

“You what?”

“I missed the closing of the gates.”

He drops my hands. “How on Almighty's green earth did you manage to do that?”

“I lost the time—”

“How?”
His eyes narrow.

“I . . . I was out gathering and got in my daydreaming way and . . .” I think about that day on the riverbank, him talking about my “choices.” I'll have to tell him I went down that trail, after I said I wouldn't. I scramble for an explanation. “And I fell asleep.”
Almighty forgive me.

“How'd you get in?”

“One of the Watchers.”

Tom waits.

“I said I wouldn't say who.”

He raises his eyebrows. It's plain he's clear unimpressed with me and whoever my secret helper was. “That was real dangerous.”

He's got no idea how dangerous. “I know.” I look at the basket between us. I can feel his eyes sizing me up.

“Does Brother Stockham know?”

“No.”

“Thank the Almighty for that.”

I should tell him about the proposal, but I don't want to explain all that right now. I just want reassurance. A friend. I nod. “But . . . I have these dreams. About the woods. I feel like I need to go out there.”

“Dreams.”

I nod. “And after seeing Jacob, I'm . . . I'm scared.”

Tom weighs my words a long time. “You don't have to be scared,” he says finally. I wait for him to tell me no one will ever know. “You can stop.”

I draw back. “Stop?”

He holds my gaze, his jaw tight.

“I can't control what I dream, Tom.”

“I don't mean your dreams,” he says. “I mean all of this.” He tilts his head. “I think you do these things on purpose.”

“Beg pardon?”

“You mean to do it.”

I frown. “Why would I
mean
to be Wayward?”

“Because you think it's all you can be. Because you think you're good for nothing else.”

“That's addled.”

“Is it? Are you sure you're not punishing yourself for the Stain you didn't ask for?”

“Like your hands?”

Pain flashes in Tom's prairie-sky eyes. Then those skies turn black. He shakes his head, turns on his heel, and bangs
through the coop door. I've done it now. Just twisted the knife where his pain is deepest.

Come back
.

But I can't say it. I'm stinging too hard from his words. He's wrong—I don't do Wayward things because I think it's all I'm good for.

Do I?

I grab the basket, realizing too late I'm right wound. One of the eggs totters, then falls and lands with a crack. The yellow yolk that oozes onto the coop floor looks like Jacob's bulging eyes.

On my way back from delivering eggs to the Kitchens, I see a group of age-mates gathering in a corner of the courtyard. It's dusk and dew is settling on my bare arms; we'll need to be getting inside soon.

“Emmeline!” Macy beckons me over to her group. I recognize the girls from the dance—the west-quarter Textile workers—but the boys have their backs to me. I know two are south quarter; the rest I can't tell. They're surely speaking on Jacob and the Crossroads; everyone's been speaking on it all day.