Winterkill (7 page)

I force a nod again. Of binding age, she means. I'm meant to find a life mate within two years of my sixteenth life day. We don't bind young. That has to do with healthy birthings: young mothers are more prone to troubles in childbearing, and motherless children—like me—are a burden. We also don't bind old, for the same reason.

“And menfolk will start asking after you. Your pa will have some decisions.”

I raise my eyebrows. What eligible man would want me for a life mate? I'm Stained for one, and then there's my foot. I look down at it, wriggling the gnarled toes.

She clasps her hands together. “I need to tell you that”—she pauses and takes a deep breath—“that you need to be careful. Of your mouth.”

My head shoots up. “Beg pardon?”

“Your mouth,” she says. “Menfolk find it . . .” She clears her throat. “Your smile. Men find it . . . attractive.”

“But . . .” I still can't figure what she means; I don't often smile. I put a hand to my mouth and trace a finger along my bottom lip.

She looks at me serious-like. “You can't be bandying
about with your sleeves up. You aren't a child anymore. You need to watch who you're smiling at. Try not to draw too many eyes.”

I stare at her. Since when do men notice my smile? Since when am I drawing their eyes? She must take my bewilderment for doubt because she crosses her arms and sets her jaw. “Emmeline, men's attentions are not helpful. Not for you, not for the settlement.”

I know this. Women are modest and men are respectful. Both families agree upon bindings—not just the life mates—and unbound relations are forbidden. Disease, jealousy that leads to unrest: these things follow unbound relations. I just can't figure how Tom's ma thinks I could be in danger of that.

I look at my foot again, trace a finger over my lip. Mayhap Kane talked to me the other night because of my smile.

“Mind yourself,” she says, breaking into my thoughts.

I look at her, see her hard eyes. And then I know.

My grandma'am. That's why she thinks I'm in danger.

“I will.”

She nods, curt. “Heard the birth bell some time ago. You'll be needed at Soeur Manon's to help clean up.” She turns and disappears into our quarters.

I touch my lips once more, then head for the Healing House.

THERE IS BLOOD EVERYWHERE. THE KITCHEN IS
lit with tall candles, and splashes of crimson streak everything like long, dark shadows: the washbasin, the table, the bedclothes, Soeur Manon's arms up to her elbows. The woman on the bed in the corner is breathing loud; short and shallow. Her head is visible amidst the mound of bison skins and her face is unnatural white.

I throw my root satchel to the floor and cross through the dim space. The woman is the one I was standing near during Virtue Talks the other night.

Soeur Manon grabs up a small bundle of cloth and turns to me.

“Il est allé à Dieu.”
She passes the bundle into my hands and I have to steel myself not to drop this thing that “went to the Almighty.” My skin crawls away from the cold weight of the lifeless little body.

I've cleaned up birthings before, and birthings go wrong
as often as they go right, but I've never gotten used to the stillborns. I always expect the bundle to be warm and writhing.

“It come too soon,” Soeur Manon says, wiping her hands with a cloth.

The woman on the bed moans, and I turn quick and bang out the door, taking in deep swallows of the fresh air outside.

Passing through the east gates, I make my way back to the river, heading north—downstream—to the Cleansing Waters. It's where we dispose of things we shouldn't bury on account of wild animals. Or worse.

During
La Prise,
when we're shut inside the fortification, we have to store anyone who passes on in the Hold, a tiny building with thin walls in the west corner. It keeps them frozen for the winter in a place that isn't life or rest. At first Thaw, Council is quick to get a hole chopped in the thinning river ice so they can be at peace. All our dead go to the Cleansing Waters—everyone but the Waywards.

I follow a curve in the bank and walk until the river gets narrow. The banks are steep here, and ahead two large boulders on either side of the river create a gate for a space no wider than three men lying head to toe. The water pushes through in a fierce rush; there are no eddies here to catch things and bring them back to shore.

The cold bundle feels like it's branding my fingers. I step as close to the edge as I dare, swing my arms, and cast it into the water. It plunges below the surface and bobs back up with a violent jerk, and for a heartbeat I'm terrified the cloth will come undone.

But then the river has it, grabbing it in a swirling torrent, rushing it past the boulders and carrying it off around the bend.

I'm standing there, muttering a plea to the Almighty to deliver that bundle to eternal peace, when a shadow falls on the bank beside me.

“Sister Emmeline, our sorrows are deep.” Brother Stockham's voice rings out over the churning water.

I turn real slow. “Brother Stockham.” I put a hand across my chest in the Peace of the Almighty, but my insides are jittering beetles. The bundle I threw downstream disappears from my thoughts; all that remains is the trail in the woods. Did he see me out there after all?

I risk a look at his face, but it's calm as he gazes past me, along the banks. Doesn't much seem he's here about my Waywardness.

“How many babies this summer?”

It takes me a moment to figure he's asking me how many birthings went wrong. I blink. I know his ma died in childbirth with him, just like my ma with the boy baby; is he asking because he's thinking on it?

“Mayhap four?” I'm not around for every birthing, but it seems there were a lot of stillborns these past months.

He clucks his tongue, and I can't help but stare at his face a moment; his jaw is strong and his cheekbones are high. He's good-looking, that's certain. And yet . . .

“Almighty, grant them peace . . .”

I finish his brief homily as I should: “This we pray.”

His gaze swings toward me. “Don't you think it's unfortunate that all we can do is pray?”

“Beg pardon?”

“Don't you think it would be better if we could do something more than pray for these small souls?”

The river roars in my ears. Or mayhap it's my heart. I look at him careful; he's leaning forward, his head tilted at me. He's interested in my reply.

“Like somehow saving them before they're born still?” My voice is small.

“Indeed.” He looks at me until I drop my head. I watch out the corner of my eye as he spreads his arms and gestures to the river and the willows that line the bank. “Sister Emmeline, our world is small. But the world around us is very large.”

My brow furrows at this. Our ancestors made a long journey from the east to settle here, I know. Weeks—months, mayhap—crossing those lonely prairies. And the Old World beyond the east is further still, across vast waters. Pa told me so, and I've seen the ships in Soeur Manon's books. But the world around us is dangerous: the few people who ventured back east or further west never returned. We might even be the last ones left. What difference does it make if it's large?

“In our world, which would you say is the most important of the virtues?”

My thoughts dissolve as my stomach clenches. I broke my Honesty virtue twice since we've spoken last. He doesn't know that, though. Does he? “Well, I don't suppose Honesty or Bravery would've saved that baby.”

He bows his head and rubs a hand over his jaw, and my stomach seizes again. Then he looks up and smiles. “A good answer.”

I smile back in relief.

“Our survival lies in Honesty and Bravery. But our salvation lies in Discovery.”

I swallow my smile, thinking about that scrap of cloth in the woods. What I did was Wayward, plain and simple. Going back there would be worse. Wouldn't it?

He studies my face, his thumb tracing his jaw. There's that sizing-up look in his eyes again. And something more. I twist my foot deliberate and feel a burst of fire.

“My grandfather wanted salvation.”

I blink. Did I just hear him right?

“At the end of it all, he thought salvation mattered most. My father, though, always chose survival.” He looks at the tear-stained cliffs. “But salvation and survival can be at odds, don't you think?”

I don't know what I think. Can't figure why we're talking at all. Brother Stockham has scarce said any more than a greeting to me in passing, yet here we stand, jawing like we're equals. For years I've felt his eyes on me with the rest of Council: watching me suspicious-like, finding me wanting. I've tried my best to stay out from under their gaze. Course, lately that hasn't gone so well.

Salvation and survival can be at odds.

I don't know what to say. But then I see he's not much waiting for an answer. He's gazing at the river now, his eyes lost in the currents.

“They were both strong leaders. They kept order, ensured the settlement's safety and survival. But they were not without their faults. No one is. Our ancestors made mistakes—you know this better than anyone.”

A flush blooms on my neck. He's talking about my grandma'am. I carry the shame of her execution. But I'm not just Stained with her actions; I'm Wayward in my own right.

“But you are not the only one who lives with a family burden,” he says soft.

I shift onto my bad foot and wash it in pain, focus on that.

“And there are ways to overcome.”

An osprey circles high along the banks. The prey bird turns to the river, making its body into a tight line, and plunges. It hits the water with a slap but is back out in a heartbeat, carrying a fish in its talons and moving hard for the trees, its giant wings steady and sure.

We watch it go, and then Brother Stockham's eyes snap toward me. “Apologies, Sister Emmeline.” He scrubs a hand over his face and smiles. “I'm feeling reflective today.”

I shift off my bad foot.

“The river has that effect on me,” he says. “It's hard to explain.” Then he looks to me and I'm thrown, because he looks . . . uncertain.

I nod, flustered. “I like to come out here and think.”

“I've noticed.”

My heart skips and fear must register on my face because he continues, “There's no harm in thinking. On the contrary, I find it . . . appealing.”

My heart skips again, straight into my throat. Does he mean thinking is appealing or
people
who think are appealing? And why has he
noticed
me? I swallow hard.

He looks back to the rushing waters. “This river is so beautiful, but so deadly. It gives life and it takes life, but it never needs to deliberate on any of that—it only
is.”
He
frowns. “Would that meting reward and punishment was that easy.”

He's talking about leading the settlement. Unthinking, I speak again. “You have tough choices.” I recoil under his sharp glance. “Con-concerning people's well-being, I mean.”

What am I saying? He's been learning to lead the community since he was a youngster—been leading it without his father's hand for five years now—surely he doesn't need my childish assurances.

He steps toward me, so close I can smell the bergamot soap on his skin, and places his hand on my arm. I fight the urge to recoil—I'm not used to being touched so casual. And certainly not by the leader.

“About Watch the other night,” he begins.

Bleed it! Did Frère Andre tell him about me keeping his “secret” after all?

“I wanted you to know that I'm sorry about that. You know that I couldn't make an exception for your punishment, however much I wanted to. Settlement rules.”

An exception? However much he
wanted
to? My thoughts are a mishmash of relief and confusion.

“Course,” I stammer.

“I hope you can forgive me for my heavy hand.”

My throat and mouth feel dry. “Nothing to forgive, Brother Stockham.”

“Yes, well. I regret it all the same.” He watches me real careful.

I stare back, the river roaring in my ears. Now I know I wasn't imagining that look in his eyes after Virtue Talks the other night. That tender look is back, but it's guarded. Like
he's not sure he should be looking on me this way. Almighty! I need out of here before the air between us snaps in half.

“I should . . .” I look behind him toward the fortification.

“Of course,” he says, removing his hand from my arm. “Dusk comes.” He makes a sweeping gesture and stands aside.

I make sure not to brush against him as I go past, but as I make my way along the bank, the ghost of his hand burns into my arm. I don't want to think about the way he was looking at me, don't want to think about him finding me appealing.