Winterkill (2 page)

Soeur Manon is bent over the hearth stirring a pot of simmering herbs, her snow-white hair the one bright spot in her sooty kitchen.

“La racine.”
I gesture to my satchel, and she waves her hand at the table.

I gather for her poultices and rubs: horehound for birthings, sage for belly upsets, spring beauty root for bone setting and such. Thanks be, she still has a dusty old book she's guarded for years that has little pictures of the roots and herbs I'm to gather; otherwise I'd be bringing back every plant on Almighty's green earth, trying to match up what she describes in her hurried French. Sometimes I pretend I'm looking at her plants book and flip through the other books she has: the ones with pictures of people and animals I've never seen. I suspect some of those animals live far across the sea, or in someone's mind only. Some of them—horses and oxen—I know were real. They died alongside half the settlement when we arrived five generations ago.

I pull out the root and place it on the table, step back, and wait for something more. She adds dried leaves to the pot. Stirs. Finally she turns and sizes me up with her watery eyes.
Her face is lined with more creases than the river has fish, and her shoulders are thin.

“Emmeline,” she says,
“ton pied. Tu l'as blessé aujourd'hui, non?”

How could she know I hurt my foot? It hurts more than usual, all right, but I'm not moving on it funny. I always walk normal-like, or close to, around the fort. It gives me an awful dull ache in my leg, but Pa and me are already Stained; I'm not inclined to give people another reason to eyeball me. Limping around wouldn't do me any favors. Still, somehow she knows.

“Oui.”
I nod.

She gestures for me to take off my moccasin. When I do, she drops the ladle on the table, hobbles forward, and bends to gather my foot in her knobby hands.

She presses at my wool sock, peering at it this way and that, but, Almighty's grace, leaving my sock on. I don't like looking at the unnatural dark skin, the misshapen toes—and I like it less when others look.

She clucks her tongue. “You do this on purpose.”

I stare at her. Again, she's right: snagging my foot in the woods was a mistake, but leaning on it in front of Tom was purposeful. He caught me unawares, though, with his Virtue Talks business; I can hardly be faulted for it. And hurting yourself isn't a Wayward act.

“Can I help you with something else?” If I can't, I want out of here, away from her eyes that see too much.

She levels me a look.
“Non,
Emmeline.” She places my foot on the floor real gentle. “Do what you like.”

“We extend the Peace of the Almighty.” Brother Stockham begins Virtue Talks, looming straight and tall behind the pulpit.

The air in the ceremonial hall smells of sweat and unwashed hair.

I'm wedged between two women from the north—the Watch quarter—tucked away from my pa's sad eyes. He beckoned to me when I showed up, but I pretended not to see, scuttled into the crowd away from him. I have enough to worry about right now without weathering his anxious look.

I turn to the bone-thin woman on my left and offer her the Peace, placing a hand across my chest and nodding my head. I recognize her haunted face; no one here is a total stranger. Her response is quick, though her eyes are low, like she might catch something if she looks on me too long.

The woman to my other side looks right knackered, her belly swollen with a child whose life no one will celebrate until it reaches its first year. So many children die that a celebration before their first life day is considered shortsighted and a waste of stores.

I want to ask her if she has to Watch in her state—if the extra rations are worth it—but of course I don't. I'm not in the habit of speaking to people I don't know well.

Brother Stockham calls us back to attention. “November tenth. The day our settlement formed, the day we learned to survive this harsh land. Next month we will celebrate that date at Affirmation. For three days we will give thanks, and affirm our commitments to the virtues and to our settlement, before
La Prise
is upon us.”

The woman to my right stiffens at the words
“La Prise”
:
the deadly winter. It's plain she's thinking on that unborn child.

“Year round we work hard to survive. But these weeks before Affirmation will reveal our commitment to life, or to death.”

There's a soft murmur through the crowd.
Our commitment to death
. It's a strange thing to say, though I suppose it might be a roundabout way of telling us to work hard, that anything less than upholding our virtues is courting disaster. And, like he's answering my thoughts, Brother Stockham launches into a sermon about the three virtues: Honesty, Bravery, Discovery.

Honesty is always telling the truth, following settlement rules like completing your duties, attending settlement events, staying inside the fortification borders. Bravery is doing what's asked, taking risks that benefit the whole and not jawing on about it when you do. Discovery is using the brains Almighty gave us to find ways to improve our lot—without risking everyone's safety.

I fail upholding Honesty every other day.

I try, but some of the things I wonder about make it hard. My thoughts fly back to gathering today, when it felt like the Lost People were hanging off the boughs and watching over me. The outer woods are forbidden, but some days I can't help but think about walking off into the trees, heading into that darkness beyond the first line of scrub where there are no wary stares.

There's an itch between my shoulder blades. I twist one arm behind my back and reach as far as I can. When I elbow
the hard-looking woman to my left and receive a sharp look, I stop.

“The virtues have kept us safe thus far,” Brother Stockham affirms in English, and again in French. His voice carries through the hall, through the mass of silent bodies. Even children hush up when Brother Stockham's speaking, even though we've all heard versions of the speech so many times it's beyond familiar, it's deadbore.

I know a lot of the women aren't even listening. They just look it because they're busy making moon-eyes at Brother Stockham. I spot Macy Davies doing just that—her big brown eyes wide like she's drinking in his every word, twisting a lock of her shiny copper hair in her fingers.

She's probably hoping he'll ask her to be his life mate. His position, given over by birth, makes him the most respected member of our settlement. And everyone wonders why he doesn't have a life mate yet. It is strange; he's easily twenty-five, mayhap twenty-six. Well beyond binding age. Mayhap he's too busy upholding his virtues. Can't say I think too hard on it. He's handsome, sure: tall with glossy black hair cut off just below his chin in sharp points. But something about his hawk eyes has always skittered me. Or mayhap it's that he can mete my punishment if I'm Wayward.

Brother Stockham's wondering about it.

My stomach gets tight. I'd rather gather roots at the Crossroads, under the hanging skeletons of the Waywards, than be punished with Watch.

I glance about the hall. Six Councilmen stand together at
the far side: vultures watching over carrion. I turn my head before I catch their eye. And spy a boy watching me. He's wedged in the crowd about ten bodies closer to the pulpit, but there's a gap that gives us sight of each other.

His eyes are big, making him seem young, but looking closer, I see he's my age. His hair is shaved close to his head, so he must be from the south quarter, Storages and Kitchens. Instead of looking like most of the south residents, though—missing an important feature, like a shorn sheep—his shaved head gives him a kind of stark beauty. A lone poplar against the prairie sky.

I lower my eyes, sure he'll do the same, then risk a quick look at him once more.

He's still looking at me, but it's not the usual wary stare—it's real friendly. The corner of his mouth curls into a secret-joke kind of smile, and then he's gone when a large man shifts his stance.

There's an unfamiliar fluttering in my chest.

I try to prick my ears to Brother Stockham's sermon, but it's near impossible. Silent, I curse the man between that boy and me. I don't consort much with anyone outside the east; until we turn sixteen and become eligible—of binding age—we're kept close to our quarters. And of course we're kept inside at dark. We don't have much chance to get friendly with people from other sections until we get older.

But I should know him: everyone knows everyone. I just don't recognize him because his head is shaved.

And then I place him.

He's the oldest Cariou boy, from the south quarter.
Kane
. As a child he was forever chasing his age-mates about the
fortification, a tangle of bone-straight, dark hair streaming behind him. In the past three years since I've been gathering, I've seen him playing hoopball on the flats and hauling skins in past the gates. For years, he's been hidden in a group of boys, behind his hair, hovering on the outskirts of Virtue Talks.

His head is shaved now, which means he's turned sixteen and can work inside Storages and Kitchens, doing more important work.

When I turn sixteen in a few days, I'll start learning Soeur Manon's trade, how she makes her poultices and such, instead of just gathering for her. I'll also start delivering gatherings to Storages.

A thought lodges in my mind: I'll soon be seeing Kane regular.

My stomach flips over and I press my weight into my bad foot.

“Adherence to the virtues is our only hope,” Brother Stockham says, his eyes sweeping over us. “Waywardness breeds chaos, and chaos brings destruction.” His gaze rests on mine and for half a moment it seems he's talking right to me. “Remember and adhere to your virtues daily. For yourself, for your children, for our continued safety and prosperity.” He puts a hand across his chest once more, and we are released.

I go slow, following the bony back of the Watch woman, hoping my pa won't wait. I'm in luck; as we shuffle from the hall, I can see him far ahead, heading back to our quarters with Tom's parents.

Someone appears at my elbow. I somehow know it's him
without looking, but when I do raise my eyes, my breath hitches.

Kane is a mite taller than me, but he's no longer the scrawny youngster who used to chase ground squirrels; working in Storages has filled him out. I can tell this by looking at the bare arm next to mine: his shirtsleeves are rolled to the elbows, which somehow feels terrible intimate. He smells of sage and woodsmoke.

“Emmeline, right?”

I nod, trying my hardest to walk normal-like. What does he want? Why is he speaking with me?

We step into the dusk, where the crowd is scattering. The north quarter is heading to Watch, lighting torches from the burn baskets.

He gestures to himself. “Kane.”

We stop and turn toward one another. In the half-light, his eyes are black pools.

“I know.”

He nods toward my quarters. “How're things?”

“All right.”

“Mind if I ask how old you are, Emmeline?”

I feel a thrill hearing him say my name—the way he speaks! His voice is a lazy river, winding over to me, honeying my ears. We should be getting to our quarters, not bandying about, but I can't stop staring at him.

“Fifteen.” I correct myself quick. “I mean, sixteen—next week.”

“So I'll be seeing you at Storages soon.” He's not asking.

“That's right.” I'm trying to sound casual, but I know I
look like a cornered deer. It's like he was able to read the thoughts I was having moments ago at Virtue Talks.

His gaze is steady. “Mayhap we'll work together.”

This levels me. Surely he knows I'm Stained? Ever since the Crossroads was built, there have been people who carry the shame of something a family member did to end up there. No way he doesn't know about my grandma'am. And it's addled enough we stand here jawing on while everyone prepares for dark, but to suggest that we should spend time together . . . in that inviting way . . .

My chest swells. I open my mouth to offer a response, but a voice from behind breaks in.

“Sister Emmeline, a word.” It's Brother Stockham.

My blood freezes.

Oh, not here, not now.

Something flickers across Kane's amused face. I swallow before turning to face the good Brother.

He stands with his arms crossed in front of his dark cloak, his hair shining.

“Yes?”

“I have knowledge of your Waywardness. Skipping Virtue Talks is an offense.”

My face flushes hot. I look to the ground, willing Kane away with all my might. People already think I'm more prone to Waywardness on account of my Stain. And now . . .

I clear my throat. “Apologies, Brother Stockham. I wasn't feeling so good.”

“If you are unwell, you need to be seen by Soeur Manon.”