Winterkill (25 page)

In the dim light, Kane turns to me. He rubs a hand over his head. “Em—”

“Just tell me why.”

“I was trying to tell you in Storages. But Sister Lucy came in.”

I wait. The barn creaks.

He takes a deep breath. “He . . . They're—they're watching you.”

“Who?”

“Brother Stockham. Council.”

I stare at Kane. Watching me? How would he know they're watching—

“Been watching you for near a month. Ever since you tied those threads to the trees.”

I frown. “I never told you about the threads.”

“I know.” Kane holds my gaze.

My insides freeze over.

“That's what I'm trying to tell you. Council has been watching you for the past month . . . through”—he closes his eyes a moment—“through me.”

My mouth opens. Closes. When I find my voice, it's hoarse. “What exactly are you speaking on?”

“Weeks ago, Brother Stockham paid a visit. He had a task for me. He . . . he wanted me to watch you.”

“For what?”

“Wayward acts.”

My thoughts are numb. I stare at him.

“It was the only way I could keep you safe.”

“By
watching me for Wayward acts?
”

“They were going to anyway. I thought this way . . .” He
fumbles for the words. “I thought this way at least they'd wait for me to report. And if I didn't, they'd have nothing on you.”

I back up a step, catching my bad foot on a board and sending searing pain into my leg.

His eyes widen. “Em—”

But my mind is whirling. The threads. The day in the woods I heard footsteps following me. Kane's been watching me—listening to me—for weeks.

“What have you told them?”

“Nothing!”

I stare into his wide eyes. Images come like a flood: Kane finding me in the grove, looking at me strange during Jameson's talks, that day he happened on me at the river.

Oh, bleeding Almighty.

“Why should I believe you?”

He steps back like I've slapped him, but my thoughts are running now. All that talk about finding new things, going out where I shouldn't be; was he just trying to find out what I'd been up to?

You can trust me.

And I did. I did because he—

My stomach hollows out.

Because he saved me during the false attack.

I came after you because I wanted to.

What if Brother Stockham rang the alarm and told Kane to come after me to win my trust? What if . . . what if standing up for me against Charlie Jameson, telling me that story about the crippled girl and the piper—what if it was
all
to win my trust?

His eyes are searching my face. His shoulders slump. “I'd never do anything to hurt you,” he says soft. “You have to know that.”

But it's not an answer, not truly. “Why didn't you tell me straightaway?”

“Because I—I thought you were just being your daydreaming self, running off to the riverbank and woods. But there's something bigger than all that—I see that now.” His voice has a note of hysteria in it.

I look away from his tortured face.

“Em,
please
. It wasn't worth telling at first. But now . . . now with things the way they are . . .” He reaches for my arm.

Now
. Now I'm on the verge of proving Discovery, now I'm not just some daydreamer with a bad leg. I'm worth the truth
now
. Hurt and rage fuel my tongue. I want to hurt him back. “Did Council promise a reward for watching the Stained cripple?” I tear away from his grasp.

“Em—”

“Or did you just like pretending to be one of them for a few sorry weeks?”

“Course not!”

“Because you sure looked comfortable consorting—”

“What choice did I have?” he shouts.

I lunge forward and shove at his chest with both hands. Hard. He stumbles away, doesn't fight back. My voice is hoarse, accusing. “Don't talk to me about
choices
.”

We stare at one another. The eyes that were verging on panic are now so lost I want to die.

“Em,” he says. “I made a mistake. I thought I was protecting you.”

My tears blur his perfect face.

“And I want to protect you because . . . because I love you.”

A hot wind blows through my head, muddying my thoughts. I look down. We stand there a long while, me staring at the dirt floor, Kane staring at me. The boy with the eyes that drink me in and drown me, the boy whose skin lights mine on fire.

When he speaks, his voice is broken. “I'm going to get the book back. Tomorrow you can head for the riverbank; Council will think I'm following you to watch you. You stay in sight of the Watchtower and I'll head for the cabin. Will you let me do that? Get the book back for you?”

My secret heart is tearing at the edges. I don't know up from down anymore.

Brother Stockham knows I'm not Stained but hid the proof. He proposed and watched me for Wayward acts. And when I accepted, he acted like I was the Almighty Himself bestowing a blessing.

Kane kept this from me. And now he says he . . . loves me?

I want it to be true. I want to be back in Storages pressed tight to him, kissing his mouth raw. But . . . who knows what Kane loves? The thrill of breaking rules and Discovering things? Me? I don't know, and I don't have time to figure it. So I do what I'm getting real good at. I lie.

“All right.”

The look on his face is sunlight glimmering through tree boughs, tearing my heart to bits.

“I'll get it, Em.”

I can't look at him as he turns and leaves the barn. I let my head fill up with pounding feet and winter death winds.

A bunch of women are bustling around the hall setting tables when I arrive that afternoon. Tomorrow, the first day of Affirmation, there'll be a meal to give thanks. The second day, Brother Stockham will lead a ritual where everyone affirms their commitment to their virtues. The third day, bindings are declared.
My
binding to Brother Stockham.

Two Councilmen hover in a corner of the hall, overseeing the women. I see Kane enter from a side door and clasp arms with one of them.

My stomach churns.

I bow my head and help Sister Ann lay wreaths of sage. Then I tell her I'm needed back at Soeur Manon's for something, and hurry out.

At our quarters I bundle up real warm, tuck my grandma'am's ring in my
ceinture
and draw my cloak tight to my chin. I head across the courtyard for the east gates. Each step, I have to force myself not to run—it takes an excruciating long time to get there.

People are shuttering their windows tight, bringing in loads of wood from their woodsheds. They've got a worry to their brow; they can feel
La Prise
coming in.

Brother Jameson is standing at the gates with his arms folded. He raises a hand to stop me. “No one leaves the fortification,” he says firm.

I draw back my hood.

“Ah. Sister Emmeline.”

“I have Brother Stockham's say-so to go to the river a short while.”

“I heard.” I expect him to look upset, but he looks smug.
It's his usual look, sure, but today it sets a chill to my spine. He jerks his head to the high walls of the fortification. There are four Watchers patrolling this side of the wall. “Don't go far now.”

It's starting to snow, tiny flecks of silver. I walk calm as I can manage across the Watch flats and down the incline to the river. I find a rock and sit in full sight of the Watchtower. The chunks of ice are giant snowflakes on the water, spiraling lazy as they drift downstream. Soon the whole surface will freeze and a solid ribbon will remain—glinting in the winter sun. It will look serene, but it will be deadly, with unpredictable ice and water beneath so cold it could stop your heart.

I risk a look back at the silent walls of the fortification. After a few moments, I get up and venture close to the water. I stay there awhile, my heart pounding. Then I wander a few steps downstream.

When I get to the bend in the river where the bank gets high, I dart in close to the wall. There's no space here to walk along the river, but I'm out of sight of the Watchtower. With any amount of grace, Watch will think I'm at the water's edge.

I scramble along the steep bank, grasping at roots and clumps of sage, praying to the Almighty I don't slip. Frozen chunks of river drift past silent behind me. It's slow going, but I only have to make it a little ways—until the willows above me along the bank get thick. There's going to be a heartbeat in time when Watch can see me if they're looking this far along the bank; I pray they're looking elsewhere.

I go up, my leg screaming in protest as I push against the
crumbling soil, digging at the bank with my hands. I grasp the willow stems at the top and scramble, hauling my bad leg, pulling myself over the side and rolling into the brush.

I draw my hood and crawl forward, worming along the deadfall on my belly, tugging my cloak from the underbrush every now and again. When I get far enough into the woods where I'm sure Watch can't see, I clamber to my feet. Then I head west for the grove.

I am not Honesty. I am not Bravery.

Please let me be Discovery.

IN THE GROVE, THE FROZEN WOODS ARE QUIET.
The rows of stark poplars have a sheen from the silvery frost. They glisten like dew on a spiderweb.

I stop in the middle of the grove and think on being here with Kane. He'd said he wished things were different.

Well, things
are
different.

I pull my grandma'am's ring from my
ceinture
and put it on my finger. I was always so sure of her guilt, hated her for it. I think on how I got this ring and feel a rush of shame.

You are very much like her.

If that's true, then I'm courting my own death. I could well end up at the Crossroads for this. But what's left for me in the settlement if I don't prove I'm not Stained?

A breeze groans the poplars around me. It's a bitter wind—the air is heavy with the promise of snow. I need to get on with it before the very idea of dusk and all that comes with it freezes me to the spot.

I look around to get my bearings.

There is a girl standing on the far side of the grove, staring at me. She moves. Lifts her hand in a greeting.

No.

That can't be. My eyes are playing tricks—

But I can see her plain. She's my age, with long dark hair, big eyes. She's wearing strange clothes—blue, like the sky.

She smiles, shy. Then she turns and disappears.

“Wait!” My voice echoes in the forest. I push hard for the far side of the grove. When I get inside the trees, I see a flash of dark hair behind a far tree.

I crash through the brush after her, my foot screaming, my mind churning.

Who is she? Where did she come from?

Catch her. Find her.

Branches whip at my face, grab my cloak. The trees stream past, blur in my sight as I fix my eyes on her head. She's much faster than me, but it seems she's hanging back a bit. Mayhap she
wants
me to follow?

I lose her and stop, breathing hard. The trees all look the same. I paid no attention to which direction she headed from the grove. I look about, trying to find the sun through the bare branches.

There's movement at the corner of my eye. She's twenty strides ahead, peeking around the trunk of a tree. Then her dark head disappears again. Silent.

Too silent.

She's making no noise as she goes; I'm crashing through the forest like an oversize bison.

I pause.

Mayhap I'm dreaming; mayhap I'm imagining her.

My mind feels fuzzy. I'm hot—is the fever back or am I hot from running? I pinch the inside of my wrist, stamp my foot hard on the frozen forest floor. Both parts of me sing with pain. It feels real, but the girl . . . It's like she stepped out of my dreams.