Winterkill (29 page)

Brother Stockham speaks. “I have asked Council for one day's reprieve, so that I might pray on this matter before meting your punishment.” I try to draw a breath. “Council warned me of this possibility. I am devastated that I could not see how shortsighted my proposal was.”

But he doesn't look devastated; not one bit. There's something glimmering in his eyes. Admiration? Excitement?

The Councilmen shift, impatient-like. Brother Stockham inclines his head down the hall, and the men turn and herd me along the passageway. A large door stands open at the end. It looks heavy, like a cellar door, and has a bolt on the outer side.

“You will remain here for the night.”

Brother Jameson pushes me hard from behind. I stumble forward into the small space, my leg on fire.

“Brother Jameson will alert your father that you have been detained,” Brother Stockham says.

Brother Jameson speaks in a low growl. “Your Waywardness will not be the demise of this settlement, Emmeline. We will not allow it.”

The door slams shut with a heavy clang behind me. The bolt slides across the lock.

Their footsteps fade. There is no window in this room, only a husk mattress in one corner. The entire space is three strides by three strides. The air feels close, like there's not enough of it. I turn around and press at the door, knowing it's useless; it's bolted from the outside. There's no way out.

I stand, listening to the quiet. Then Tom's scared face and Matisa's trusting eyes swim before me.

If the wrong person finds us, all is lost. This I know.

A wail builds in my chest like a gale-force wind.

I think of the book tucked inside Pa's satchel, his sad eyes . . . when they tell him . . .

My secret heart shatters. My knees give out and I drop to the floor, curling in, my face to the floorboards, the wail bursting out in a desperate keen. Tears stream down my neck in a scalding river.

I've failed outright.

I don't know who knows about the journal, who was hiding it. I don't know what it says. If Tom turns it in, they'll think Pa was hiding it for me. I need to set them straight. Except . . .

If I save Pa, there's still Matisa. If I don't speak on her, no one will ever know the truth. They'll gag me and bind me and drag me to the Crossroads. I'll forever be the Stained girl who followed a Wayward legacy. But if I turn Matisa over to the wrong person . . .

All is lost
.

What does that mean? That I'm not just sentencing myself, I'm sentencing everyone?

That Cariou boy did well.

I think about Kane standing in the courtyard, looking on. Sobs wrack me. I was lying to myself. Deep down, underneath all of my hurt and rage, I believed him. I believed he loved me. My entire body aches with the memory of him pressed close in that storeroom. The story he told me . . .

I cry for what must be hours, cry until I have no tears left—until my whole body is weak, useless. Then I pull myself along the rough floor, onto the husk mattress, and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The whine of the bolt wakes me. Someone is opening the door. It's too dark yet for it to be day. For an addled moment, I see Kane stepping over the threshold.

Then Brother Stockham's face appears sharp in the shadows, lit by a single candle.

He holds a dipper of water toward me.

I climb to my feet, my body stiff, the front of my tunic still wet with tears. My foot screams with my deadweight as I stumble toward him. I take the dipper and gulp the cold water. I'm used to the dull ache of hunger in my belly, but I've never been so thirsty.

I hand him back the dipper. He smiles.

Brother Jameson appears behind him, twisting a bit of twine in his hands.

I stumble back toward the wall, my heart springing into my throat. “Please . . .”

“Emmeline, everything will be all right. Please don't fight while Brother Jameson binds your hands,” Brother Stockham says.

Brother Jameson crosses toward me. In my mind's eye I can see the Wayward shearer thrashing about on the ground, reflecting in Jameson's bright-blue eyes. Brother Jameson's knuckles going white on the leather twine . . .

I near spill every thought then and there. But I look to Brother Stockham and freeze. He has a finger to his lips in a shushing motion. And there's something in his eyes, something reassuring. Like it
is
going to be all right.

Jameson grabs my wrists behind my back. He wraps them, and as he tightens the knot, the twine bites into my skin. I don't cry out. I'm filling my mind with thoughts of the golden poplars, the shining river, the heady smell of sage.

Jameson forces a strip of cloth into my mouth and ties it behind my head, ripping stray wisps from my messy plait. I can feel a note of panic creeping into my thoughts. I squeeze my eyes shut and picture:

Swallows swooping along the banks, humming insects, sweet clover
.

They lead me from the Council building into the cool blue of early morning; the sun isn't up. Everything seems real peaceful, the way the river does when it freezes. There are Councilmen standing on the tops of the walls—no Watchers.
Brother Stockham blows out the candle and hands it and the empty dipper to Brother Jameson. Then he takes my arm and steers me toward the east. Are we going to see my pa? Are they going to let him say goodbye before they take me? Should I tell Brother Stockham about the journal—that I put it in Pa's satchel?

Les trembles moving in the wind, showers of gold snowflakes.

We don't go to the quarters. We head toward the gates, where another Councilman stands. He opens it as we approach. Brother Stockham nods back to Brother Jameson, who falls behind. Then Brother Stockham picks up his pace as we pass through the gates.

It's just us on the Watch flats. He's pulling me along and I have to quicken my pace, dragging my leg as we go. Why are we heading east? What did Brother Stockham decide last night? The twine cuts into my wrists and I nearly choke at the spit gathering in the back of my mouth.

Shining river, diving swallows
.

The cliff walls have a light dust of snow coating their tear stains; the wind is bitter cold. He takes me past the bend in the river and starts along the trail to the Cleansing Waters.

When we get to the boulder gate, where the river speeds up to press through the gap in a roar, all my calming thoughts vanish in the wind. Chunks of ice swirl toward the opening. When they hit the gate, they splinter and rush through or are forced under and lodge in place. I remember that bundle I threw into the waters just weeks ago, remember my dream. It was alive when I threw it . . .

There's a soft bleating sound on the wind, like a lamb looking for its ewe. I look about, searching for the beast, but
then realize it's coming from me. I'm crying again. My tears are drying in cold rivers on my cheeks.

Brother Stockham turns to me. He frowns.

“Emmeline,” he says, reproachful. He pulls the gag away from my mouth and wipes his thumb across my cheek. “I told you everything would be all right.”

MY VOICE, RAW FROM CRYING, COMES OUT A
croak. “Why—why are we out here?”

“Best to speak where the wrong ears can't hear.”

My tears stop flowing. I stare at him.

“Council. They assume we've come out here so I may mete your punishment. They wouldn't understand.”

I blink my puffy eyes. “Understand what?”

“You and I. The woods.”

Answering him, the trees bow in the wind. I glance about. Tiny flecks of snow swirl around us. The sun is creeping over the high bank of the river, a thin slice of orange against the blue dawn.

“I want no more secrets between us.” He steps forward and puts his arms around me. For half an addled moment I think he's embracing me, but then his fingers are working at the twine on my wrists. He's—letting me go? He undoes the twine but lingers a moment, holding me. When he steps
back, I near collapse in relief. I rub at my raw wrists, staring at him wide-eyed.

He points to my hand and asks, “Where did you get it?”

I look down at the ring. My mouth is bone dry. I force my tongue to work. “It was my grandma'am's.”

“So you said. I was hoping you could be honest with me about how it came to be on your hand.”

My breath is coming in short sips. I close my eyes, trying to clear my mind, but all that surfaces is Jacob, terrorstricken, thrashing about on the ground.

When I open them, Brother Stockham's studying me. I shake my head.

“You are afraid,” he says. “Afraid of being dragged back to the Crossroads, back to where you got that ring. Afraid you will die, hanging there?” When I don't speak, his face softens. “We are to be
bound
, Emmeline. Do you think I would let that happen to you?” He takes my face in his hands. “I will right the wrongs of the past.” Then he dips his head and puts his lips to mine, kisses me soft. His chin-length hair falls forward, brushing the sides of my face.

I break the kiss and pull back. “Why . . . why are we out here?” I ask again.

“I told you. So we may speak plain.”

There's something in his voice that shoots a sliver of fear through my insides. I pull my cloak tight around me.

He steps away and spreads his arms wide, gesturing to the frozen trees, the rushing river. “What you said the other day, about listening to the land? Your instinct was correct: the woods have secrets they are trying to tell us. But no one since your grandmother has bothered to listen.” He drops his
arms and tilts his head. “Tell me what you've heard in these woods.”

A crow calls from a treetop, a strangled, ugly cry. I glance about. The Lost People aren't watching from the woods anymore. There's nothing out here. Just me and him.

“Emmeline,” he says. My eyes snap back to his face. “I have already told you I won't send you to the Crossroads. What are you afraid of?”

I dreamt time and again of a hawk circling its prey. Emmeline,
you
were the prey.

“Do you not trust me?”

I swallow hard. “It's just that it's not yet day . . . and we're near the woods, and there was a Taking—”

“We are in no danger.”

I glance about once more. If I make a run for it, he'll catch me in a heartbeat. “How can you be sure?”

He steps close. “There can be no Taking without my say-so.”

My heart stutters. “Beg pardon?”

“We both live with family burdens, Emmeline.” He turns to gaze at the ice chunks washing past. “But our togetherness will overcome.”

“I don't understand.” My mind flies to a picture of him in the woods, the strange half circle of candles on the cabin floor. No Taking without his say-so. He . . . controls the
malmaci'
s Takings?

“My father burdened me with a position that was built upon the advice of his father and secured upon people's terror of the unknown.”

He takes the edges of my cloak in both hands and pulls
me near. “But I will not make the same mistakes they made.” He's so close I can smell the bergamot soap on his skin. He sighs. “My grandfather couldn't risk the unknown. He regretted that, needed to repent. He wanted salvation.”

“For what?”

“Murder.”

The wind whistles straight through my bones. I swallow. “My grandma'am's.”

He pushes a stray hair back away from my face, tucking it into my hood. His eyes shine. “You see? You know the history, the answers, deep down.” A sad smile crosses his face. “They were in love.”

“They—they were?”

“As we are.”

I squirm, stumble on my words. “But she—she . . . ”

“Was a widow, he a married man.”

“She didn't proposition him?”

“No.”

He's gripping my cloak tighter with every word I speak, but I have to keep talking. I have to know. “But he was afraid of the settlement finding out about them? That's why she was sent to the Crossroads?”

“Certainly their illicit love would have destroyed his position.”

“But . . . but everyone thinks she acted alone. That she—”

“Your grandmother's actions were unsanctioned, Emmeline,” he replies in a mild tone, “and my position—my family's legacy—depends upon that history being kept secret. Why ruin two families over one sin?”

My mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out. I stare at him, my thoughts whirling, my head awash with confusion and rage and hurt.

“I don't believe he meant for it to end the way it did. I believe they might have kept their love a secret, might have kept it contained to the cabin he built, far into the woods where few would dare to venture. They might have lived the rest of their days with their secret life in the woods, had it not been for your grandmother's curiosity, her fearlessness toward what lurks beyond.”