Winterkill (8 page)

It makes no sense, anyhow. After near ten years of being binding age, he'd never gaze about for a life mate and settle his eyes on the Stained cripple.

And yet . . . he seemed so sincere, talking about the river. Mayhap, for whatever reason, he thinks I'm someone he can speak plain with.

Our salvation lies in Discovery.

I think about him heading off through the trees. Could be Brother Stockham and me are more alike that I figured. Could be he was giving me permission to think, to wonder. Could be he was giving me permission to Discover.

But his talk about the past, about overcoming our family burdens, sets my skin to crawling. He was talking about my grandma'am, about me needing to be better than her, to not make her same mistakes.

All at once I want as much distance between him and me as possible. I pick up my pace and push hard for the fortification, my secret heart squeezed tight, like that fish in the osprey's claws.

THE REST OF THE WEEK I'M BUSY HELPING SOEUR
Manon inside the Healing House and don't get back into the trees once. I dream about them every night, though: my perfect feet frozen in place, the woods silent and dark until the winds of
La Prise
sweep in and steal my breath.

The good thing about being so busy is that I don't do anything Wayward, and over the week my pa's spine straightens. That cloud of worry on his brow loses its thunderhead shape.

Friday is my sixteenth life day, and he trades some of our egg ration for a small life day cake from the Kitchens head, Sister Lucy. After early dinner, I sit at the table as Pa puts out the cake clumsy-like. His hands are trembling something fierce. Is he nervous?

I take a large bite. It's full of honey and saskatoon berries.

“You like it?” Pa asks from across the table.

“It's real good.” I take another bite.

He smiles, and I feel a pang. Don't see that smile much.

“Thanks, Pa.”

He smiles wider. Reminds me of when he used to smile at me when I was small and would tell him about something ordinary that I thought was special: the color of a caterpillar or some such.

“Finish up quick,” he says. “Don't want to be late for the Harvest ceremony.”

The memory dissolves. The Harvest ceremony marks the end of the growing-and-gathering season and is a break from our preparations for
La Prise
. There's music and dancing, and people mingle to jaw about nothing. It goes from early evening until dark falls. We're all meant to be inside by the time Watch takes their shift.

“You'll be dancing this year, I suppose?”

I don't answer, just chew more furious.

“Em?”

I swallow hard. Pa means I'll be dancing with
menfolk
. Harvest is a chance for eligible men and women to declare intentions. And then I understand why he's nervous.

Mind yourself.
Sister Ann's words ring bright in my ears.

When I was a youngster, my ma and pa would dance me around our kitchen on their feet, humming songs I didn't know. I haven't danced at Harvest since my foot was crushed, but I can swallow the ache and dance. It's not my foot that'll stop me; I can dance well enough.

It's obvious Pa's worried about who I might be dancing with.

But I've got a plan for this, have for years. Tom and I talk about pretending to court one another—our families would think it natural and we wouldn't have to bind for another year, since Tom's fifteen. Living with Tom wouldn't be so
bad. He'll never be allowed to love who he loves, and the chances of me being asked by someone I'd want . . .

I think of Kane; the look of shock on his face. And then I think of his perfect shaved head, his strong forearms.

My face flames. I put the last chunk of cake in my mouth. It feels dry as dust.

“Finish up”—Pa reaches over to pat my hand—“my girl.”

When we enter the hall, the music is loud and lively, the dance floor awash with swirling skirts and twirling limbs. Groups of people laugh and talk, holding cups of saskatoon wine, a rare treat saved for Harvest. I count at least ten Councilmen. It skitters me, them mixing in and jawing on with the rest. Always feels they're waiting for us—for me—to slip up.

No one else seems to think on Council like I do, though—not even the sons of that Thibault couple. They were too young to understand what their parents had done wrong that winter, but they're Stained, everyone knows it. It's just . . . well, they're big, burly boys and in charge of the woodsheds. They're important.

And they don't seem prone to being Wayward like I am.

The air in the hall is plain summery next to the autumn evening outside. I'm wearing my ma's old dress—a real dress, not the leather leggings and long belted shirts everyone wears—with a tucked waist and puffy skirt. Not every woman has a dress, and I suppose I should be thankful I have my ma's old one. It's a dark river-stone color and near matches my hair, but the cloth is rougher than my bison-skin leggings and the waist makes my breath feel tight.

Macy Davies's copper hair is flashing on the dance floor. I look around the crowd for Tom.

I find Kane instead, standing in a group of age-mates. He's sideways to me and I can't help but study him a moment. I can see the First Peoples in his blood by the arch of his nose and curve of his brow. His shirt is a soft tan and fits him perfect. The twin boys beside him are from the south quarter; they haul water and feed to the sheep barns. The two girls in the group are unfamiliar, though their white skin tells me they work indoors. Must be from the west: the Shearing and Textiles quarter. They're all holding cups of wine and look easy with one another.

The blond girl standing beside Kane is talking to the group, but something about the way she holds herself tells me she's speaking mostly to Kane. His head tips forward like he's listening careful-like. I wonder what she could be telling him that would be interesting at all. That she carded a particular troublesome piece of wool today? But then she says something that makes him throw back his head and laugh and my stomach dives.

He takes a sip from his cup and turns, dark eyes searching the crowd. Before he can see me watching, I duck my head and hurry after my pa into a far corner of the hall.

“Wait here, Em.” My pa disappears, leaving me with a group of east-quarter women who nod at me, their lips pressed tight.

I turn and stare at the dance floor, making sure I don't look for Kane again. The dancers twirl past in a flurry of quick steps. Everyone looks happy, like they've forgotten
La Prise
is only a month away. Does dancing do that to a person?

“Thought you'd want your first cup of saskatoon wine.” Pa appears at my side, presenting the cup, shy and pleased. As I take it in my hand, all it reminds me of is my eligibility, how I'm supposed to be dancing.

I dip my nose toward the wine and breathe in. It smells so strange; berries and smoke and spice. When I take a large drink, it fills my lungs with a sweetness that burns. I cough and cough again, trying to clear my throat. Thanks be, the music is loud, and Pa is distracted by a group of trappers gathering in the corner.

My chest relaxes and the burning subsides. The taste lingering on my tongue is . . . actually, it's real nice. I try it again, just a little this time, and manage to keep from coughing. An unfamiliar warmth spreads in my chest where the tightness used to be.

“Good Harvest, Pa.” I raise my glass.

“Good Harvest, Em,” he says and heads off to the corner. I don't know if the men there are his friends. I don't want to know, and I turn away before I see what happens—whether they look at him with disdain or welcome him in.

I come face-to-face with Macy.

“Good Harvest, Em,” she says. “Excited?” Macy is fifteen, but I know she's counting the days until her sixteenth life day. She wouldn't speak on it to me, but something in my gut tells me Macy is aching for a life mate . . . mayhap aching for children. She won't have to wait long. Macy looks like an angel from Soeur Manon's books: she has a dainty bow mouth and her hair always shines. As a daughter of a Councilman, she also manages to keep weight on her, which gives her a nice curvy look.

When I don't reply, she looks at me doe-eyed. “About your eligibility, I mean.”

“I knew what you meant,” I say. I take another drink.

“Oh.” She looks at my foot. “I suppose you won't be dancing.”

I bristle. A moment before I was loath to dance, but suddenly I want to. I want to show Macy I'm not going to be the one eligible girl here who has to stand in the crowd and watch.

And then, Almighty answering my silent prayer, a voice says in my ear, “Good Harvest, Em. Care to dance?”

I turn. Tom's straw-blond hair falls over one eye and he's wearing a shirt that is a mite too big—one of his father's good shirts, likely. My rescuer. He knows I'm meant to be dancing; I wonder if he overheard Macy and is giving me an opportunity to set her straight.

“Sure,” I say.

His little sister, Edith, peers at me from behind him. She's got that look on her face: childish admiration.

Tom looks down. “Just have to keep an eye on her; found her ‘making soup.'”

Edith's face falls. I raise my eyebrows.

“She was trying to put an acorn in someone's wine,” Tom explains.

Edith's round eyes weigh my reaction to this. I can't help but smile.

She grins back in relief. “Pretty dress, Emmy.”

I reach for her with my free hand. “Little mouse.” I pull her toward me, lifting her arm and circling it so she spins in a clumsy circle and collapses into my legs. She giggles. I feel
Macy's eyes branding my skin through the back of my dress.

I down the rest of my wine, turn, and hand Macy my cup. She takes it, wide-eyed. I spin back to Tom. “Can you manage two girls?” I nod at Edith. Her eyes widen in delight.

“I'll do my best,” he says, and whisks us onto the dance floor.

By the time we're finished, my cheeks hurt from laughing. I don't know what's wrong with me; I don't often laugh. But my head feels light and everything seems brighter, happier. I spin off the floor and Tom follows, carrying Edith on his hip.

Macy is waiting. “Good Harvest, Tom.”

“Good Harvest, Macy,” Tom returns her greeting. “Emmeline, save me another dance? I need to go find Ma.” He tilts his head toward Edith.

I nod, my cheeks flushed. “Good dancing, mouse,” I say to Edith.

They leave and Macy leans close to me. “I'm sorry. About what I said, I mean. You looked real good out there.”

“It's fine, Macy,” I say. I don't want her to talk about my foot. I don't want her to talk at all. I want to dance again.

“Was that a special dance?” Macy's eyes are bright.

“With Tom? We're quarter-mates.”

“Oh,” she says, her face dropping. Her eyes get bright again. “I danced with someone special. Henri Chavel from the north quarter.” She sighs. “He has the
strongest
arms.”

I frown. I'm not in the habit of noticing boys' arms, or whether they're strong or not. Especially boys from other quarters.

Except Kane.

And like that, he's back in my thoughts. I silence the little
voice in my head and try to focus on Macy's chattering. Now she's telling me something about wanting to walk the riverbank with Henri. I have a hard time following because I keep fighting the urge to turn around and look through the crowd. It's plain addled: why should I care where Kane is and who he's dancing with?

The frenzied music slows then, becoming a waltz, and Macy pauses midchatter, her eyes wide. “The Choosing Song,” she says. “I need to make sure Henri asks me!” She disappears.

The Choosing Song. Eligible young men are meant to ask eligible women to dance, though lots of people join in—fathers and daughters, bound couples. The song is so nice, it's hard to resist. Macy's eyeing up her prospects for when she's eligible next year. Her family will have to agree to the binding, though, so I can't quite figure what she thinks she's doing. Besides, it's just a song.

That pestering little voice wonders if I'd think that if Kane asked me to dance. And then I feel a hand on my shoulder.

I turn, cheeks flushing with the thought of being close to him again, and draw up short. It's not Kane. Panic seizes me as I stare into his gray eyes; has he come to discuss my Waywardness with my pa?

Brother Stockham offers his hand. He's in his Harvest finery, a shock white shirt and dark vest.

The light feeling in my head disappears. I throw a quick look behind me to make sure I'm not mistaking his intent. There's no one there but a group of older women who are all bound. They sneak glances at me from low-cast eyes.

I swallow my confusion and turn back. “Good Harvest,
Brother Stockham.” I clear my throat. “I'm not much of a dancer.”