Winterkill
Authors: Kate A. Boorman
PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Boorman, Kate A.
Winterkill / Kate A. Boorman.
pages cm
Summary: When the revered leader of her settlement, a dark, isolated land with merciless winters and puritanical rulers, asks Emmeline for her hand, it is a rare opportunity, but not only does she love another man, she cannot ignore dreams that urge her into the dangerous and forbidden woods that took her grandmother's life and her family's reputation.
ISBN 978-1-4197-1235-7 (hardback)
[1. Fantasy. 2. Conduct of lifeâFiction. 3. LoveâFiction. 4. Community lifeâFiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.B
[Fic]âdc23
2014006378
Text copyright © 2014 Kate Boorman
Title page illustration copyright © 2014 Shane Rebenschied
Book design by Maria T. Middleton
Published in 2014 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved.
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CONTENTS
OUT HERE, I CAN FEEL THE DEAD IN THE TREES.
The Lost People rustle the leaves, muddy the shafts of light through the branches, whisper in my ear. They creep dusty fingers along my neck, tug at my braid, pull strands from my plait to tickle my face.
Or mayhap it's the wind.
I don't linger. I stuff the last of the spring beauty root in my satchel and push to my feet. I turn from my digging spot under the dogwood bushes and my bad foot catches on a clump of dirt. It sends a flare of fiery pain up my leg and into my hip.
“Almighty!” The curse leaves my lips before I can bite it back. I hold my breath and listen to the creaking poplars. I'm not in any real danger; it's not dusk for near three hours or more. But no good can come of taking His name in vain, alone in these woods.
When I get past the tangle of brush and onto the Watch flats, the air is warmer and the chill on my spine disappears.
The wooden walls of the fortification are poker straight from this distance. I cut a wide arc around the walls and head toward the east gates, where people from my quarter bend to work, drying mounds of berries on large hides. A group of youngsters chases crickets through the dust.
“Emmeline!” Tom leaves the hides and crosses toward me with giant strides, the smooth leather of his trousers whisking through the wild grasses.
A smile tugs at my lips.
Tom is my age, tall and lanky, with gentle-looking hands despite their being scalded by wax so often that they're forever scarred. He hooks two thumbs in his
ceinture
as he approaches, his head tilted in his thinking-hard way.
He's going to ask what I'm doing during free time. Often we venture to the river to fish or search for left-behinds from the Lost People. Nobody calls the Lost People that but me, and not many people find arrowheads or bones interesting anymore, but I hoard them. Those left-behinds tug at me, like they've got secrets etched in them.
Tom stops. “You weren't at Virtue Talks last night,” he says.
I shift my sack of roots. Tom knows about my once-in-a-while truancy from settlement events. He must be teasing.
“I miss a new sermon? Some big fancy words?” I say.
He doesn't laugh.
“We going to the river today?” I say.
“Em .â.â.” Tom looks like he's searching for words. He never searches for words. His blue eyes are troubled, like the prairie sky with a storm brewing.
A hawk wheels above us, scouring for prey.
I look down and dig the toe of my bad foot into the soil, feeling a backward kind of relief as pain washes my leg. A beetle crawls across the stubble of prairie grasses.
“Brother Stockham's wondering about it.”
My head snaps up. “Beg pardon?”
“You not being at Virtue Talks. My ma took a crate of candles to Council this morning, and he asked where you were last night.”
A cold stone settles in my stomach. “Your ma came to you and asked after it?”
He nods.
“And you said?”
“The truth. Said I didn't know where you were.”
I ignore the question there. “Why'd he notice? Six hundredâsome people and he notices
I'm
missing?”
“Don't know.” Tom runs a hand through his soft blond hair. “But Em? Make sure you're there tonight.” His eyes are worried, not accusing-like.
I nod. I have no choice: one Wayward act earns a warning. But two? Two means you have to prove your virtues another way.
Like standing Watch on the fortification walls.
My skin goes prickly.
I'll be at Virtue Talks tonight.
“What's got, Em?” Tom's sister, Edith, pulls at my long shirt with one hand and jumps to snatch at my leather satchel with the other. It's a right pitiful gestureâa field mouse pestering a bison. Her smock is smudged with ash. No doubt Sister Annâher and Tom's maâshooed her out from underfoot
but told her to stay close. Edith's the curious sort you need to keep an eye on.
Her eyes are too large in her scrawny face; at four she's painful thin. Some babies are blessed with fat, but they lose it soon as they're weaned. Not many have the chance to carry extra weight, and the children, all tag playing and rough and tumble, are no different.
We are equal in all things: affluence and destitution. We survive together, or we perish.
Brother Stockham reminds us of it each Virtue Talks. Except it's not exactly true. There's Council, who never look to be wanting for much, and Watch, who are rewarded with extra rations for the risk they take each night.
I brush her off. “Spring beauty root for Soeur Manon.”
“From under the wood-dog?” she asks.
“Dogwood,” I correct her.
She nods her blond head, serious, like we're speaking on the most important thing Almighty created. “Good job,” she says.
I smile. Got a soft spot for Edith. It's not just that she's Tom's little sisterâand Tom is my only true friendâit's that she's always asking after my work for Soeur Manon, like root digging is something special. She listens to my every word too. My brief trips to the edges of the Watch flats must sound real exciting. She's never been outside the gates, except for that once. But no one likes to talk about that, and she's too young to remember.
A cabbage moth flitters past and her eyes light up. She turns and gives chase, heading for the corner of our shared quarters building.
“Don't go far!” I call after her. “Your ma will be looking for you.”
On cue, Sister Ann's voice comes from inside. “Edith? Edith!”
Before Sister Ann can poke her head out, I turn and head for the Healing House. A thin line wisps from the chimney of the weathered wooden building. My knock is answered by a gruff
“Entrez!”