Winterkill (17 page)

Punch. “Count your blessings.”

“Why would I do that?”

I punch again. “Less chance of being caught in the fray when punishment comes down.”

I want him to say he came after me and Edith that night of Harvest. Him sticking up for me yesterday shifted something in me, and I want it to be true. I risk a look at him. He's frowning, like he can't figure my meaning.

The silence stretches between us. Then his eyebrows raise. “Ah. Virtue Talks,” he says, misunderstanding. “That first night we talked.”

“What of it?”

“You think I was appalled. About your offenses.”

Well, that is true. That exchange still fills me with shame when I think on it. I keep my eyes on the dough.

“Is that why you're so prickly with me?”

“What?”

“Prickly.”

“I am not!” But as it leaves my mouth, I realize how prickly it sounds. I swallow and focus back on the dough.

“Look, what I said that night . . . ,” he says, “it came out all wrong.”

“Which part?”

“After Brother Stockham told you to head to Watch. It sounded like I was angry. At you.” He's trying to get me to look at him.

“I was being punished for Wayward acts.” I push and knead nervous-like.

“Sure.” His shifts and falls silent again. “It's just . . . I've thought about skipping those things—life day ceremonies and such—before. Never quite had the nerve.”

My heart skips and I falter in my rough handling of the dough. Kane turns his attention on his portion, adding half of the berries.

I try not to watch his forearms as he kneads. I sprinkle the rest of the berries on my portion and knead again, then grab the roller and attack. A large chunk breaks off and I have to pat it back into place.

“You ever made life day cake?” Kane asks, sounding amused.

I feel the heat rise in my cheeks. “No. I'm only ever at the Kitchens for delivery.”

“Well, here.” He places his hands on the roller, on top of mine.

He moves our hands, rolling the dough into a circle in a few quick strokes.

We are shoulder to shoulder and the heat from his body sears right through my side, his rough hands warm over mine. I keep my gaze low, sure I'll blush to my toes if our eyes meet. Can't quite figure his know-how at this task. It seems so unlike something he'd want to be good at.

His hands linger a moment. “There.”

When he straightens and lets go, I miss his touch straightaway. I watch him do the same to his portion. Then he crosses to an oven and opens the doors wide. The fire roars back at us. Grabbing a large wooden paddle from underneath the
prep table, he clears his throat and asks, “So what's gathering for Soeur Manon like?”

I'm short for breath and take a moment to answer. “All right.” I shrug like I'm feeling easy, which I'm not. “She's got all these old books of interesting things.”

“What things?”

“Plants and animals and such. Wish I could read them.” I feel the heat rise in my cheeks again. I'm not ashamed I can't read, not many people can, but admitting I'd
like
to feels like uncovering a part of my secret heart to him.

“Could you show me the books someday?” He shoves the board under the dough, concentrating more than he ought.

“Why?”

He shoves the paddle in the oven, shakes the dough off onto the rocks. “Because . . . I've read all my ma's books.”

Kane can read. He turns toward me but doesn't meet my eyes. Is he embarrassed? I scramble to speak. “Sure! I mean, course—someday on free time or whenever you have a moment, or . . .”

Stop jabbering
.

He drops the paddle on the table and smiles. “That's good of you, Em.”

“How'd you learn?”

“Ma taught me during
La Prise
. She says it's a good thing to know.”

My pa can't read. I wonder if my ma could? I wonder if she would've taught me.

“And I think it
is
a good thing; reading always gets me thinking.”

“Thinking on what?” I say, a mite eager. But that tiny flare
of hope that Kane is a wonderer, like me, is burning bright now.

“Ways to figure things.”

“Like what?”
Stop asking questions!

He shrugs. “Settlement goings-on. Sometimes I think there must be a better way to hunt those bison herds. Mayhap if I were allowed to join the hunt I could find it.”

“I've seen you practicing knife throwing. Like that?”

“Knife throwing's just something to try to get good at,” he says. “But . . . just sometimes I wonder about things, if it could be different. You ever think that?”

“All the time,” I say, thinking about the woods, how high my hopes were for that trail.

“That why you're always thinking on something?”

“Beg pardon?”

“When I see you on chores, you're either thinking hard with your head down, or gazing beyond the Watch flats like you see something the rest of us don't.”

A flush of pleasure washes me. Kane's noticed me that much?

He steps close, reaches out, and touches two fingers to my brow. “What goes on in there?”

I have to close my eyes a moment against the dizzy feeling.

“You got some big wish for your years ahead?”

My eyes fly open. I pull my head back. He doesn't know about the proposal. How could he? It won't be common news until Affirmation. He's waiting for an answer.

“That I won't be in the east quarter forever,” I say. “That I get out.”

“Oh?” He laughs again. “Well, take me with you when you go.”

Warmth creeps up my chest and into my cheeks again. His face is so open, so inviting, like he's asking me to lay my thoughts full bare. My conversation with Tom about my Stain comes flooding in, about people seeing me for me.
There are others too
. All at once I want to tell someone—no, I want to tell
him
—and the words tumble from me. “I've already been out.”

“Sure.” He grabs the paddle again and turns toward the oven. “Gathering. Across the flats.”

“No. I mean,
out
.”

He stops and turns back. The oven casts an orange glow behind him so I can't see his face plain, mostly just the whites of his eyes.

“Where?” he asks.

“The Crossroads.”

His eyes get wide. The air grows thick. I look down and trace a finger in the leftover flour. I don't know what I expected him to say, but all at once I'm less sure it was a good idea to confess so much. I try not to lean on my foot, try to stay calm without the pain.

“Why?” He breathes so quiet I barely hear him over the roar of the oven. He stands real still.

“I don't know
why,
” I stammer. “It was on accident, sort of. I lost track of time and it got to be dusk—”

“Dusk?”
Impossibly, his eyes get bigger.

“I mean, I saw the flag and knew I shouldn't be there, I just . . .” I shake my head. “I needed to
see
.”

“Em, that was—” he starts, but I cut him off.

“Please don't say anything to Council! I shouldn't have done it; I know that. But I don't have a
death wish
.” I throw his words back at him with some heat. “I know you think it was foolish.”

“No.” He takes a breath, like he's short for it. His eyes are wary, but there's a softness in them. “I wasn't going to say ‘foolish'—”

Whatever he
was
going to say is cut off by the main door banging open and Sister Lucy appearing.

“Thank you, Kane, Emmeline. You may go.”

I hurry to grab up my cloak.

“Em!” Kane calls as I head out the Kitchens door and into the courtyard. “Wait!”

I turn back but draw up short.

Three Councilmen are coming round the wall of the Kitchens. Kane follows my gaze, then turns back to me and nods.
Go,
he mouths. Then he turns and heads straight for them.

“Brothers,” he calls out, like he has business with them. Can't imagine what he'll dream up to say, but it's clear he's buying me a moment to escape. My secret heart swells.

I turn and make myself scarce.

I DON'T SEE KANE THE NEXT DAY, OR THE NEXT.
It seems our chores are suddenly at odds, because I'm sent to Storages and Kitchens several times in those two days and each time I go—cabbage moths aflutter in my stomach—I run into everyone but Kane.

I spot him from afar at Virtue Talks, but something tells me consorting with him in front of Brother Stockham is a bad idea. And whatever he said the other day must've caught their fancy, because the Councilmen are forever hanging near him.

I can't get the other day—his last words—out of my head:
I wasn't going to say “foolish.”
And his face when I told him about being at the Crossroads: I've seen that look before. On Tom. That curious part of Tom, the part that would let him wonder about things if he weren't so afraid: it was plain as day in Kane's eyes. He's not afraid to follow me.

The thought of binding to Brother Stockham now is just impossible. I think about him out in the woods that
day; what if he were doing something contrary to his virtues? Surely I wouldn't be expected to bind to him
then
.

I can't leave the idea alone; I turn it over and over in my mind. I need to get back out there, only this time I need to do it without losing my way and stumbling on the Crossroads instead.

In my dreams that night, I'm climbing that spruce-covered hill, and the trees are full of bright-colored threads. The girl's voice is calling to me, urging me forward. In one hand I have a little leather book, cracked and falling apart. In the other hand, my grandma'am's ring burns bright on my finger. There's a light coming from the other side of the hill. If I can only reach the top . . .

I wake to a kill frost.

When I go for gathering duties, Soeur Manon tells me there's nothing to gather anymore, that I should come back tomorrow to learn some poultices. It means I have the day to myself, and everyone else is busy with their tasks.

It's a sign. Has to be. My dreams have given me a way to search those woods without getting lost. I have to go.

Back at our quarters, I wait until Tom's ma has left for the barns, then I enter the common room attached to our kitchen. I pull her fabric basket from its place on the shelf and dig through the wool threads. She's been saving them to make Tom's pa a new
ceinture fléchée,
but she doesn't have near enough yet. She won't be working on it for a while, and surely won't notice a few of the brightest pieces are missing for a day.

“What's got, Em?”

I jump. Edith is standing in the common room, her fingers
twisting a lock of her blond hair. I stick my hands behind my back, hiding the threads away from her curious gaze.

“What are you doing, little mouse? Who's watching you?” I back away from her, through the common room to our kitchen door.

“Me.” Tom appears at the door that joins their quarters to the common room. He looks at me cautious-like. We haven't been on chores together since that day in the coop.

“Morning,” I say, keeping my hands hidden.

“Morning.” He hesitates, his eyes guarded. Then his shoulders soften. “I—I wanted to say sorry, for the other day. I shouldn't have said those things.” He offers the Peace by way of apology.

Relief washes me. “Me, neither,” I say quick. But I can't move my hand to offer the Peace back, not with the threads in them.

He smiles, a bit uncertain. “Where are you off to?”

My heart sinks; I have to lie to him. Again. I can't pull him out of Edith's earshot and tell him the truth. He cares for me, but burdening him with my secrets doesn't do either of us much good; that much was made plain the other day. “Just running something to Soeur Manon.”

“I come wif?” Edith takes a step toward me.

“Don't think so, mouse.” My fingers fumble for the latch on the door behind me.

“Stop by when you're back? Found some late-harvest mint. We could make tea,” Tom says.

“I'll try,” I say, and his eyes dull. Bleed it! I want to say yes, it's just I don't know how long I'll be out in the woods.

Tom steps forward and takes Edith's hand. “Come on,
Edith.” Tugging her behind him, he disappears into their quarters.

Inside my room, I put on my wool socks and moccasins and wrap up in a winter cloak, swallowing a pang of guilt. I want to apologize proper to Tom. I want him to make tea and talk about nothing like we used to.

But going to the grove can't wait.

Hoping it looks like I'm on some errand, I head through the west gates. In the south end of the fort, a few gatherers are pulling the last of the squash from the garden. Outside the walls a few women are banging out hides and rugs. The wind whistles across the Watch flats, cold but not death-cold. Not yet.