Those Fatal Flowers

Chapter 18 Now

18

Now

Margery’s statement chills the room. Cora slips an arm beneath my shoulder and lifts me slowly.

“Can you walk?” she asks gently. I have no choice; I nod.

It’s twilight. I’m thankful for the coming darkness, but we don’t have much time to make our escape. The men will be returning from their drinking shortly. Cora leads me, slowly but purposefully, through the hallway, down the stairs, and out the back door. We stop several times as dizziness threatens to overtake me.

I think back to the seer who wouldn’t tell me how many children I’d bear. The memory makes me want to tear at my hair, to bang my fists against the wall. After we were banished, I understood why she refused my question. But being here, being human, it let me ignore a very important truth: This baby was doomed to death the moment it was conceived. And now Mercury draws close, here to collect both our souls for the Underworld. Will he recognize me as the same girl responsible for delivering the Realm of the Dead its mistress all those centuries ago?

Cora doesn’t know any of this, doesn’t understand this was predetermined by the Fates. To her, this child is the last piece of her brother that she has left. As much as I want to curl up in my bed and let my body purge her in peace, I must try to save her, or I’ll lose Cora forever as well.

“If Thomas asks where she is, tell him she’s with me. I’ll have her back as soon as possible.”

Margery nods, urging us on with a quick motion of her hands. “Go quickly!”

It’s early enough that the night watch hasn’t closed the settlement’s doorways for the evening. As we approach the southern gate, Cora pulls the hoods of our capes over our heads, casting our faces in shadow. Thankfully, there’s no need—it’s manned by John Chapman, asleep at his post.

As soon as we’re free from the village walls, Cora squeezes my hand to encourage me to move faster. I go as quickly as I can, but my stomach roils, and a cold sweat collects underneath my arms and behind my neck. Everything blurs, and I have the distinct feeling that if it were not for Cora’s grasp, I would simply disappear.

The twisted branches of the wood all fade together, and with their distinctions gone, so is my sense of time. Have we been out here in the cold for minutes, or has it been hours? When I’m finally able to focus, we’ve arrived at the edge of a swamp. Trees I’ve never seen before shoot from the water like tall sentinels, their leaves more like hair than foliage. The sun has sunk completely beneath the horizon, and it would be pitch-black were it not for a soft orange glow coming from the windows of a small hut perched precariously close to the water’s edge.

We’ve made it to the witch’s cottage.

Cora takes a confident step toward the hovel when its door squeaks open. The silhouette of a woman twisted with time stands on its threshold. In the confines of the village, the swamp witch was a hypothetical, the only potential solution to my condition. Will seeing Sybil in the flesh give Cora pause? She carries me forward without faltering, and I moan softly with relief.

“Please,” she says, her voice trembling. “We need help.”

“Bring her inside.”

I sway on weary feet, and the vertigo that’s threatened me this entire time finally makes its move. Cora barely catches me before I hit the ground, and the display propels her to pull me into the cottage with renewed conviction. As we cross the doorway, I’m struck by the familiar scent of medicinal herbs and plants. I look up to find the entire ceiling is covered with muted greenery—Sybil hangs them to dry, like we do. In fact, the entire space is like my home on Scopuli. Despite Cora’s tightening grip, I feel a sense of peace for the first time since the bleeding began. The yarrow, the purple coneflowers, the marigolds—these are plants for soothing and healing, not for malice.

“Lay her down here,” the woman tells Cora, motioning to a makeshift pallet on the left side of the room. Cora helps me settle atop a pile of animal furs. I catch her running her hand over one, going against the grain of the red hair. A fox, perhaps. She chews her bottom lip, and I know exactly what she’s thinking.

Foxes have avoided our snares for months. Is it possible that Sybil really did curse them? Sybil interrupts the question by settling between my legs. Although this is the second time we’ve met, she makes no indication that she knows me in front of Cora. Instead, she opens my knees and peers into the vastness between them. Long white hair is tied back in a braid that falls over her left shoulder. A frown forms on her lips.

“How far along are you?” She looks up at me for the first time. Our eyes meet, and a surge of energy passes between us. The sensation makes her mouth drop, her wrinkled eyelids open wide with surprise.

“A little less than th-three months,” I stammer, rattled by whatever’s just happened between us. I feel that I’ve known her for centuries.

“I need to feel inside,” she warns, and I nod. Her fingers land on my inner thigh and gingerly crawl inward. When she removes them, they’re covered in blood. The slick, wet crimson confirms what I already know.

“I’m so sorry. The only thing I can do is quicken the process.”

In my periphery, Cora’s frame crumples.

“No,” she says. “No! You must save it!” I can hear the tears welling in her eyes from the tone of her voice.

“The only thing left to save is your friend’s life. The child is already lost. We need her body to expel it and to make sure the bleeding stops.” The woman pushes herself back to her feet, her bones creaking as she hobbles to her large wooden table. She selects a bundle of plants from the ceiling that I don’t recognize. The long green stalks are adorned with circular clumps of flowers that she cuts into small bunches and adds to a mug.

“How can that be? Isn’t this what you do? You’re a witch, after all!” The word comes out biting, an accusation.

“Enough, Cora.” I groan.

She has to save the baby, her gaze says in return, but she snaps her mouth closed.

I shake my head slowly. It’s too late.

Cora collapses beside me. The sudden drop is enough to shake her cries free, and she dissolves into weeping. I bury my face in her lap, and her hands tangle themselves in my hair. We cling to each other for comfort.

The woman adds warm water to the mug and returns to my side with it. I accept the drink from her and take a sip. “What is it?”

“Pennyroyal mint,” she answers gently before turning to Cora. “This part won’t be pretty. You should wait outside.”

Surprise creases Cora’s face. “I’m not leaving her.”

“I don’t want you to see this,” I say softly. “I’ll be all right.”

“Of course you will be.” She turns back to me, her eyes bright with resolve. “And I’ll be right here beside you.”

I don’t have time to answer before the pennyroyal mint takes effect. Losing a child is a painful thing, soaked in scarlet. All I can do is marvel at the amount of blood that saturates Sybil’s towels. How much can I spill before death claimsme?

If I die, will I see Proserpina again?

Not yet, please. I’m not ready.

My vision is blurred by tears, by pain, but I find Cora’s shape. Her hands take mine, and when I cling to them like they’re the only thing that tethers me to this realm, she squeezes back just as tightly.

“You’re all right,” she says, her voice steady, but what I hear is I won’t let go.

“It’s done,” Sybil finally says, and only now do tears rush to Cora’s eyes. I reach trembling fingers to her cheek to brush them away, but Cora catches my hand and brings it to her lips.

“I told you,” she whispers against my palm, and her goodness shatters something inside of me. What have I done to deserve it?

Sybil cups something in the palms of her hands. “Do you want to hold your child?”

I nod weakly, and she crawls on her knees to sit by my side. The tiny babe is no larger than a stone fruit, and I cradle it gently in my hands. The sight of its little pink body brings me to tears again, but it’s not my daughter I’m holding.

It’s my son.

A wave of revulsion overtakes me, and I move to hand the boy back to Sybil. Suddenly, the overwhelming sense of loss is gone, replaced by a mess of conflicting emotions that compete for dominance until I feel nothing at all. When she reaches out to reclaim him, though, I falter before bringing his little body to my chest instead.

He’s so tiny. Even though I feel no outpouring of love, I’m still afraid I might break him. Only I can’t, and even if I could, wouldn’t the world be better if I did? The thought is like a punch in the gut. So is my next one.

What would Raidne and Pisinoe have thought of him?

I think of young Ambrose, of how sweet he is to Elizabeth, and how Margery fawns over Jeremie. Somehow over the past few weeks, I’ve grown tender toward them, but it was always an abstract affection, underscored with relief that I’d never have to make a decision about their future morality. When the scouting party leaves with me, the mothers and children will stay behind, absolving me of needing to answer any complicated questions. For have I not already? If I thought a boy could be different, wouldn’t I be able to muster any emotion for the child I grip to my breast?

“Will you fetch me some more water, girl?” Sybil asks Cora, pointing to a wooden bucket beside the door. Though Cora looks reluctant, she slowly untangles herself from my side.

“You weren’t destined to be a mother,” the old woman whispers after the cottage door creaks shut, signaling we’re alone. She interprets my silence as resignation, not as shocked detachment. “I suspect fate brought you here for another reason.”

Her words offer a welcome distraction from my confusion and draw my attention back to her. “How do you…?”

“There’s a magic about you. I can’t quite decipher what it is, but I do recognize it. You’re so young, but somehow you seem to have lived a thousand lifetimes.”

I bring his little body to my cheek. “I thought I could have a different life than the one already spun for me.”

“An alluring thought, but this was a cruel reminder—you can’t avoid your fate.” The woman wipes the sweat from my brow, a loving gesture that I lean into. It reminds me of my sisters’ touch. “Rest here as long as you need. The bleeding’s slowed, and your body is healthy. You’re going to be fine.”

When Cora returns, she takes the little boy into her hands, weeping over his lifeless body, distraught by Will’s death all over again. My heart breaks to see her like this, though it’s easier to feel sorry for her than to try to parse my own feelings. I fell in love with a daughter that never existed; instead, my traitorous body was harboring a boy. I want to hate him, for even if he survived, how could I have stopped him from growing into a monster? I’m one myself.

But I can’t. And I also can’t love him. I don’t know how to. I feel nothing except relief that it’s too late for us to return home. The gates will already be locked for the night, and neither Cora nor myself wants to devise an excuse for why we were in the woods long past midnight. Exhaustion overtakes us both, and Cora hands my son’s body to Sybil. The crone wraps him in a tiny piece of fabric, then looks to me for approval. I nod, and Sybil leaves, off to return the child to the earth.

I motion for Cora to join me on the mattress, and she does. We entwine ourselves in each other’s arms. She cries herself to sleep, but Somnus does not grant me peace.

After some time, I look to the crackling fire across the room and find I’m not alone. There, in the chair beside the hearth, sits a figure cloaked in shadow. For the span of a breath, I fear Mercury has come after all, here to guide my soul below. But then, in the half-light of the dying embers, I recognize him. How many times over the past few months did I stare at that face, desperately wishing for it to transform into his sister’s? This time, he’s thankfully intact. No exposed muscle hangs from his cheeks, no vulture tears at his eyes. His stomach hasn’t been torn open to reveal a mess of bowels. The back of the chair fades in and out of sight as he rocks in it, watching the flames. His body isn’t entirely solid; he’s made of air. A spirit.

“Will?” I ask, not sure if he’s simply a trick of my mind. Although I should be terrified, I find that I’m not. My pulse is steady, my breathing calm. When I speak, he turns to look at me, his soft lips turned down in a sorrowful frown. “What are you—”

“I’m sorry about our son, Thelia,” he says, and the sound breaks something in me. I half expected he wouldn’t speak, or when he did, that the sound would only fill my head like Proserpina’s voice. But no, although it’s soft, his voice still drifts across the room like a gentle spring breeze.

“I couldn’t carry him. I’m not destined to be a mother.”

“I know.”

“What else do you know?” I whisper, afraid of the answer.

“Everything.” His green eyes flare when the fire catches them, but there’s no hatred or disgust in his expression. Only a sad understanding.

“Did Thomas—”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

“Of course it matters! He—”

“You’ll punish him soon enough, I suspect.”

My throat closes, trapping my voice inside it.

“I’m not here to talk about him. I’m here to talk about our son. About how you feel nothing for him.”

“There’s nothing to feel,” I say, a little too quickly. “The child wasn’t meant to live. Even if he had, wouldn’t it be my responsibility to kill him? My purpose…” My voice cracks.

“Is to punish,” he answers for me, before adding, “the guilty. A child is innocent. So are some men. Wasn’t I?”

Tears well in my eyes. “I believe so, but how can I know for certain? I’ve been fooled before…”

“You don’t need to steel yourself against him.”

“I’m not trying to,” I whisper. “I lost a child, and I don’t feel anything. How is that possible?”

“You’re too afraid to, scared of what it might mean. But it’s all right to love him. Some of us are worth loving.” He smiles mournfully.

“But how can I know who is and who isn’t?”

“Monsters are made, Thelia. Not born.”

The words make my throat tighten—shouldn’t I know that better than anyone? I was innocent once, too, until the cruelty of men molded me into something else. This child, who never took a breath, is blameless.

It’s all right to love him.

All at once, the walls I’ve built around my heart come crashing down, and the tears for Will now fall freely with tears for my son.

“Take care of my sister,” he adds, nodding to Cora. The sound, combined with my crying, is enough to draw her from her slumber.

“Who are you talking to?” she asks gently, rubbing her eyes. I don’t know how to answer, so I look to the chair only to find that it’s empty. Will is already gone.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Cora pulls me back to the mattress and holds my head against her chest. “Shh…” she murmurs, not entirely awake. “It’s all right.”

I want to tell her it’s not, but the warmth of her hands cradling me says otherwise. I allow myself to sink into her embrace, to be comforted by the scent of her, roses mixed with the sweetness of her sweat. Despite everything, it works.

This time, we fall asleep together.

In the early light of dawn, I confirm what I suspected last night: that this is a healer’s home, not a witch’s. Lions and wolves made docile by magic aren’t guarding its perimeter, at least as far as I can tell, and I don’t see any of the usual magical instruments—no looms, no wands, no altars to Hekate. No poisons grace the rafters. But there’s no denying that some magic must reside within Sybil. She recognized that I’m beyond human. So the gift of sight, then. The corners of my lips curl at the injustice—this woman, now old and alone, lives on society’s edge for her own safety, and yet she took me in without question. She saved my life. How many other villagers has she treated under the cloak of night only to be abandoned again come morning?

The people here fear those whom they do not know to the point of treachery. They despise women who seek knowledge. They subjugate, rape, and murder those who possess what they want. Just as with Jaquob, I cannot ignore their cruelty any longer. It’s time for me to take Sybil’s words to heart.

I can’t avoid my fate.

It’s a lesson I should have learned centuries ago.

All I can do now is shake Cora’s shoulder gently to wake her. She rolls away from me, a long groan passing from her lips. I want nothing more than to watch her like this, in the dim light that filters through wooden slats that cover the windows. It’s the first time in months I’ve seen her so peaceful—how easy it would be to let the gentle rise and fall of her back pull me to her side, to bury my face in that raven hair. Instead, with a lump rising in my throat, I try again.

“Cora, we need to go back…”

She grunts in response but pushes herself onto an arm, wiping the sleep from her eyes with her free hand. An awkward silence sits between us.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” I whisper. “For trying to save him.”

She turns to look at me. Her face is open, her forehead creased with guilt. “I’m sorry. For how I treated you after Will…It wasn’t your fault, I know that, but I wanted someone to blame so badly…”

“Shhh,” I coo, placing my hand on the side of her face. She nuzzles into my touch, and heat blooms in my cheeks. “You don’t have to apologize…I hope this means we can be friends again. I miss you.”

“I miss you, too,” she breathes, and despite the sorrow that has settled within my bones, I smile softly. She returns mine, but then her teeth find her bottom lip.

“Was there something else?” I ask softly, but before she can respond, Sybil opens the cabin’s creaking door and steps inside. The old woman holds three squirrels by the tail in one hand and a hare in the other, and Cora’s eyebrows rise with surprise.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” Sybil says as she places the animals on the wooden table. When she sees Cora’s shocked expression, she winks at us both. “If you can stay a little longer, I’ll send you on your way with full bellies. Lord knows you girls had a trying night.”

We nod ravenously, which makes Sybil laugh. She makes quick work of processing her game, throwing the sinewy meat into a large pot. I flash back to my last carcass, a comrade of Jaquob’s. What would Cora say if she knew? Sybil adds some herbs to the mix as well, then wanders to an end table where she starts to dice mushrooms.

A hearty, rich scent fills the room before long. I detect both thyme and rosemary, and my stomach gurgles loudly. Cora giggles softly into my shoulder, and Sybil smiles at us both. When the old woman deems the stew to be ready, she ladles our portions into wooden bowls. We slurp it up so fast that neither of us savors it, but Sybil offers servings until our stomachs are bursting.

We take our time eating these, lazing in the warmth of both the food and the company. I don’t want to return. I feel at home here, with this woman who senses my destiny as if it were its own scent in the room, mingling with the thyme and rosemary. She and I have much in common, with our respective curses and banishments.

But Cora doesn’t find the same comfort here. Although she’s grateful for her help, it’s clear by how the muscles in herneck have corded that she’s not entirely relaxed in the oldwoman’s presence. She finishes her meal first and turns to me.

“Are you all right to stand?”

I bob my head yes, and she extends a hand for me. I take it, gratefully, and then we turn to Sybil.

“Thank you for your kindness,” I say. “I’ll never forget it.”

“Remember what we told you, girl,” she cautions. Cora glances at me, intrigued by the comment, but I fix my gaze on Sybil, bowing my head in acknowledgment. So she saw Will, too.

Cora curtsies slightly in deference and hands Sybil a pouch of coins. The old woman slips the gold into her skirts. Payment for my treatment, though what use Sybil has for it is beyond me. With the transaction complete, Cora exits the cottage. I linger in the door for a moment, considering my words carefully before speaking.

“I can’t leave until spring comes,” I say slowly. The faintest flicker of a smile threatens to crack across Sybil’s face.

“I have a feeling the weather will turn around soon enough,” the crone says, her gray eyes glimmering.

A grin overtakes my lips, and I nod as something catches my eye. There, a few paces away from the front door, is a little plot of freshly disturbed earth. Sybil has placed a flower on top as a marker. It’s a lily, though it’s far too early for them to bloom. And yet Sybil found one anyway. My chest tightens— it’s all right to love him, Will said, and seeing Proserpina’s flower here makes me believe him. Believe both of them.

Cora sidles up beside me, slipping her arm around my waist as I say goodbye. We stand together like that for quite some time until I finally pull back from her touch to meet her gaze. Her hand finds mine, and then she’s leading me back through the woods.

It takes us nearly an hour to return to the colony’s boundaries. The walk is mostly through forest, although every so often a break in the trees reveals a hidden marsh or a glimpse of the sea. The trip is calm and quiet, and over far too soon. The southern wall welcomes us back, and then there’s nothing to do except part ways for our respective homes. She embraces me.

“I’m glad you’re all right.”

A loud sound rolls over the tops of the houses. Cora releases me, face crinkled with worry, and I hold a finger to my lips to quiet her. At first, it’s hard to place what exactly the noise is. My mind races to name it, but it’s not a singular sound at all. It’s countless voices all roaring discordantly: a mob.

Color drains from Cora’s face until it matches the shade of the snow that still covers the ground.

“Something’s happening.” Her voice quivers, and she grabs ahold of my hand. My palm grows clammy in her grasp, and nausea blooms in my stomach. Have I somehow been discovered? The sound of jeering leads us to the center of the village, where a large crowd gathers before the meetinghouse. Neither of us speaks as we push our way through the throng of people, trying to get a better look at what all the commotion is about.

There, locked in the pillory, is Margery. Her face is crimson with tears, and she sobs hysterically. Emme holds Jeremie a few feet away from her. He’s just as inconsolable, screaming and tearing at Emme’s arms, leaving red scratches in his wake. Emme tries to calm the child, but he can’t be soothed—his hands remain outstretched for his mother, and she calls for him in return. My mouth falls open in shock, and Cora gasps. Thomas is holding up the lapis lazuli necklace that I gave Margery for Christmas. The gem spins in loose circles on its golden chain, as if to enchant the crowd. A hand on my shoulder startles me, and I nearly scream, but Wenefrid shhhs to calm me.

“What’s going on?” My voice betrays my fear for Margery.

“Mistress Bailie discovered her with that necklace—” Wenefrid begins, but she’s interrupted by Agnes, who stands before Margery with wild eyes.

“How dare you steal from our house after my husband showed you such incredible kindness?” Mistress Bailie shrieks, and moves to slap Margery across the face. Margery, with her head and hands locked in the wooden restraining device, turns as much as she can to dodge the blow, but there’s nowhere for her to hide. The slap connects with her cheek with a sickening crack, and the crowd erupts. The villagers have grown restless over the long harsh winter, and the strike stirs them into a frenzy. One man shakes his fist at Margery. Lewes, the teen who was the first to try for my hand a few months ago, calls her a whore. Even Master Sampson, the man responsible for reminding us of God’s mercy, doesn’t speak in Margery’s defense. Alarm takes root in my stomach as the crowd grows more restless. Is theft also punishable by death?

“I didn’t steal it, mistress!”

“You dare to lie to me? My son holds the evidence in his hand!” Agnes spits down at the girl. Wenefrid grimaces as Mistress Bailie raises her hand again, and the crowd goes wild. Margery’s face falls toward the ground, a large red splotch already forming on her cheek from the first slap. A thin line of blood traces its way from beside her right eye to the corner of her lip, and I realize with startling ferocity that one of Agnes’s rings cut her.

“Enough!” I scream. Cora and Wenefrid watch me wide-eyed as I push forward through the warm bodies to emerge before the pillory. Mistress Bailie looks shocked at my interruption; she’s not a woman used to being told no.

Agnes’s surprise lasts only a moment before a look of steely conviction settles back across her face. “Enough?” Mistress Bailie laughs coldly. “Who do you think you are, telling us ‘enough’?”

“I’m the princess of the land your son seeks to inherit, and that necklace was a gift from me, as you know. Release her at once!”

“I will do no such thing,” Agnes replies, her voice alarmingly calm. “You are my son’s betrothed, so the dowry belongs to him. Therefore, the necklace wasn’t yours to give.”

“How dare you?” I growl, my eyes turning into slits. “You can’t do this—”

“If the story you told us is true, my son is to be king of Scopuli. Do you deny this?”

“No—”

“Then you have no power here.”

“That’s not—”

“Put your betrothed in her place, Thomas.”

Before I can comment on how pathetic it is that he requires such instruction from his mother, Thomas inserts himself between Margery and me. He puffs his chest outward in a grotesque display that makes my hands curl into fists. “Silence, woman, or you’ll find yourself in the pillory in her stead.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Hugh, Charles.” Thomas snaps his fingers at two men in the crowd behind me, who jump at the sound. Dogs. They’re no better than dogs . “Release Mistress Harvie. We have a new bitch that needs to be punished.”

It all happens so quickly: Hugh and Charles grab ahold of my arms so forcefully that bruises will flower beneath their fingers, and they pull me onto the platform. The crowd becomes a blur of screaming faces. Suddenly, I’m a child again, being dragged from Ceres’s throne room. Agnes unlocks the top of the pillory and lifts it off Margery’s neck and hands. She stumbles backward out of the device, stunned, and Emme rushes forward with Jeremie to catch her.

“N-no, wait…!” Margery stammers. I shake my head to silence her. Hugh and Charles deposit me in her place as if I weigh nothing, and Thomas slams the pillory closed with a sickening thunk, trapping me inside.

“This,” he hisses coldly in my ear, his voice no louder than a whisper, “is for biting me.”

A whole slew of thoughts rush forward, and it takes all my strength not to shriek the worst of them at the crowd. Instead, I seethe silently, vowing not to give them the satisfaction of seeing me fight back.

“Let this show us that no one, not even a princess, is above our laws,” Mistress Bailie says soberly, as if she’s imparting a great lesson to the villagers. In actuality, it’s a warning. I find Elyoner’s and Margaret’s shocked faces in the crowd. Wenefrid pushes her way forward to stand beside them, but Cora remains where she is in the back.

“It’s not a woman’s place to talk back to her betrothed. A few hours in the pillory will help Lady Thelia learn this lesson.”

A pounding echoes in my ears as Agnes’s voice draws my focus back to her. Monsters are made, not born, Will said. Trapped in the blaze of Agnes’s vicious grin, I see that he’s right: If my son’s sex doesn’t inherently condemn him, then Agnes’s doesn’t absolve her. The suffering wrought by men is easier to spot—it’s razed villages, stolen land, and violated bodies. But such obvious violence wouldn’t be possible without a quieter brutality, the kind Agnes excels at, to clear the way for it.

How many nymphs survived a god’s assault only to fall prey once more to the misplaced wrath of his wife? And the punishments rendered by goddesses were just as cruel. Wasn’t mine?

The crowd lingers in the square for a while, delighting inthe entertainment my imprisonment provides. My cheeks burn beneath their taunts, but I won’t give them any more of a spectacle. The quickest way to end this is for them to grow bored, and so I do my best to make it clear that the exciting part has passed. Inside, though, I rage. I commit the most gleeful faces to memory, imagining how they’ll look when our song takes hold, when I slide our sacrificial blade across their throats.

Slowly but surely, people lose interest in my stoic frame gracing the pillory. Their days beckon them away, though the Bible study group remains. Young Rose runs home to fetch a bucket so she can ladle water to my lips, while Jane, Alis, Elyoner, Wenefrid, Margaret, and Liz form a circle around me, as if to shield my pathetic form from any lingering gawkers. Through the gap between Jane and Elyoner, I see Thomas find Cora, but then the women draw closer together, and the space that contains Cora and my captor disappears. Why is Cora with him, after what we’ve just been through? Only now do the corners of my eyes grow damp. With my hands bound, I can’t wipe the tears away, and so they fall to the wooden platform floor. My only choice is to trust her, but her absence still makes my chest ache. It’s a different pain from the soft cramping that makes my legs tremble beneath my skirts, but it hurts just as badly.

“Where’s Margery?” I croak, straining my head as far as I can to my right to try to catch sight of her. I barely move it before my cheek brushes against the rough wooden board that locks it in place, my limp right hand blocking my peripheral vision. “Is she all right?”

“Emme took her and Jeremie back home,” Wenefrid explains, gingerly brushing a lock of my hair behind my ear.

“What the Bailies did to her is appalling.” Margaret’s words whistle over the gap where one of her teeth is missing.

Elizabeth nods. “How could they, after Margery has worked so hard to keep their house in order?”

“What will she do now?” Rose asks, delicately lifting a cup of water to my mouth. I drink it gratefully, and she brings me another.

Without the extra money she earns working for the Bailies, Margery will likely need to find herself a new husband, although the public shaming she just endured will effectively scare away the more decent men, if they exist here at all. No one wants to say this out loud, so we all fall silent.

“You don’t have to wait here with me,” I say eventually. “Who knows how long the Bailies will keep me here.”

Alis, usually so soft-spoken, surprises me with an astonished laugh. “Of course we do, Lady Thelia! You gave us all gifts. It could have been any one of us in her place. The fact you were willing to stand up for her…” She trails off, searching for the right words.

“Well, it just means you’d be willing to defend any one of us,” Wenefrid adds slowly, and Alis nods.

“Especially since none of us were particularly kind to you after Will disappeared…” Rose says, and the other women shuffle back and forth on their feet uncomfortably.

“I hold no grudges,” I whisper softly. “Cora is your friend—”

“So you forgive us?” Rose interjects. She’s so young, she can’t contain her excitement. It makes it hard not to smile, even though my body still aches from last night, from being locked in this position.

“I do,” I say, and the other women grin to one another. With the matter settled, all there is left to do is wait for my release.

Thomas doesn’t return to free me until the sun is nearly three-quarters of its way across the sky. When he does, Rose helps me stand, and Wenefrid puts her hands on my shoulders to steady me. No one acknowledges the Bailie man, and he senses the anger roiling beneath our collective surfaces. While the women are distracted with me, fussing and making sure that I’m all right, Thomas slinks off to the tavern.

“Good riddance.” Margaret spits at the ground in his direction once he is out of sight.

The women all murmur in agreement. Elyoner slides up beside me, looking concerned.

“You can’t go back there tonight. It would give Mistress Bailie too much pleasure.”

Emme, who returned with Jeremie to the square about an hour after helping Margery rest, suggests that we all retire to her house. “I’ll fetch Margery. She’ll be awake by now, and we can spend the evening together.”

I can’t help but smile a bit. An evening away from the Bailie home sounds like exactly the blessing I need.

While Emme collects Margery, Margaret and Wenefrid set to stoking the hearth to prepare supper. They barely finish adding scraps of meat, vermin of some sort, to a large iron pot before a series of rapid knocks distracts us from our conversation. I peer up at the door. Has Thomas come for me? Emme pushes herself to her feet to open it, but before she can, Cora bursts inside and slams the door closed behind her. She gasps for air; her eyes are wild.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t stay with you…” she says between breaths. “Thomas—”

“Did he hurt you?” I interrupt, jumping to my feet. My hands find her shoulders, and I guide her into the chair I previously occupied.

“No, no…He believes I hate you still, and that’s ground I didn’t want to lose. When he asked where we were, I told him that I saw you leaving the village and followed you into the woods.”

“You were gone all night,” Margery wails. “How did you explain that without damning her?”

Cora’s eyes blaze. “Don’t you understand? She’s already damned. Thomas met with Master Lacie and Master Florrie this afternoon—”

“Sailors,” Emme says. Her eyes grow dark.

“Yes. They’re preparing for the journey to Scopuli. They have been for months.”

“What do you mean?” My face pinches with confusion. “Thomas said we couldn’t go anywhere until the weather lifted.”

Cora looks apologetic. “The weather was only part of it.”

The room holds its breath, waiting for her to continue. She fingers the edges of her sleeves nervously; her eyes wander to the ground.

“Tell me,” I say softly, kneeling before her. Her green eyes grow glassy with tears.

“This entire time…Thelia, they’ve been building another boat across the island. One large enough to carry us all.”

“Why would they do that?” Margery asks.

“By Thelia’s own admission, there are no eligible men left on Scopuli for her hand. They assume that since she arrived alone, there must be very few men left at all.” She turns to me. “Why else would your family risk sending a woman without protection to an unknown land?”

“And?” My voice is barely a whisper.

“They plan to steal it from you.”

Several of the women gasp. Rose’s hand flies to cover her gaping mouth, and Emme’s hands curl into fists.

“The men don’t trust you. Some openly call you a witch behind your back. All of them call you a heathen. Thomas has been circulating rumors that you’re responsible for Will’s death, but everyone is willing to play nice until you lead us to your gold…” Her voice cracks, as if she can’t bear to continue. “Once you do, they’ll kill you. Your family as well, and anyone else who might stand in their way. After that, Thomas plans to marry me.” Her face crumples into despair. “He told me all this, and I had to pretend to be thrilled! Thelia, I didn’t know what else to do—”

“You did well,” I whisper, my hands holding her legs in encouragement.

“I think he murdered Will,” Cora whispers, the words catching in her throat. “And now he plans to murder you, too…Oh, Thelia! What are we going to do?”

The treachery should be shocking, but it’s painfully consistent with what I’ve already witnessed these men to be capable of. My teeth dig into the side of my mouth as I look for the words to say next, but a growl from Emme breaks the silence. “Who knows of this?”

“Mistress Bailie, John Sampson, James Lacie, Hugh Taylor…a handful of others.”

“How can they be so cruel?” Rose barks with surprising ferocity. “We’re planters, not soldiers!”

“Maybe,” Cora says, her eyes finding mine. “But aren’t we only here because our soldiers came first?”

“But to agree to this…” Rose says, the color leaching from her cheeks.

“It’s not just them. It’s everyone in this town!” Emme adds. “No one said a damn word when they dragged Margery into the pillory today.”

“Nor did we,” Elyoner whispers, not quite ready to condemn the entire village to Hell. She has the decency to look ashamed, and she reaches for Margery’s hand to squeeze it apologetically.

“Who would have listened to you if you had?” Margery snaps to defend her. “Look what happened to Lady Thelia. The Bailies would have jailed us all for interfering with their plans, and everyone else would have let it happen.”

“I hate them,” Cora says. “They did nothing when Will went missing, nor when he was found. God’s blood, some of them probably knew what Thomas planned, and no one warned him!”

“None besides you have helped me when John loses control,” Alis adds softly, agreeing with the growing resentment.

“And no one punished Charles after what he did to Emme…” Rose trails off, not wanting to finish the sentence. Emme’s expression hardens. Although she speaks no words, her pain is etched into hard lines across her face.

“And Sybil…” Margaret says, looking to Wenefrid with large, sad eyes. “What other choice did she have but to flee into the woods? If she’d stayed, they would’ve certainly killed her.”

I hate them, they take turns saying. I hate them, I hate them, I hate them. I feel the truth to their words, the weight of the years they have spent straining beneath this society’s cruelty, and beneath the other women’s indifference to it. A seed of rage forms in the pit of my stomach, and it grows with each story that’s shared. Suddenly, everything that seemed so morally nebulous is now simple. I can’t speak to all men, but I don’t have to. I need only to judge the ones before me, and the verdict is painfully clear.

These men are thieves.

These men are rapists.

These men are murderers.

These men will receive the punishment they deserve.

However, Cora’s confession adds a new wrinkle to the original plan. If they intend to resettle on Scopuli, women and children will be aboard the return ship, too. How do I keep them safe?

An idea crystallizes on the edge of my mind. Before I can overthink it, I let my thoughts come tumbling out.

“So you hate them,” I say slowly. They turn to look at me, their eyes inflamed with the same rage that I’ve seen reflected at me in Raidne’s and Pisinoe’s stares, that I have felt burning in my own. “All of them?”

They nod, and I take a deep breath before speaking the words that will change everything.

“Then will you help me?”