Prologue
Western Kentucky
Edith shivered in the dark cabin, her shawl worn threadbare and the fire low.
She scrubbed the hearthstone with a rag.
Her fingers were raw, the skin cracked from the cold and constant work, but she didn’t stop.
The day’s chores were far from finished, and there was no room for rest. Despite only being twelve years old, she had been keeping house for her father for as long as she could remember.
The cabin was small and worn, its rough-hewn log walls darkened by years of smoke and neglect.
A single room held all it had to offer: a narrow cot pushed against one wall, a hearth that barely kept the chill at bay, and a rickety table with uneven legs.
The floor was hard-packed dirt, scattered with bits of ash and mud tracked in from outside.
A lone window let in a weak sliver of light that did little to brighten the gloom.
Outside, the wind whistled through the trees.
She’d spent hours earlier chopping firewood with a dull axe, her arms aching with each swing, only to bring in enough to last until morning, if she fed the fire sparingly.
After that, there were chickens to feed, water to haul from the well, and laundry to scrub in freezing water.
And still, her father’s dinner sat untouched on the table, now cold, though she had done her best with the little they had—just some grits with a small bit of their salted pork.
The sun had set long ago. Her father had been gone all day, probably at the saloon, but he’d be back soon. He always came back eventually.
A soft knock at the door broke the silence, and Edith’s heart jumped. She wiped her hands on her apron and stood cautiously, inching toward the door. No one ever came this far into the woods. Her father had made sure of that.
Another knock, firmer this time. Swallowing hard, she peered through the tiny crack in the door. A man stood outside, his features barely visible beneath the brim of his hat.
“Miss?” His quiet voice somehow carried through the wind. “I’m from the church, passing through. Is your father home?”
“No,” Edith said softly.
The man hesitated. “We’ve organized a search for a few missing girls from town. Thought y’all might’ve seen or heard something.”
“I don’t know anything,” Edith whispered, her grip tightening on the door.
The man lingered a moment longer, his gaze softening. He studied her through the slit in the door for a moment longer before shaking his head.
“The Lord watches over us in all our trials, child. He sees your burdens, even when the world does not.”
He left something on the porch before turning and walking into the darkness. Only after his footsteps faded did Edith dare open the door. A small, weathered book lay on the step. The leather was cracked and worn from use.
She ran her fingers over the cover, her breath catching. Edith couldn’t read, but she held the book close to her chest, a strange sense of comfort settling over her. For a moment, it felt as though the weight of her endless toil and isolation might lift, just a little.
The book felt precious to her, which meant that if her father ever found it, he would destroy it or take it just to hurt her.
Looking around the small cabin, she tried to think where she could hide it so that her father would never see it.
Seeing a cast iron pot, she turned the pot over and stashed the book underneath.
But that feeling disappeared the moment her father stumbled through the door, his heavy boots clomping across the floor, his hunched frame shadowed by years of hard living.
His once-dark hair, now streaked with gray, hung in greasy strands over a weathered face, etched deep with anger and exhaustion.
Bloodshot eyes glared beneath his furrowed brow, and the stench of ale and sweat hit her before he spoke, his face twisted in drunken anger.
“This all you did?” he slurred, his bloodshot eyes scanning the room. Seeing some dirty laundry still on his bed, he reeled on her. “What’ve ya been doing all day, you worthless—”
He continued to insult her as he looked about their tiny cabin, fumbling with his coat. When he saw the plates on the table, he scoffed.
“You can’t even make a decent meal. You’re just as worthless as your ma, and she’s dead!”
Edith bit the inside of her cheek, fighting the tears that threatened to rise. She had long since learned that crying only made things worse.
Her father staggered toward her, snatching the rag from her hand and throwing it to the floor.
“Get those dishes cleaned up,” he spat. “And don’t think you’ll sleep until it’s done.”
“Yes, Pa,” she whispered, bending down to pick up the rag with trembling hands.
He swayed for a moment longer, glaring at her as if her very existence was an offense, before collapsing onto the small cot in the corner. He continued to mutter insults at her, even as he drifted to sleep.
“It’s your fault we gotta live like this. Shoulda never married your ma.”
Only once his snores filled the cabin did Edith stop washing dishes. She plopped down on her small blanket on the floor, exhaustion aching in her bones. Her eyes wandered to the book she had hidden under a pot, knowing it would be safe there from her father’s wrath.
Please, let there be more than this, she prayed silently.