Greer licked her lips, wishing she could phrase what she yearned to ask. “I sometimes dream of what would happen if Mistaken was attacked like that…They’re not dreams, really.”
“Nightmares,” Martha supplied.
“I can’t imagine what it must have been like.”
Finally, Martha turned to face her. Her brown eyes seemed darker, guarded. “No. You can’t.”
Greer squirmed but pressed forward. “Did it feel like this? In the days before it happened, did you know something was wrong?”
Martha considered her question. “No. There was an uneasiness in the air, I suppose—a sense that something was coming—but that was just what life was like then. It was hard and uncertain. Our settlement had no truce with the Benevolence; we didn’t even know they were out there. So of course…it was terrible, truly terrible, seeing how quickly things can end. We spend so much time working and striving, raising food, raising families, raising a whole town, and for what? In one flash, it can all come undone.”
“How did it happen?”
Martha hissed sharply, making it clear she would not talk of the Bright-Eyeds.
Greer touched the older woman’s back, trying to re-form her question. “I mean…in the days after…how did the days after happen? I don’t see how you move past that. How you just…carry on.”
Martha shrugged. “There’s not much elsetodo. The ones left…the ones who were spared or lucky or whatever you want to call it…we had to go on. We had togo.” Martha looked to Greer. “What else could we do? Sit and sob? Close our doors and bar our windows and let the remains of our town fall apart around us?” She shook her head. “No. We left. We moved on. We moved on and found Mistaken.” She blinked, lost in memories. “Coming here, seeing the bounties and good fortunes of this town…” She sighed. “I’ll never forget that. It was like walking into Paradise. You’ve no idea how good you’ve had it here. We can’t…we can’t ever forget that. I think all the Benevolence wants is for us to remember.”
Greer glanced around the kitchen, looking over their progress. She felt as helpless as a small child woken in the night, seeking reassurance against the imagined terrors of the dark.
The terrors weren’t imagined now.
“Do you think all this will work?”
The older woman nodded, then removed a bowl of eggs from theshelf. Flour rose and danced in the morning sunlight as she measured out ingredients.
Greer tried to throw herself into their work, but her unease persisted. “What do you think they want us to remember?”
Martha struck an egg against the edge of the table, and Greer winced at the sudden, brutal crack. The older woman stopped short, peering down at the broken egg. She tossed it to the side, frowning.
Greer’s stomach quivered as she spotted the dark, beaded eye and bloodied yolk of the partially formed chick.
Martha cracked open a second egg. “I think they moved the Stones so we’d remember they could.”
10
Three hours beforesunset, the town of Mistaken ventured beyond the Warding Stones, their arms heavy-laden with gratitudes. Horses pulled carts packed with offerings too large to carry—bales of fresh straw, bundled swaths of wheat, and half a dozen sheep, freshly slaughtered.
Greer kept far from that wagon. The smell reminded her too much of what she’d seen in the Calloways’ field, and she wondered if she’d ever be able to stomach a plate of mutton chops again.
They progressed up a narrow trail that wound through the woods like an unspooled ribbon. The soft glow of their lanterns pushed back the falling afternoon gloam.
Finally, they reached the Gratitude Tree. It had been an enormous Redcap, the biggest in the region, felled during the early years of the town. Its stump was lathed and varnished into a magnificent slab of wood, easily four men long, three wide. Once a season, the Stewards’ wives made a pilgrimage to the tree, to wipe it clean of woodland debris and polish its lacquered surface until it shone bloody and bright. It looked like a king’s banquet table, straight out of a fairy tale, and was situated perfectly in the center of a vast clearing.
The return to Mistaken would not take as long—not with theweight of offerings and gifts left behind—but the townspeople were taking no chances. There was a hastiness in the group, a harried pace at which all worked, emptying their crates and casks, lining and arranging the feast across the table.
Roasted ducks and pheasants lined the edges. Pies, cakes, and rich breads studded with dried fruits and nuts filled the gaps, and at the table’s center was a suckling pig. It was burnished bronze with spices and smelled good enough to make Greer’s mouth water, despite the worry in the pit of her stomach.
When it was the Mackenzies’ turn to lay down their gratitudes, Hessel took the lead, helping Greer and Martha arrange their crates of vegetables, their bushels of fruits, their trays of baked goods and lengths of sausages and wheels of cheese. Since he was the wealthiest man in the cove, it was only fitting that Hessel’s offering was the most extravagant.
Greer set down the final basket of apples, making sure to place them in a pleasing arrangement. She offered a curtsied bob toward the forest behind the Gratitude Tree and any Benevolents who might be watching the festivities. As she rose, she felt her personal offering crinkle in the deep pockets of her skirt.
Once the gratitudes were laid out, a bonfire would be lit, and every member of the town would cast in one beloved treasure as a final sacrifice.
This year, Greer had selected one of her maps. It was her best, and the thing she was most proud of: a perfect rendering of the cove and shoreline. Its scale was minute but brilliantly detailed, showing each family’s home and farm.
Just before heading out, Greer had used the very last of her most prized ink—a rich, iridescent blue that Hessel had purchased off a trader three summers before. The man had claimed that the dark teal mimicked the plumes of a most peculiar bird that lived on the other side of the world in lowland forests warm and wild—a peacock.
