When Hessel recounted the story to her, Greer had been overcome with a homesickness most impossible. It seemed absurd to miss a place she’d never see, but there, in the middle of their sitting room, Greer yearned for that land. She ached for it, hungering to see these peacockswith her own eyes. Forever trapped within the acres of the Warding Stones, she mourned a future she’d never have.
She’d vowed to use the ink on only the most special occasions, and had rationed it with sharp vigilance. The glass bottle was nearly empty now, but Greer had dipped in her pen that afternoon and dotted each of her map’s Warding Stones—rendered weeks before in their original positions—then scrawled a heartfelt plea across the page.
“We know you’re here. We know your might. Return the Stones back to the way they were. Please.”
With the very last drop of her most precious ink, Greer had signed her name at the bottom, a blue-stained oath. It was by far the best thing she had to offer the Benevolence.
Beside her, Hessel cleared his throat, snapping her attention back to the present moment. Greer stepped aside and followed her father.
Once their gifts were given, each family joined the others in a large circle along the edge of the clearing, watching the bounties grow. Greer listened to the aged wood stretch and shift under the weight of the offerings, and she dared to hope that this—that all of this—would be enough.
Whatever offense the Benevolence had seen surely must be wiped away by such lavish generosity. The Gratitude Tree had never been piled so high before. It all but groaned under the abundance.
The last families trickled into the clearing, and Greer smiled as she saw the Beauforts. Ellis carried several loaves of bread, and each of the younger children brought handfuls of vegetables. Mary appeared to be present and in good spirits and carried an earthen pot, undoubtedly a stew made from Louise’s rabbits. Greer’s worry began to ease a little. The Benevolence would get those gratitudes after all.
Louise followed in, her eyes trained low, never once lifting to meet her best friend’s gaze. She set a small wedge of cheese onto the table and stepped back, joining the rest of the gathering. The circle was, at last, complete.
Everyone joined hands. Caught between Hessel and Martha, Greer felt too small, like the child she’d never again be.
“People of Mistaken,” Hessel said, taking a step forward. Greer’s arm stretched out to keep her hold on him. “Good Reaping.”
“Good Reaping.” Their combined echo was strong and solemn.
“What a joyous time of year this is, when we come together to humble ourselves in this sacred space and give thanks to our merciful protectors.”
Greer glanced about the circle, watching how people reacted. After the night in the Calloways’ field, she’d never consider the Benevolence to be merciful anythings ever again.
“Let us take a moment of silence as we ready our hearts to welcome them.”
The town of Mistaken took a shared breath and closed their eyes.
Greer was never sure what she was meant to do in this moment. How should you ready for visitors who never arrived? But she closed her eyes all the same, listening to the sounds around her.
The Benevolence were near, and this year, more than ever, she wanted to hear them.
She listened to her father’s deep breaths and the soft rattle that rasped at their end. She heard the shifting sway of the group and the howl of the wind high above them, a constant drone that never truly died away. It set the tamaracks creaking and ripped the remaining poplar leaves from their branches. There were scratches from a pair of squirrels racing up a spruce, the lumbering shuffle of a porcupine, the patter of martens darting through undergrowth.
There was—
“Starling.”
Greer’s eyes flashed open.
She searched the circle, scanning for anyone who might have spoken, but everyone had their eyes closed and brows furrowed with concentration. Though she saw some lips moving, their prayers were silent.
“You don’t look like much, little Starling.”
Certain now that the voice was coming from the trees at her back, Greer turned. Her hands slipped free, rending apart the circle. Though Hessel made a soft noise of confusion, she stepped closer to the forest.
There were spruces, dark and forbidding, and Redcaps grown so twisted that even her father wouldn’t dare approach them. Greer scanned their depths, yet found nothing but trees.
“What is it, girl?” Hessel hissed, his voice low to avoid attention.
Despite his effort, others stirred, noticing the interruption. Breaths caught. Whispers rose. Still, Greer remained fixed on the shadows, squinting. Was that movement there, or just a trick of her mind?
“Someone’s out there.”
“In the trees?”
