by Tarah Benner
“I know,” said Lark, feeling abashed.
But Kira rolled on. “Here I am tryin’ to feed these savages with nothin’ but crumbs, and Mercy’s gone and sent one of her spies to take note of every grain of rice I serve. Now I told her that I been running a kitchen since I was eighteen years old, but she won’t listen. I can’t afford any drama, Lark. I just can’t.”
“I know, Kira, but I’m starving. Bernie and I missed breakfast, and obviously lunch —”
“Why is that my problem?” Kira cried.
“It’s not,” said Lark quickly.
“Damn straight!” Kira stared at her for several long seconds. “Shit, Lark. You know I can’t get in the middle of this!”
“I know,” Lark sighed, trying to ignore the scornful looks she was getting from the other kitchen ladies.
Other than the healers, Kira and the rest of her family probably had the best jobs in San Judas. They kept their heads down and tried hard to stay out of trouble, which was why they were all staring at Lark as if she’d just tracked dog shit into their kitchen.
“If Mercy finds out I’m helpin’ you, she’ll find a way to wreck my life,” said Kira.
“She isn’t going to find out,” Lark assured her.
“You’re damn right she isn’t.” Kira sighed and shook her head. “Look, I have half a bowl of rice in the bottom of the vat and maybe some beans.”
“I’ll take anything.”
Kira continued to frown but grabbed an enormous metal spoon off the wall and scraped the last vestiges of rice out of the bottom of the vat. She made a few broad passes with her big toned arms, scooped out the last of the beans, and slammed the bowl down onto the scrubbed wooden table. “You eat and then leave.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Lark, dropping down onto a stool and shoveling spoonfuls of cold slop into her mouth.
It hardly mattered that the rice was dried out and that the beans were cold and congealed. Lark was so hungry that she devoured the meager meal in less than a minute.
As soon as she’d finished, a plump woman with espresso-colored skin snatched the bowl off the table and jerked her head toward the door.
Lark nodded and backed away from the table, throwing Kira another look of gratitude. “Thank you,” she said. “I mean it.”
“You should go to Mercy before she has to come looking for you,” said Kira. “That might make her go easier.”
Lark swallowed. There was nothing she wanted less than to show up on Mercy’s doorstep with a noose around her neck, but her punishment would undoubtedly be worse if she didn’t cooperate.
“You were never here,” said Kira, opening the door just wide enough to let Lark slide through. Denali was waiting for her under the overhang, looking cold, wet, and miserable.
“And Lark?”
She turned.
Kira shook her head and fixed her with a pointed look. “Be careful.”
Lark nodded once and strode off in the direction of her shanty. Denali followed close behind, wagging his tail at the prospect of dinner and Lark’s warm bed.
“Sorry, boy,” she muttered, leading him inside and running a hand over his coat. Denali closed his eyes and opened his mouth as Lark scratched behind his ears. She didn’t have any scraps to give him, but she was hoping Bernie had saved them something from lunch.
She left a bowl of water at the foot of her bed and then slid outside and closed the door so Denali couldn’t follow her. Lark had a feeling that if he saw the sort of punishment Mercy was about to dish out, not even Bernie would be able to restrain him.
Lark’s feet felt like blocks of lead as she walked toward Mercy’s compound in the rain. She and Daya were resting under an overhang, bundled in thick woolly shawls and smoking menthol cigarettes.
Their eyes latched on to Lark as she approached, and Lark saw Daya finger something sharp hidden in the folds of her clothes.
“Well, well,” said Mercy. “Lark Roland.”
Lark swallowed.
“Daya had you pegged as a runner, but I figured you’d come around on your own.”
Lark didn’t say anything.
“You know I can’t let this go,” said Mercy. She sounded exactly how Lark would expect a black widow to sound right before it liquefied its prey.
“I know,” said Lark.
“Is there anything you wish to say?”
Lark took a deep breath and tucked a strand of wet hair behind her ear. “Yes. I know I shouldn’t have been fighting, but Bianca attacked me.”
“That may be the case,” said Mercy. “But you were caught with an illegal weapon, and you seriously injured Bianca’s shoulder. I lost a good field hand today, and I cannot condone violence in my camp.”
“Except when you’re doling it out,” Lark muttered before she could stop herself.
Mercy’s drooping eyes snapped open so wide that Lark thought they might pop out of their sockets. “That is enough. I will not tolerate insubordination — not from you.”
Lark set her jaw and squeezed her fists together to release the surge of tension building up inside her. She felt as though she might explode, but she couldn’t afford to lose control. Mercy was serving serious time, and she wasn’t above killing an inmate whom she felt she couldn’t manage.
In an instant, Mercy seemed to make up her mind. Without taking her eyes off Lark, she reached over and patted Daya on the wrist. “Please escort Lark to the whipping post. Perhaps —”
Mercy’s smug voice was interrupted by a shrill, agonized wail. She broke off, clearly discombobulated, and Lark followed her gaze out toward the square.
It was difficult to tell where the wail had originated. The rain was coming down in thick icy sheets, and the clouds had engulfed the moon.
All around the colony, women were peering out their windows to see what all the commotion was about, and one or two stepped outside.
Finally, a lone figure came into view. She was sprinting across the square away from the woods. Her skirt and blouse were soaking wet, and she seemed to have lost a shoe.
It was Portia.
Lark stood dumbfounded as she ran straight toward them and dropped to her knees at Mercy’s feet.
“What is it?” snapped Mercy, simultaneously startled and annoyed. If Mercy disliked crying, she abhorred hysterics.
Portia shook her head from side to side, looking too lost and traumatized to speak. Daya put a hand on Portia’s shoulder, but she twisted away and cried harder than ever.
“Portia!” yelled Mercy. “What is it?”
“There’s a man!” Portia wailed. “D-down by the river.”
Cold, debilitating panic spilled into Lark’s stomach. She had the immediate urge to run, but she stood rooted to the spot.
A dark look fell across Mercy’s face, and in that instant, she seemed to forget all about Lark. “Is he still there?”
Portia was still sobbing into her hands, but she dragged in a shuddering breath and nodded.
“What did he do?” Mercy demanded. “Did he say anything to you? Did he . . . Did he touch you?”
Portia shook her head.
“Well, where is he?”
“In the river,” Portia blubbered.
“And he didn’t speak to you? He didn’t do anything?”
Portia shook her head again and lowered her voice to a whisper. “He — He never had the chance.”
“What do you mean?” asked Mercy.
A lone tear trembled in the corner of Portia’s eye, rolled down her face, and fell to the ground. “Mother, he’s . . . He’s . . . dead.”
eleven
Lark
A tidal wave of darkness rose up inside of Lark, choking her from the inside out.
She strained and gasped for air like a drowning woman, but she couldn’t seem to fill her lungs.
The man from the river was dead. Soren, the guy who’d risked everything to send Lark a message in a bottle, was gone.
A dozen grisly images flashed through Lark’s m
ind, and it was all she could do to stop herself from vomiting.
Soren was dead. Soren was dead.
Lark couldn’t believe it. It didn’t make any sense. But as the realization slowly sank in, a heavy burden of sorrow settled in her soul.
Soren had wanted to speak to her so badly that he’d risked his life to deliver those messages. Was it possible that he’d come down to deliver another and fallen to his death?
Lark was so preoccupied that she hardly noticed Mercy struggling to her feet. With Daya and another daughter supporting her arms, Mercy heaved herself out of her chair and followed Portia at a limp.
Lark hesitated. She didn’t want to see Soren’s body. She’d never be able to erase that image from her mind. But on the other hand, she had to know for certain that Portia was telling the truth. She had to see him with her own eyes.
Several women had ventured out into the rain, talking in low voices and trying to figure out what had happened. Some were running back and forth to their friends’ shanties, comparing notes on what they had seen and heard.
Lark staggered after Mercy, past the clusters of gossiping inmates. As she walked, a sudden prickle of suspicion broke through her misery. Something didn’t quite fit.
Portia was a heartless, evil bitch. She’d witnessed the lion’s share of Mercy’s brutality and had even assisted in a few ruthless beatings. Lark had never seen her shed a tear, and it made no sense that she would start now.
Fighting the heavy sense of foreboding that had turned her legs to jelly, Lark broke into a sprint and followed them into the woods. She was so distraught that she wasn’t watching where she was going, and she tripped several times on protruding vines and branches. Thorns and twigs snagged her hair and scratched her legs, but she hardly felt a thing as she followed Mercy and Portia to the river.
It didn’t take her long to catch up. Mercy didn’t move very fast with her bum knee, and Portia was still reeling from shock.
Lark stopped when she heard the sound of rushing water and ducked behind her cottonwood tree. She could see Portia kneeling on the bank behind the fence, half covered by Mercy’s billowing skirts. They were standing ten or twelve paces away, and just a few feet in front of them was the lumpy, misshapen figure who’d washed up on the bank.
Rain was pelting the man’s back, sliding off his already drenched shirt and making tiny ripples in the water.
Lark’s breath caught in her throat, and every good feeling she’d ever had seemed to evaporate at once.
An animalistic cry shattered the stillness, and Lark sank into the dirt to keep herself from falling. At first she wondered if she’d yelled without meaning to, but then she realized the sound had come from Mother Mercy.
At first Lark didn’t understand what could have provoked such a strong reaction, but then she forced herself to examine the body.
A heavy wind had kicked up, blowing the raindrops sideways. Lightning flashed through the sky, illuminating ominous silver clouds.
Water was lapping up onto the bank, buffeting the man’s lifeless body, and suddenly Lark saw why Mercy had screamed.
The man lying in the river didn’t have copper skin and Soren’s tall, elegant build. His skin was the color of dark chocolate, and he was big and beefy.
The jumper wasn’t Soren, but Lark recognized him instantly. She’d only seen his picture once — hanging in Mercy’s compound.
Within seconds, Mercy’s wounded cries were echoing through the forest. She was gasping and choking as if she were dying, banging on the chain-link fence and trembling with grief. She seemed oblivious to the ferocious storm and the racket she was making as she howled at the river.
A series of crashes behind Lark alerted her to the other daughters’ arrival, but they didn’t notice Lark as they swooped down on Mercy.
At the sight of the man’s lifeless body, a few women let out shrill, overdramatic cries and collapsed into the dirt. Another descended upon Mercy with the air of a stoic saint, rubbing her back and muttering indistinctly.
From the few words she could discern, Lark gathered that the man was Mercy’s youngest, Zachariah.
“How?” Mercy cried, looking around with unseeing eyes. “How could this happen?”
Lark stared. She couldn’t tell if Zachariah’s eyes were open or closed, but an angry gash across his forehead told her everything she needed to know.
Across the river, water was lapping at the jagged rocks. They were positioned just below the Seam, where Zachariah would have plummeted to his death.
“How could this happen?” Mercy repeated, her shoulders convulsing with dry, racking sobs.
“He must have fallen and hit his head,” said one of the daughters.
“Why would he do this?” Mercy cried to no one in particular. “He knows how dangerous it is . . .”
“Someone must have lured him down,” said another girl, too caught up in the melodrama to fake remorse.
Mercy shook her head. “Not my Zachariah. No. Not my boy. My boy was smarter than that.”
Portia, who’d been uncharacteristically silent since they’d reached the river, froze.
“Maybe it wasn’t the first time he came down,” muttered Daya.
But Mercy continued to shake her head. “Zachariah knew better. He never would have climbed down for a woman.”
“Why else would he —” began another daughter.
“No!” Mercy yelled, shaking her head violently. “No, no, no! My boy would never —”
Mercy dropped her head into Portia’s lap, and Portia began rubbing circles over her back. “Zachariah was a good person, but he was still a man,” she murmured.
Mercy sat up abruptly. “What?”
Portia glanced around, looking nervous but determined. “I’m saying . . . maybe someone caught his eye.”
Lark glared over at Portia, trying to figure out her angle.
“What . . . What are you saying?” asked Mercy.
Portia’s eyes flashed with malice, and suddenly Lark knew what she was going to do. “I didn’t want to say anything, but . . .”
“But what?” snapped Mercy. “Portia, if you know anything about why my son was killed . . . It is your duty to tell me.”
Portia took another breath, looking as though she were laboring over the decision. Only Lark saw the shadow of Portia’s true nature behind that expression. Portia was out for blood.
“I did see Lark sneaking down to the river after curfew,” she confessed.
Lark’s mouth fell open. Without thinking, she staggered out from her hiding place. “What?”
Mercy whirled around to look at Lark, her dark eyes narrowing into slits. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I — I came to see if I could help,” Lark stammered.
“Liar,” Mercy hissed.
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Portia added hurriedly. “It didn’t seem like any of my business, but —”
“When?” Mercy demanded, not taking her eyes off Lark.
“The first time was a few days ago,” Portia murmured.
“The first time?” Mercy growled.
Lark shook her head, too stunned to speak. She couldn’t believe it. She had no idea how Portia had found out about her nighttime river visits, but it didn’t make sense for her to wait until that moment to throw her to the wolves.
Portia had never passed up an opportunity to get Lark into trouble. If she had known Lark was sneaking down to visit Soren, she wouldn’t have wasted any time telling Mercy.
“Is this true?” Mercy snarled.
“No!” cried Lark. “I’ve only come down to the river to look for your gumweed. I’ve never talked to anyone on the other side. I’ve never even seen your son.”
“Don’t lie to me,” Mercy whispered.
“I’m not lying!” cried Lark. She was starting to panic. Even if Portia had been making it all up, it sure didn’t look good for her.
“How dare you,” said Mercy, her entire face cloaked in darkn
ess. “How dare you stand there and lie to my face.”
“She’s making it up!” Lark yelled. “I never knew your son!”
But Mercy wasn’t having it. “Why in God’s name would Portia lie about this?”
“She’s had it out for me from the beginning!” Lark shrieked, glaring at Portia with all the bile she could muster.
Portia shook her head, her eyes gleaming with smug satisfaction. “That’s not true.”
Mercy glanced from Lark to Portia and back again, turning the information over in her head. “This is a serious accusation, daughter,” she murmured. “Are you sure of what you saw?”
“Yes,” said Portia. “I’ve seen her sneaking off to the woods at night.”
A surge of hatred shot down Lark’s spine, her heart pounding with intense paranoia. How had she not noticed that she was being followed?
“You’re making this up,” Lark growled.
“No, I’m not,” said Portia, her voice growing more confident with every word.
Then Portia did the unthinkable. She softened her gaze and took a step toward Lark so that she could give her arm a squeeze. “Don’t make this worse than it already is,” she whispered. “Just tell the truth.”
Lark jerked her arm away and lowered her voice. “I don’t know why you’re doing this, but I will get you.”
Portia turned to look at Mercy and let out an exasperated sigh. But Mercy wasn’t looking at Portia. She was staring at Lark with mounting suspicion.
“This is bullshit!” spluttered Lark, her voice cracking with desperation. “She doesn’t have any proof!”
Lark knew that she sounded hysterical. She knew she wasn’t doing anything to convince Mercy that she was innocent, but she’d been caught so off guard that she was still reeling with fury.
This wasn’t going to end well for her. Mercy needed someone to blame, and Portia’s word was as good as gold. She was one of Mercy’s own, whereas Lark was a surly troublemaker who’d already been causing a stir.
“Portia says you’ve been sneaking off to the river,” said Mercy, her cheeks shining with fresh tears. “And I don’t have any reason not to believe her.”
Lark’s stomach dropped to her knees, but she set her jaw and stared at Mercy with all the conviction she could muster. “You don’t have any proof.”
