by Dylan Farrow
I turn toward home when a flash of color catches my eye. A patch of yellow tulips, sprouted determinedly from the arid ground. My heart is loud in my ears as I pull my needlework from my pocket. The pattern is the same, down to the detail. One of the flowers is even ill-formed, petals bursting outward from the stem as though exploding.
My jaw trembles, and I shiver. My gut feels like it’s been shackled in cold irons.
Needing to be certain—and desperately hoping I’m wrong—I pull the fabric from the embroidery hoop and grip it with my hands. I tear it over and over, until the shreds fall from my desperate, shaking fingers.
In front of me, the flowers droop, then wither, crumbling into dust, until all that’s left of the bright yellow petals is my memory of them.
Then, a cry echoes across the valley—an animal scream, familiar though I can’t place it. A wolf?
The sound fades, but it leaves me uneasy. I break away from what I’ve done, my paces turning into a run down the uneven path that leads home. My shoes slip several times in my haste downhill. I hurry over loose rock, falling and skidding through the dirt. My dress and arms are filthy, down to my blackened fingernails. Hastily, I scramble up and keep running with more care. The ground is broken beneath my feet, instead of solid, as if recently turned over, and I recall the passing spell of rain brought on by the Bards. Could it have caused the slope to erode?
Urgently, I press forward, passing the boulder and heading through the valley and up to the road. Something feels wrong. I need to get home. To Ma.
I skid to a halt as the house comes into view, my heart and breath pounding discordantly in my chest.
The door is ajar, a smear of something dark, like ink, in the dust of the entryway.
The front door sways slowly on its hinges.
Each step toward the house feels slower, heavier, until I’m standing in front of the door and peering into the darkness within. I swallow hard before pushing it open farther.
“Ma?” I call out, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. I know she won’t answer, but I still expect to see her over the stove fixing breakfast. Instead, I’m knocked back by a potent, unfamiliar scent. My hand instinctively covers my nose and mouth as I step through the doorway.
I barely recognize my home.
The furniture that hasn’t been smashed is overturned. Pots and broken plates litter the floor. Yarn and wool. Pieces of Ma’s loom and spinning wheel. Almost everything I see is spattered in dark red.
Not ink. Blood.
I stand amidst the wreckage, too shocked to move. When I finally break free, my legs shake beneath me. I only manage a couple of steps farther into the house before I see her.
For a few moments I expect to awaken, either back in the wooded grove or in my bed.
This can’t be real.
But the longer I stare, the more the realization sets in.
Ma.
She isn’t going to move.
The blood isn’t going to vanish.
Things aren’t going back to normal.
I’m not going to wake up because I am awake, and this is real and—
I tear my gaze away, my entire body trembling violently. I lean against the nearest wall to keep myself upright. If I crumble to my knees, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to get up again. My eyes dart back and forth, trying to find anything else to focus on.
That’s when I see, at the back of the room: the pallet mattress of Ma’s bed, her hiding spot, is torn open. Like it exploded.
I lurch forward, stumbling over toppled chairs and around the remains of the spinning wheel. My fingers accidentally graze some splattered blood on the wall.
A dry sob issues from somewhere in my chest as I reach the bed.
When I left the house, the last thing I remember doing was shoving the ox into its pouch and back into the secret hiding spot. Then I’d polished our plague mask on the way out. And I closed the door.
Didn’t I?
I finally collapse, not even feeling the impact against my kneecaps as my hand reaches desperately into the hiding spot. Nothing. No matter where I touch or how I contort my arm, all I feel is the rough straw inside of the mattress.
No.
Another wave of sickness washes over me.
The pouch and the stone ox within are gone.
Pulling back, I search the area around the hiding spot, trying not to drown in the panic that has consumed me.
Someone found the stone ox.
That’s why this happened.
My thoughts blur.
Did I leave it out where it could be seen?
I rack my brain, but I can’t recall.
This is your fault, Shae.
The Blot. The curse. My plea to the Bards.
I swivel toward the front door and vomit onto the grass, my entire body breaking out into a cold sweat. I can’t breathe. I no longer know if the moisture on my cheeks is tears or sweat. I can hardly bear to turn back to my home—my heart clenches—everything is ruined.
My mind refuses to focus on the one thing I know is true:
Ma. Sprawled on the floor, soaked in blood, a dagger driven through her chest.
What have you done, Shae?
6
Stars blaze out at the edges of my vision, seeming to screech through the sky. My thoughts are a chaotic swirl of dark clouds, wolf howls, and cold wind. I’m shivering so hard, I don’t even realize I’ve fallen to my knees in the yard. The rough gray of early dawn is blurring everything together into a fog. My breath won’t come. I can’t breathe. I’m going to die. I’m going to die right here.
“Shae! What’s happened?”
A man’s distant voice reaches me, followed by the snarl of dogs. But worse still is the shrill, high-pitched ringing, growing louder and louder.
I clutch my head as I rock softly on the dead grass.
Ma. Seeping blood. Her glassy eyes. Her too-stiff limbs.
The ringing continues.
I can’t move. Can’t breathe.
A hand circles my upper arm, pulling me forward and into reality. I struggle before his voice breaks through the ringing. “You’re safe. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
Suddenly, the ringing stops. My throat aches. I realize with a shock that I’ve been screaming. That was the terrible, echoing sound.
Constable Dunne’s face comes sharply into focus. His broad forehead is slick with sweat that catches the morning light in small, white beads.
“Good. I need you to take a deep breath. Can you do that?” His voice echoes slightly, but sounds much closer now. I nod.
My breath rattles as I draw air into my lungs. It feels cold and harsh and …
Ma.
The shaking starts all over again.
Constable Dunne sighs and drags a hand over his face. “You stay here, got it? I’m coming right back.” Dunne gets slowly to his feet.
Stay here? Where else would I go? I nearly laugh but my body is too weak. I slump against the side of the house.
Dunne’s heavy boots cross the threshold, his dogs not far behind. My fingers go numb remembering what lies within.
My mother, broken and bloody on the floor. The dim light glinting off the hilt of the ornate dagger lodged in her chest.
I clench my jaw to keep from heaving once more. My eyes shut tight.
When I open them, Constable Dunne is emerging from the darkness of the house. He holds the golden dagger, turning the bloody instrument over, examining it. The light flashes blindingly from the engraving on the hilt. I squint at the strange symbols etched into the side. Are those letters? Dunne’s gaze also lingers on the symbols before he wipes the blood off and secures it safely on his belt. The dogs gather around him, growling and sniffing.
Dunne approaches me, his face ashen.
“What a tragedy,” he mutters.
Tragedy. The word reverberates through me. I’m afraid I’m going to be sick all over again.
“Who could have done this?” I can barely
make out my own words.
Dunne clears his throat, crouching beside me. “Seems like the work of bandits. Whoever it was, they’re gone,” he says. “In a hurry, too, by the looks of it. I was close by at the Reeds’ homestead when we heard the screams up the pass. I came as fast I could.” He curses. “I’m just not as fast as I used to be, Shae. I’m sorry.” He removes a handkerchief from his coat and offers it to me.
I take it and press it to my cheeks, expecting more tears, but there are none. I’m too shocked to cry. It’s as if I’ve fallen from a great height, all the wind knocked out of me.
The handkerchief comes away filthy, and I remember skidding and falling down the hill. I must look wild to the constable, like an animal come in from the woods.
“What happens now?” I ask. The words hurt my throat, still raw from screaming. I blink up at him dizzily. The sun is piercing the horizon, too bright.
The dogs are running in circles, sniffing the grass and barking like mad. I can’t think straight, can’t think at all. I’m having enough trouble remembering to breathe.
“Now…” Constable Dunne’s stubbly jaw clenches as he glances back to the house. “I’ll escort you to town. You’re friends with Miss Fiona from the shop, right? I’ll explain the situation to her father. You can stay with them until everything gets sorted.” He waits for me to assent.
“You want me to leave?” I ask, dumbstruck. “When there’s a mur—” I can’t say it. Fear winds itself snug against my heart. Murderer. A forbidden word. I shake my head. There’s too much I must do. Fix the wreckage of my home. Clean the blood. Prepare the funeral ribbons. Bury Ma.
The look on Dunne’s face stops me from uttering another sound. “I have to be blunt with you, Shae. Leaving you here doesn’t look good for me or for you.”
I stare at him. “Doesn’t look good?” What can look worse than what has already happened?
“I mean, what with the way people talk,” he hedges, giving me a sideways glance. “What they say about, well … you. You and your family.”
That we’re freaks. That we’re cursed. That I’m cursed …
Suddenly, I understand, though the darkness of it is so horrifying, I nearly faint. “Are you suggesting that I…” Words fail me and I flail my hand toward the door. “That I did this?”
“Of course not, Shae,” he says, and I let out a shaky breath. “But there are procedures.” He loops his thumbs into his belt. “We can’t control what others may think. These are rules for your protection. Surely, you can understand.” He extends a hand. “We’ll get you settled. And I’ll report the death. We’ll figure this out, Shae. Justice will be served.”
He reaches for my arm.
“No.” I stumble backward, away from him. “No, I can’t. I won’t leave. The sheep … the farm…”
“Shae,” he says, warning in his voice. I’ve never argued with the constable before, and the edge in his tone frightens me. I freeze, staring at him, feeling like a trapped wild animal. All I want to do is bolt back inside my house and slam the door. Back where it is safe.
Except it isn’t safe there.
My mother’s body lies strewn across the floor.
He sees my hesitation and lunges toward me, going for my arm again. The dogs pick up their barking, and in the chaos of the noise, I panic.
“No! Stop!” I don’t know what’s come over me, but I won’t be dragged away. Tears run down my face, uncontrollable. “You can’t take me away. You can’t make me leave her!”
Vaguely, I realize he has wrestled my arms behind my back and is holding me in a sort of half embrace, even as I keep struggling. Even as the sobs wrack me harder and harder.
“Don’t do this, Shae. Don’t fight me,” he’s saying, quiet, close to my ear. I can hear the whisper of a threat mixed in with the kindness. “I’m doing this for you,” he says. “For Aster. For justice.” And he’s pulling me away.
I try one last time, a wail launching from my throat as I heave my weight against his arms. “Ma!” I cry out, but it’s too late. He’s got me by the waist and is dragging me away, and it’s all I can do to stay upright as we stagger like that all the way downhill, until I can no longer see the house or the farm.
Everything I have ever loved, gone.
* * *
Days blur together in a haze. I’ve been installed in Fiona’s home, and they’ve welcomed me with open arms and sympathetic words, but I can barely hear them. Words are too hard. They keep me busy—with mending and darning and other mindless chores—but there is no salve for the dark, festering pain that lives in my head. Time either passes too slowly or too quickly depending on how much I think about Ma’s death. The images replay in my head—her body on the floor, the blood on the walls. My conversation with the Bard in the marketplace—with Ravod, who briefly had seemed kind. Is that what put us in danger in the first place? My conversation with Mads, our kiss. Falling asleep while Ma was home alone. I could have done something. Could have stopped it. Beneath everything is the image of the Gondalese ox.
Did I leave it out?
The constable would have known if my mother’s death was an official punishment for possession of contraband—unless someone else wanted to rid the town of my cursed family, taking it upon themselves to do the job. Every time I arrive at this thought, panic threatens to consume me. I’m not safe here. It could have been anyone. We are trained to report one another, to turn our backs on those we love.
But worse than all of it—the terror, the endless theories, the guilt, the wondering—is the ache in my chest. My heart physically feels like it has been broken.
Perhaps it has.
I pour my energy into helping Fiona’s family in the shop to keep from dwelling on my grief, but the pity in their faces is too much to bear. And no matter how hard I try, come nightfall, the dreams always find me, feral and full of horror.
The only activity that calms me is my needlework—unspooling the strange and haunting images of my dreams into the thread. But even this feels sinful, like it is part of the curse. I’m afraid of what it means.
Which is why, when I hear Fiona awaken—I’ve been granted a bedroll near the hearth in her bedroom—I hide the needlework beneath my pillow where she can’t see it.
She sits up in her bed and smiles. It hurts to look at—painted on, forced. “Can you stomach a bit of breakfast today?”
I make myself smile back. “Sure.” With the exception of Fiona, and her father, who offers a terse nod in my direction when I sit, her family completely ignores me as they chat happily at the table.
It’s a little jarring hearing so much noise during a meal. I became so accustomed to eating in comfortable silence with Ma over the years. Sometimes I’d remark on my day or update her on the sheep, only for us to lapse back into the usual quiet. Fiona’s family is the opposite—jokes, arguments, stories, and gossip get shared right along with the food. It reminds me of a time so long ago that it is only a fragment of a memory, tugging at the furthest reaches of my mind. Before Kieran’s death, when Pa was around, and Ma was not silent. A memory of a family I used to know.
Morning after morning, I grow more distant—detached—from it all. I wonder if I’ll ever feel normal like them. It seems more and more like I’ve never been normal and I never will be.
It is good of Fiona and her family to let me stay, I know. But I’m reminded constantly that I do not belong here. Fiona’s kindness cannot change that. As long as I remain, I am useful. That is all. The rest is up to me.
The bulk of my chores keeps me from the front of the store where Fiona works as the clerk, so I barely see her over the course of the day. Her father likes to keep her up front because she is pretty and friendly. He thinks it makes people more comfortable and they will buy more. He may be right. Fiona does have a way with people. Many of the “customers” are handsome boys from the village who stop by only to talk with her.
Though my mind is terrorized with darkness and doubts, one question burns thr
ough—where is Mads? Why hasn’t he come?
I hate that I don’t know. I hate that I keep wondering—it is all I do. I love Fiona, her gentle sweetness, her sunny smile, her endless confidence—but Mads is the one who has always made me feel anchored.
But Mads is nowhere to be found. He has not come by the shop, yet he must know where I’ve been staying. Someone must have told him what happened. In a town like Aster, secrets have a way of coming out.
Somehow, I can’t fathom the idea that the rest of the world hasn’t been altered forever the way I have. That my mother’s death didn’t split the skies apart, cause birds to swim and fish to fly.
I take a shaky breath as I carry a heavy bag of prairie flour into the back of the store. I’m mostly relegated to the stockroom, taking inventory and measuring provisions so they can be brought to the front and sold. On the rare occasion I’m allowed into the shop proper, it’s to shelve things. I’m not supposed to talk to anyone, not that they are particularly hasty to strike up conversation with the local outcast, but I have explicit orders to stay out of sight and keep out of trouble.
My one lifeline is the hope that Dunne finds Ma’s killer and punishes them. I cling to it when everything else seems bleakest. At the very least, I’ll have justice. Ma will have justice.
“Shae,” Fiona’s father, Hugo, greets me as he enters the stockroom. “When you’re done measuring the rice into containers, you can go ahead and shelve them.”
I nod, watching as he and his eldest son, Thomas, set today’s delivery down and leave without another word. Each day the deliveries are smaller, and they weren’t very big to begin with. The hardest job so far has been keeping the shelves full.
I pour the last bit of rice out of the bag and into a smaller container. Once it’s gone, the town will be out of rice. After, it won’t be much longer until we’re out of grain.
Aster is slowly starving. I shake the thought from my head and gather the rations of rice into my arms.
