IN THE MORNING, I’M GATHERING OUT IN THE first line of trees to the north, trying hard not to think on my Watch shift last night. Paying no mind to my digging stick, I bark my knuckles on an unearthed stone. Bright red blood springs to the surface of my shredded skin. I suck at my dirtcaked hand, swallowing soil and iron.

Other gatherers sift around the Watch flats, picking the last of the berries on the edge of the woods. Some are just inside the trees to the west, gathering fodder for the penned sheep. I can see still others on the east side of the fort, in the willows near the banks, checking the rabbit snares. Most gatherers are inside the walls, harvesting the meager gardens.

I’m the only one who gathers for Soeur Manon, the only one who has to do this cursed root digging. I guess I should be grateful she took me on. Some people wouldn’t want me working for them at all. Gathering gets me out of the fortification too, and today, the woods are heaps more inviting than the wary stares and the sad curve of my pa’s spine.

Last night, Andre spent the rest of our shift schooling me in a number of things I’ve never wondered about: types of buckshot, knife whetting, nighttime birdcalls. I watched him careful-like, trying to figure if he was just playing at being kind because I did him that good turn. I wanted to warm to him. Just the idea of feeling a kinship with someone—I mean, besides Tom—felt real good.

That feeling lasted till I got home. Then Pa and me broke our fast in silence and Pa’s defeated shoulders spoke plain. I fixed my eyes on the table while we ate, sure the disappointment on his face would set me to banging my foot against the table leg more times than it could bear. Helping Frère Andre didn’t feel so good anymore, neither. My stomach was clenched real tight—near too tight for food—so I just filled my head with the song my ma used to sing to me at night.

Sleep, little one, with your secret heart,

Take to the night like the swallow.

When morning time brings what your secret heart sings,

Set your feet to the same path and follow.

I was real young when she died. Troubles after giving birth to a boy who didn’t live. I didn’t think on my ma much for a long while. Then this summer, when I was out at the river watching the swallows in the bank, one of the birds swung so close, it near brushed my eyelashes with its wings. And I remembered that song, remembered her singing it to me.

I like that “secret heart” bit. With all the eyeballing round here, I like the notion there’s a part of me no one gets to know about if I don’t want them to. But I don’t speak on that kind of thing to anyone, not even Tom.

There was a time I might speak on it with my pa—back just after Ma died, when he’d try to cook stew the way she cooked it, or sing her songs though he can’t sing a note. Back then, Pa would blink away the sadness of losing Ma and find a way to make me smile—carve me out a little birch dolly, or pick me some of the clover that grows near the rabbit snares. Back then, I might’ve told him some things.

But these days Pa’s got a worry to him and we don’t speak on much. He looks at me nervous-like and real sad, like the older I get, the more Stained I am. This morning it was plain as the scrubby brown beard on his face. I told him nothing about Watch, just ate and made myself scarce. I thought the fresh air would ease my thoughts, but Pa’s worried eyes keep surfacing in my mind. Need to find a way to make that worry disappear . . .

A soft wind stirs the leaves above me. The Lost People drift through the branches, whispering to me, calling to me. My neck prickles, but I know that what I truly need to worry about is doing something unmindful—spilling my gatherings or such. The Watcher in the tower can see me if I need him to, and the larger beasts—wolves and bears—are far too skittish to venture close. And Takings in the daytime are rare.

But.

Mayhap my pa would be relieved if I didn’t come back.

A stubborn piece of root bursts free in a shower of soil. I dust it off and drop it in my satchel, then sit back on my heels, wrapping my knuckles in the tail of my ceinture. I need three or four chunks of root to warrant my return; we need all the stores we can manage before La Prise de Glaces—the big Ice Up—arrives next month.

Each year, I feel it coming on the air like a poison breath. The birds escape in jagged lines across the sky and the woods get brittle and stark, waiting. When it strikes, La Prise sweeps down in ice-cold winds that burn and blistering snow that swirls so thick and fast, you need a rope to guide you from the kitchen to the woodshed. The sun wanes, the dark grows, and—the worst of it—we are all shut inside the fortification until the Thaw. Months of howling winter winds, months of nothing to do but attend pitiful bindings. When we finally stagger out into the springtime air, thinner still and half mad, we thank Almighty we’ve lived to see the trees bud out and the river swell.

Next Thaw, someone will come. No one says that out loud, and I suspect it’s because no one believes it anymore. After eight decades of barely scratching out an existence here, the unsaid is louder, truer, than any declaration of hope: either everyone else is cut off, like us, or they’re already dead.

I lift the cloth from my knuckles to make sure the bleeding has stopped, then scan the dirt for a new spot to dig. I’m not strong enough to get the rest of the root I unearthed. It’s too far down, and besides, there are bound to be others nearer the surface. I rub at my brow absent-like and feel dirt smear across my forehead.

Oftentimes I wonder what they left behind for this. Pa says back years before we came, the coureurs de bois were the only ones traveling out this way, chasing after animal pelts. Then the animals those men were hunting got scarcer the further west they traveled, so they returned east to work the land.

But over decades, too many people arrived from the Old World; the colonies got crowded, relations with the First Peoples got tense. A few families—our ancestors—decided to press west. Pa says it was an odd assortment: English speakers looking for a better life, French speakers trying to escape being deported to the Old World, the offspring of French speakers and First Peoples who were tired of persecution for being of mixed blood. No way they all got along; I suspect the idea was to come in the safety of numbers, and spread out once they found suitable land.

But the emptiness should have warned them. Where were the First Peoples that were said to roam these lands? In the east, the First Peoples shared with the settlers from the Old World, taught them to survive on the new land; they mingled, had families together—became the mélange, whose blood remains in the people of the south quarter.

Here, just their ghosts remained, traces of people who had up and vanished. But where did they go? And why?

When the settlers halted in the woods just shy of the foothills, before the wall of Great Rock, they got an answer.

The malmaci had Taken those First Peoples. And then it came for them too.

It wiped out more than half those forest-dwelling settlers in a few short months, killed all the beasts of burden too. People would wake to find their loved ones’ bloodied, blistered corpses, and their livestock ravaged the same. Terrified, twenty or so families shored up together in a settlement on the banks of the river. People who chanced the woods to the west or the plains to the east either never returned or were found torn apart, their eyes and ears bleeding rivers, their spilled-out insides swollen and black.

A Council of men, led by Brother Stockham’s greatgrandpa, formed to bring order and safety. They built the Crossroads for anyone who defied their rule. Anyone who breached the borders, anyone unwilling to comply with settlement rules was deemed Wayward because they put everyone at risk from what lurked in the woods beyond.

We survive together, or we perish.

Those who spoke French called it le Mal—the bad thing. Those with First Peoples in their blood called it the maci-manitow—the evil spirit.

Honesty, Bravery, Discovery: these virtues create a strength that keeps the evil—the malmaci—at bay.

I guess my grandma’am didn’t have that strength.

Every day I ask my secret heart if everyone is right to look at me the way they do—like I don’t have it, neither. Today, sitting across from my pa’s sad eyes, it was trilling Wayward girl, Wayward girl.

I can see the Watchtower from where I’m sitting in the trees. It’s supposed to make me feel safe, but suddenly my skin is crawling at the thought of someone up there, watching me with scornful eyes.

A flash of black at the gates catches my eye. A Councilman is coming out across the flats. Can’t see who it is from the distance, but he won’t be coming to help gather berries or roots; he’d never have to do something so menial.

My chest gets tight. I don’t want to have to talk to whoever it is, not after being punished with Watch, not after last night.

I push back into the bramble, away from the flats. I’m still visible, but when the Councilman stops halfway to the woods to talk to a woman headed toward the fort, I dart behind a tree.

I look around the forest. Leaves shimmer all shades of gold and red. Branches catch the soft breeze and sigh, like the woods are thinking on some fond memory.

The north-quarter people call these trees les trembles, which Pa says speaks to the way the leaves move in the breeze, all trembling. They make a soft tinkling sound that builds to a roar in a big wind. Feels like it’s the Lost People, always whispering.

They’re whispering real plain right now. This way, they’re saying, this way.

I could duck down and keep searching for roots here, hidden from that Councilman’s eyes. Instead, I take a deep breath and head a bit further in, brushing past white birch saplings gleaming in the sun. The forest is quiet and there’s a prickle at my neck, but I go a little further, deep into the poplars.

Sunlight beams through the branches, tracing patterns on the forest floor. It’s beautiful and dizzying; it coaxes me forward while putting a chill to my spine. I shouldn’t go any further—it isn’t safe. People who wander too far don’t come back. People who wander too far are Taken.

But heading back means enduring Council’s stares, mayhap getting questioned about last night. Frère Andre might’ve been testing me after all, and turned me in. And then what? I shiver deep, press into my bad foot to focus on the pain. I can’t help but wonder if . . .

Pa would be relieved if I didn’t come back.

I picture that sad crease in his brow, his shame over our Stain. I make it worse—getting in my daydreaming way, being punished with Watch. And now, a third offense . . .

This way.

I move forward. The grasses get higher, the scrub thicker, so I have to push my way into the tangle of dogwood and wild rose. Branches catch at my tunic and force me to duck under. Deadfall trips me up every other step. I bend and crash through until I have to pull up short.

The woods have given way to a small, dry ravine. There was a creek here once, that’s plain, but now it’s a rocky bed with slippery shale walls, near impossible to traverse without hurting my foot something fierce. It’s my chance to turn back. I should turn back.

But I want my foot to hurt today.

I fumble down the steep bank to the dry creek bed and climb the other side. Every other tuft of grass tears away, so I use my fingernails, skinning my knuckles again as I scramble up the shale.

There’s a jumble of logs inside this line of trees: four crumbling walls caked with lichen and dirt. A left-behind from the first generation. There are a few messes like this in the woods outside the fortification; soggy ruins after years of the woods creeping mossy fingers around them, pulling them into the soil. Some of the first settlers must’ve lived out here. Before they shored up inside the fort.

Before they knew about the malmaci.

Heart beating fast, I push into the woods, putting the ghostly jumble to my back and out of mind. I push deep and deeper until the brush gives way once more—this time to a grove. It’s small; looks about thirty strides by twenty. The trees around it reach tall to the sky, and end in a circle of bright blue. The scrubby brush in the middle is scarce ankle-high.

I pause and listen hard. A white-throated sparrow trills in the bush and its mate answers. The breeze tinkles through the treetops, soft and sure. The woods around me teem with life I can’t see, which is right skittering if I think on it too hard, but this . . .

This is a little secret haven tucked away from those unknowns.

My shame and anger drift away. Moving into the center, I close my eyes and breathe the earthy air.

Nobody has been out here in years—decades. Mayhap I’m the very first person to find this grove.

I like that. I like that it’s just me out here. No wary eyes, no Pa, no shame.

A strange kind of peace fills me. Les trembles whisper with their tinkling voices, and both my feet feel solid, rooted into the forest floor like I’m a part of this grove, these woods. I breathe deep again. The Lost People are looking on me without judging. I can feel it on my skin.

The little voice in my head reminds me I’m addled. The Lost People were First Peoples, and they were Taken by the malmaci before our ancestors even arrived. The stories tell it that way, and Tom and I find their ancient traces—tools, bones—along the riverbank all the time. Only . . .

Only, deep down in my secret heart, I’ve always felt their absence as though it were a presence. As though they’re still here, somehow—just . . . lost. Tom’s the only one who knows I call them the Lost People, but he doesn’t tease me about it.

Course, I don’t tell him they call to me.

This way.

My eyes snap open.

A piece of sky is hanging from the brush on the far side. I squint.

No. A scrap of something.

I cross the grove to pull it from the tree. The cloth that comes off in my hands is beautiful, the color of an autumn sky. I turn it over, running my fingers along its strange smooth surface. And then my thoughts catch up to my hands.

Someone has been out here.

I grip the scrap real tight. Who? When?

A heady rush washes over me.

The last Taking happened before I was born. It was an old man from the south quarter; could this be what was left of him? Was he Taken in the night? Or in the day?

Suddenly the possibility of not returning to the fortification—ever—crashes into me. My throat gets tight and I need to take a few deep breaths to stop my head from spinning.

Think. Keep your head. Look around.

Beyond the tree I spot a broken branch, as though an animal has crashed through. Further on are more branches that look disturbed, but not recent. They aren’t bleeding sap; they were broken long ago. I look off through the brush, following the swept-aside branches.

It’s a path.

The grasses underfoot are tamped down by . . . footsteps?

But it can’t be a trail. Gatherers and trappers don’t come out this far anymore, haven’t for years. Any trails made by the first or second generation would be long overgrown.

My heart races, but the little voice in my head slows me up. Could be an old trail, still used by animals. Deer? No. The branches are broken off too high for deer.

Looks as though a person’s been through.

All right. Think.

The right thing to do would be to return and tell Council. They might send a group of armed Watchers to come explore.

But I can’t. I’m out too far: it’s Wayward, plain and simple. After last night, there’s no telling what Brother Stockham might decide about me. I have to turn around right now and keep quiet, or risk it alone.

Takings in the daytime are rare.

I listen to the woods again. There’s nothing but the tinkling of les trembles and the sparrow trill. But underneath it all the Lost People are calling to me, urging me forward.

I’ll just follow it a little ways.

I start in, moving as quiet as I’m able. The path is slight; I have to look careful. But I’m creeping forward so slow my eyes start to blur on the path. I look up to rest them, scanning the woods beyond, when a tree ahead of me shifts.

I slow . . . Surely it was the breeze. The tree shifts again. I freeze.

That tree has a right human-like form.

I drop to a crouch behind a bush, my heart beating wild.

Did they see me?

There’s a silence, so I rise on my haunches, risk a glance around the brush. The figure is dressed in dark clothes, a bison-skin cloak with hood, their back to me. Whoever it is stands still, glancing about.

I stay frozen, my breath caught.

Then the figure moves to turn and I duck once more. This withering cranberry bush is scarce cover; I pray my clothing blends in with the gray and brown. The damp smell of rot reaches my nose. The figure’s head is turned to the ground, searching for something, the face hidden deep inside the hood.

When it turns in my direction, I pull further behind the bush. Silent, I shift to my knees, bow my head, and cower small as I can.

Twigs snap and the leaves rustle with footsteps—coming straight for my hiding place.

My heart! It’s deafening, about to thump from my chest.

If they find me, I’m in a heap of trouble. Unless . . .

Unless it’s not someone from our settlement.

Excitement shoots through my fear. It’s not possible. How could they survive out here?

A thin fluting echoes through the forest. If it’s a birdcall, it’s no bird I know. It reminds me of the willow whistle some of the old men play. The rustling stops.

I pull my head up, slow, slow . . . and risk another look through the brush. I can’t see proper, but the dark shape is about twenty strides from me now. They’re turning away once more—this time in the direction of the sound that’s trilling through the trees. They haven’t seen me after all. My tongue works to free itself from the roof of my mouth to wet my lips.

My foot, crushed under my weight, hollers at me. I shift and rise ever so slight, to get a better view.

The figure is standing sideways to me, the head tilted in a listening way. Looking for something. The hood falls back. Pale skin, chin-length dark hair . . .

Brother Stockham.

No stranger at all. For half an addled moment I want to laugh—did I really think it wasn’t one of us? But the next thought crashes in: what’s he doing out this far?

The fluting sounds once more. He picks up his pace and disappears behind a jagged wall of trees. The whistle sounds again, softer, like it’s retreating. And then the woods are silent.

I get to my feet. There’s no way I can follow him through the brush quiet-like. My leg is singing with pain from climbing the ravine and crouching on it, and I’d be too slow without letting it drag.

I look to the sun. It’s far across the sky to the west. It’ll be dusk soon, and then dark. I should get back to the fort. Brother Stockham can move far faster than me, so he has more time to get back, once he’s done whatever he’s doing out here.

What could he be doing out here?

I give the trail one last glance, then I turn around and head back to the safety of the fortification. I’m back onto the Watch flats when I realize I traversed those woods without hardly thinking on it. I got back from the grove as though I’d been doing it all my life.

That night, my dreams are strange. I’m back on the trail and I’m trying to follow the path, but my feet are stuck to the forest floor. When I look down, I see they’re not my own; the toes are perfect, the skin smooth. They’re beautiful, but they don’t work proper and I am frozen in place, unable to move forward or back. A hawk circles above me, slow.

And then snow swirls in and I can hear a keening on the wind. It’s a wail, like the trees around me are calling and the sky is answering.

It’s La Prise coming in, and I can’t take shelter.