THE HAND SPINS ME ABOUT, DIGGING INTO MY skin. Brother Jameson looms over me, flanked by another Councilman. Behind him, Brother Stockham stands in his cloak, arms crossed, one thumb grazing his bottom lip.

“Sister Emmeline, we have some things to speak on,” Brother Jameson says. His face is smug, satisfied. And full of hate.

Brother Stockham makes an inviting sweep of his arm toward the door. He doesn’t look angry, but he’s watching me close.

I swallow hard and move forward into the men. When I cast a quick glance behind, Tom is standing in the dim light, arms at his sides, eyes wide with fear. And anguish.

Brother Jameson forces me outside the barns and into the glare of the setting sun. I’m blind a moment and miss the step, turning my ankle on the earth. I bite back a cry.

There’s a woman spreading seed for chickens outside the coops. She looks up curious-like, then back at her work just as quick. A man hauling skins passes by, his eyes low. Brother Jameson keeps his large hand on my shoulder as we walk, and Brother Stockham falls into step beside me.

He glances at my hand. “That is an unusual ring, Emmeline. Where did you get it?”

Bleed it! I’d forgotten to hide it when I left the shack. I was so concerned with getting back to the fort with the journal . . .

I swallow hard and force myself to meet his eyes. “It . . . was my grandma’am’s.”

Brother Stockham raises his eyebrows.

I look between the men, my chest tight, my thoughts skittering every which way. As we’re heading through the courtyard, something flashes in the corner of my eye. I glance to the side. Shaved head, arms crossed, watching from a corner of the weapons shack: Kane. A wave of dizziness washes me and I have to grab at Brother Stockham’s arm so I don’t stumble. I hide my face in my hood, my eyes blurring with tears.

We climb the stairs to the Council building, Brother Jameson leading the way, Brother Stockham and the other Councilman at my back. Inside the doors, Brother Stockham turns to face me.

“Emmeline, Council has learned you left the riverbank today. Both a Watcher and a gatherer saw you return from the woods.”

I can’t speak, can’t move. His quarters are still. No sound. No life.

“You betrayed my trust,” Brother Stockham says. “And you have committed a serious offense. It pains me greatly, but justice must be done, for the continued safety of the settlement.”

My stomach drops through the floor. Jacob Brigston swims into my mind—tied up, thrashing in Council’s grip.

My voice comes out a rasp. “What kind of justice?”

“Council has advised the most severe of punishments.” He presses his lips together and the weight of his words sinks in. He means the Crossroads.

Panic shoots through me. “But surely heading out to the woods isn’t an offense that warrants—”

“If it were just the once, no.” Brother Jameson cuts me off. “But we know about your wanderings. You are dangerous, Emmeline. You don’t believe your Wayward actions risk the settlement.” He looks to Brother Stockham. “That Cariou boy did well.”

My blood turns to ice.

Brother Stockham speaks. “I have asked Council for one day’s reprieve, so that I might pray on this matter before meting your punishment.” I try to draw a breath. “Council warned me of this possibility. I am devastated that I could not see how shortsighted my proposal was.”

But he doesn’t look devastated; not one bit. There’s something glimmering in his eyes. Admiration? Excitement?

The Councilmen shift, impatient-like. Brother Stockham inclines his head down the hall, and the men turn and herd me along the passageway. A large door stands open at the end. It looks heavy, like a cellar door, and has a bolt on the outer side.

“You will remain here for the night.”

Brother Jameson pushes me hard from behind. I stumble forward into the small space, my leg on fire.

“Brother Jameson will alert your father that you have been detained,” Brother Stockham says.

Brother Jameson speaks in a low growl. “Your Waywardness will not be the demise of this settlement, Emmeline. We will not allow it.”

The door slams shut with a heavy clang behind me. The bolt slides across the lock.

Their footsteps fade. There is no window in this room, only a husk mattress in one corner. The entire space is three strides by three strides. The air feels close, like there’s not enough of it. I turn around and press at the door, knowing it’s useless; it’s bolted from the outside. There’s no way out.

I stand, listening to the quiet. Then Tom’s scared face and Matisa’s trusting eyes swim before me.

If the wrong person finds us, all is lost. This I know.

A wail builds in my chest like a gale-force wind.

I think of the book tucked inside Pa’s satchel, his sad eyes . . . when they tell him . . .

My secret heart shatters. My knees give out and I drop to the floor, curling in, my face to the floorboards, the wail bursting out in a desperate keen. Tears stream down my neck in a scalding river.

I’ve failed outright.

I don’t know who knows about the journal, who was hiding it. I don’t know what it says. If Tom turns it in, they’ll think Pa was hiding it for me. I need to set them straight. Except . . .

If I save Pa, there’s still Matisa. If I don’t speak on her, no one will ever know the truth. They’ll gag me and bind me and drag me to the Crossroads. I’ll forever be the Stained girl who followed a Wayward legacy. But if I turn Matisa over to the wrong person . . .

All is lost.

What does that mean? That I’m not just sentencing myself, I’m sentencing everyone?

That Cariou boy did well.

I think about Kane standing in the courtyard, looking on. Sobs wrack me. I was lying to myself. Deep down, underneath all of my hurt and rage, I believed him. I believed he loved me. My entire body aches with the memory of him pressed close in that storeroom. The story he told me . . .

I cry for what must be hours, cry until I have no tears left—until my whole body is weak, useless. Then I pull myself along the rough floor, onto the husk mattress, and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The whine of the bolt wakes me. Someone is opening the door. It’s too dark yet for it to be day. For an addled moment, I see Kane stepping over the threshold.

Then Brother Stockham’s face appears sharp in the shadows, lit by a single candle.

He holds a dipper of water toward me.

I climb to my feet, my body stiff, the front of my tunic still wet with tears. My foot screams with my deadweight as I stumble toward him. I take the dipper and gulp the cold water. I’m used to the dull ache of hunger in my belly, but I’ve never been so thirsty.

I hand him back the dipper. He smiles.

Brother Jameson appears behind him, twisting a bit of twine in his hands.

I stumble back toward the wall, my heart springing into my throat. “Please . . .”

“Emmeline, everything will be all right. Please don’t fight while Brother Jameson binds your hands,” Brother Stockham says.

Brother Jameson crosses toward me. In my mind’s eye I can see the Wayward shearer thrashing about on the ground, reflecting in Jameson’s bright-blue eyes. Brother Jameson’s knuckles going white on the leather twine . . .

I near spill every thought then and there. But I look to Brother Stockham and freeze. He has a finger to his lips in a shushing motion. And there’s something in his eyes, something reassuring. Like it is going to be all right.

Jameson grabs my wrists behind my back. He wraps them, and as he tightens the knot, the twine bites into my skin. I don’t cry out. I’m filling my mind with thoughts of the golden poplars, the shining river, the heady smell of sage.

Jameson forces a strip of cloth into my mouth and ties it behind my head, ripping stray wisps from my messy plait. I can feel a note of panic creeping into my thoughts. I squeeze my eyes shut and picture:

Swallows swooping along the banks, humming insects, sweet clover.

They lead me from the Council building into the cool blue of early morning; the sun isn’t up. Everything seems real peaceful, the way the river does when it freezes. There are Councilmen standing on the tops of the walls—no Watchers. Brother Stockham blows out the candle and hands it and the empty dipper to Brother Jameson. Then he takes my arm and steers me toward the east. Are we going to see my pa? Are they going to let him say goodbye before they take me? Should I tell Brother Stockham about the journal—that I put it in Pa’s satchel?

Les trembles moving in the wind, showers of gold snowflakes.

We don’t go to the quarters. We head toward the gates, where another Councilman stands. He opens it as we approach. Brother Stockham nods back to Brother Jameson, who falls behind. Then Brother Stockham picks up his pace as we pass through the gates.

It’s just us on the Watch flats. He’s pulling me along and I have to quicken my pace, dragging my leg as we go. Why are we heading east? What did Brother Stockham decide last night? The twine cuts into my wrists and I nearly choke at the spit gathering in the back of my mouth.

Shining river, diving swallows.

The cliff walls have a light dust of snow coating their tear stains; the wind is bitter cold. He takes me past the bend in the river and starts along the trail to the Cleansing Waters.

When we get to the boulder gate, where the river speeds up to press through the gap in a roar, all my calming thoughts vanish in the wind. Chunks of ice swirl toward the opening. When they hit the gate, they splinter and rush through or are forced under and lodge in place. I remember that bundle I threw into the waters just weeks ago, remember my dream. It was alive when I threw it . . .

There’s a soft bleating sound on the wind, like a lamb looking for its ewe. I look about, searching for the beast, but then realize it’s coming from me. I’m crying again. My tears are drying in cold rivers on my cheeks.

Brother Stockham turns to me. He frowns.

“Emmeline,” he says, reproachful. He pulls the gag away from my mouth and wipes his thumb across my cheek. “I told you everything would be all right.”