My name is Hannah Dory, and I have never been good enough.
Not faithful enough, or meek enough.
I have made horrible mistakes. Fatal ones.
Frozen grasses crunched beneath my feet as I walked along the edge of the forest. The sun was barely up, and mist rolled toward me over the barren fields.
I don’t deserve it, but I ask for Your help anyway. Not for me, but for what’s left of my family.
My fingers were blue with cold and clouds of my breath floated in the air before me. But I’d found a tiny clutch of waxcap mushrooms a ways back, and this had given me hope.
I’d gathered enough sticks and deadfall to last a few days—the trees weren’t ours to cut down, even if I’d had an axe or the strength—and I’d taught Conn how to mind the fire, to keep it burning when our mother lost herself in sadness.
If only I’d brought a blanket from the castle, a slab of pork, or even a handful of turnips. If only I hadn’t run away as fast as I could once the baron offered me my freedom.
My name is Hannah Dory, and I am—
A piercing scream split the air. I froze, but only for an instant. Then I began to sprint. I knew that sound! My heart was in my throat as I crashed through the underbrush. Briars snagged my skirt and tore at my hands, but I kept going. After a few breathless minutes I came out into a small clearing. I stopped, gasping, and looked around, and I saw a giant hawk struggling to free something from a thorny vine.
Then I saw what had screamed: a rabbit, its back broken, still caught in the bird’s grip.
I ran toward the hawk, waving my arms and yelling. “Go! Go!” The panicked bird flapped its great wings wildly, and a moment later, it was aloft, leaving its still-living prey behind.
I fell to my knees in gratitude. And then I crawled forward, lifted a rock, and smashed the rabbit’s skull.
It had been a long time since I’d been lucky enough to have a rabbit to skin, but I hadn’t forgotten how it was done. Making little cuts in the skin just above the rabbit’s knees, I stuck two fingers into the slits and pulled the skin down from the legs as if I were taking off a pair of stockings. Then I lay the rabbit on its back and cut through the skin of its belly from its tail to its neck. I was careful not to cut too deep, because if I pierced the stomach or the intestines, I’d ruin the meat. Then I stepped on the rabbit’s back feet to hold it in place, and yanked the skin up toward the rabbit’s head. It was grisly work, but it was over quickly.
At home, I put the carcass into the pot over the fire, along with water, a few shreds of old cabbage, and the crust of Zenna’s bread that I had not eaten. The fire crackled, and soon the smell—rich, meaty, wonderful—filled the cottage.
Then I took my little brother aside. “You must take care of Mother,” I said. “She’ll forget to eat. She might forget to feed you. So you must do all the work. You have to make sure that the two of you survive.”
His lower lip trembled. “Why? Why can’t you do it?”
“I have to go,” I said. “I failed to save us once. But I’m not going to fail again.”