During the next two days, Bri rebuffed each of my attempts to speak with her. With no source for parchment, the hours I could have spent copying the letter were wasted in fretting. Brantley, worried by the low stores of provisions at Windswell, busied himself with fishing and training Teague, a young lad who wanted to become a herder. He also took time to catch up with friends, and, I noticed, spent long hours with Brianna. He repaired thatch on her roof, stacked firewood, and loaded her smoker with fish. The villagers welcomed him at every threshold, sought his company all day and invited him to sit by the fire at night. I was happy for him, but part of me held a dull ache. While I caught glimpses of him enjoying time with everyone else, he avoided me.

One morning, I slipped outside moments before the primary sunrise, leaving Fiola snoring in her bed, and walked to the water’s edge, barefoot. I’d taken to touching the earth freely, no longer afraid of the voice and eager for any words from the Maker.

True to habit, Brantley stood on the shore patting Navar, studying the horizon, and preparing to head out for fish.

Navar noticed me first and tossed her head with a wide grin, shaking droplets onto Brantley.

Brantley spun, and when he saw me, his eyes narrowed. “You’re up early, dancer.”

I offered a tentative smile. “I hoped to catch you before you left for the day.”

“I’m busy. The sooner I restock supplies for the town, the sooner I can see you on your way.”

I blanched. He truly couldn’t wait to be rid of me.

He must have seen the hurt in my eyes, because his strong posture sagged and he softened the harsh edge to his voice. “Every day you’re here puts Windswell in danger. You do understand that, don’t you?”

“It’s you who doesn’t understand.” Frustration tightened my muscles. “The Maker’s letter is important. It—”

“Fine. Leave the letter here and one day when there’s less risk, folks who are interested can pass it around.”

“But that’s not what—”

“Rumors have reached the village of soldiers approaching from the midrim. I promised the patriarch I’d bring in one more herd of fish, since food has been so scarce, but time is fleeting. Now, if you’ll let me get to my fishing, we can leave tomorrow.”

“Not until I—”

He bounded onto Navar’s back and with a terse signal of his hand, she raced away, although she twisted her long neck to send me an apologetic glance.

I sank to the spongy tangleroot, dangling my feet in the milky water, water that stretched into infinity. I’d accomplished nothing here, and I’d run out of time. Brantley would drag me from the village by force tomorrow morning. Somehow I needed to share the letter. The people of Windswell had the right to know its contents.

I hurried back to the cottage, where Fiola was rising. My words tumbled out, full of confusion and frustration as I told her Brantley’s plans. “And Brianna won’t help me find parchment. She won’t even talk with me. And even if I found a handful of people to listen, there’s so little time. And . . .”

Fiola smoothed my hair back from my face. “Take a breath, little one. I have an idea. Why don’t you start the morning fire? I’ll be back soon.”

She hobbled out slowly, wrapped in a cloak against the morning chill.

I appreciated her kindness, but there seemed little she could do. I tended the hearth and pulled herbs from a clay pot and set them to steep in a kettle near the flames.

By the time I prepared a few lopsided saltcakes, she bustled in the door, sniffed the aroma rising from the kettle, and gave me an approving smile.

“I’ve asked the patriarch to give you an audience with the village assembly. We usually meet once a week, but I explained you may not be here that long. He will send out word for everyone to gather just before the primary sunset.”

A thrill of hope shot up my spine. “I can read the message and let the Maker speak for Himself.”

She nodded and poured a mug of tsalla, then sank into her chair. Her rapid errand had left her breathing heavily. “And Brantley usually doesn’t return from fishing until the subsunset, so he won’t be here to interfere.” Regret clouded her eyes. “That boy has been the joy of my life, but when he thinks he’s right, arguing with him is like holding back a tidal wave.”

I hid my disappointment. I had hoped after all our adventures together, Brantley would support me in this vital moment. But Fiola was right. Perhaps he’d only try to stop me. I summoned the last of my confidence. “Maybe if the assembly hears the letter, they’ll let me stay and make a copy.” And maybe when others accepted the truth, Brantley would finally listen, as well.

Outside the longhouse in the soft glow of the subsun, I held the Maker’s letter in one arm, and smoothed the fabric of the new tunic Fiola had made for me. No more clumsy peasant dress to tangle my ankles, or stained and torn dancer garb to remind others of my past. The caramel-colored fabric over new clean leggings gave the freedom of movement I preferred, yet helped me fit in with rim villagers. I hoped my appearance would disarm the folk when I spoke, at least enough so that they would let me share what the Maker had told me.

As I approached the steps leading to the entrance, Brantley emerged from the nearby woods. He was back early! His sudden appearance kindled a tiny hope in my heart. With him standing beside me, I’d have a chance to gain an open-minded hearing.

Brantley gripped my arm and yanked me away from the longhouse. “Fair warning. I’ll do whatever I must to stop you. Stirring up our village will only lead to harm.” The words gritted out, harsh as the rough stone that formed this building on the inland border of Windswell. They scraped over my heart, leaving a raw wound and brutally extinguishing my flicker of optimism.

I pried his bruising fingers from my arm. “I don’t wish harm on anyone here. Forgetting the Maker caused the harm. Maybe after you hear—”

“There’s nothing in there I want to hear.” He flung a wild gesture toward the bound parchments and growled like an angry predator. Too bad I couldn’t tame him as I had the forest hound.

I leveled my chin. “Your people can make their own decisions. But I can’t leave until I’ve told them about the letter.”

His jaw flexed. “You’re still planning to throw yourself into the path of soldiers while you wander the island, endangering everyone you meet?”

Precious Maker, can’t You make him see? My pulse throbbed in my temples, swelling into a dull ache.

“Carya, they’re ready.” Fiola peered out the doorway, stooped and fragile, especially compared to Brantley, yet strong in her own way. “Brantley, oh good!” she said, as if unaware of the tension in the air. “I’m glad you’re here. Will you help me? My legs aren’t holding up so well these days.”

After shooting me one more warning glare, he went to help his mother find a seat.

I trailed behind, and my fingers spasmed in their fierce grip on the letter.

The long meeting hall seemed larger than it had appeared from outside, with rows of benches encircling the center. The sun had baked the pine walls all day, filling the air with forest scent and hints of smoke. The stern faces around the room reminded me of my testing day at the Order, and I wished my task were as simple as remembering and performing a pattern.

The patriarch introduced me and informed the gathered people that I’d requested an opportunity to speak. I searched his careworn features for a hint of either support or opposition, but as he took a seat, his expression was neutral and unreadable.

All eyes focused on me, some open and curious, others narrowed with speculation. Brantley leaned on the wall near the doorway and glowered. I looked away from him, hoping he wouldn’t interrupt. The benches creaked as the earth shifted in response to an ocean roll beneath us.

I cleared my throat. “Many of you may remember Varney’s grandfather. He had a very special charge, which he meant to pass along to his son.”

A few heads nodded, one or two older men murmured agreement. They remembered the tragedy when Varney’s father was lost.

I held up the letter, turning slowly. “This was the charge, and a few days ago, Varney gave it to me. But before I read it to you, I want to be honest.” I risked another glance in Brantley’s direction. “The Order disapproves of its contents.”

A few dark chuckles sounded from the benches.

“Then we’re sure to like it,” a burly man muttered, eliciting more laughs.

My smile flickered, then faded. “I want to be clear. Even hearing these contents could be dangerous. If you’d rather not be part of this, please leave now.”

I counted my breaths in the same way I had when holding a long pose in a difficult pattern.

In the potent silence, a foot scuffed. A young woman stood, pulling her husband up as well. Without a word, they left. A few older landkeepers shook their heads and walked out also.

One more breath. Another. Would they all dart away like copper fish? Too bad Navar wasn’t here to herd them back together.

Brianna stood and lifted Orianna to her hip. She walked to the door and stopped, watching me. Orianna murmured something, and her mother nodded and leaned against the wall. If Bri walked out, I was sure many other village leaders would leave as well. Her stance near the door made it clear she would listen only until she chose to leave.

Fair enough.

A mother with several children ducked and scurried to the door, as if her crouched posture made her invisible. Instead the whole assembly saw her worried urging of her children as she hurried away.

I waited two slow breaths more. No one else moved. Brantley crossed his arms, but stayed.

Maker, please make Yourself known. We forgot You, but we need You.

I opened the first page and began to read.

When they heard the introduction about the dancer who penned these pages, grumbles rose from the benches. I’d considered skipping that part, since I knew it would only raise antagonism, but it seemed wrong to exclude a single page.

I read faster, passion fueling my voice. After I shared the story of how our world of Meriel was formed and set to travel on the wide oceans, I swallowed to ease my dry throat.

A few of the older villagers nodded approvingly, and I grasped that encouragement, turned a page, and read on.

Soon I was lost in the narrative of a loving Maker who warned His people not to forget Him, His plans for our world, and His longing to be known. The silence grew so thick that at one point I glanced up, wondering if the room had emptied. Instead, everyone listened so intently no other sounds dared interrupt.

I continued reading about the gifts bestowed on each person, some to dance and encourage the ongoing creation, others to keep the land, others to herd, others to cook, and teach, and build. My heart constricted when I thought of the way the Order had corrupted a gift and sought to place itself above all other callings, sought to control the way the gift of dance was used.

A droplet fell onto the last page. I touched my face, surprised to realize tears were pouring down my cheeks. I pressed my lips together and closed the letter. I didn’t know what to do next. Beloved Maker, this would be a good time for You to show Yourself to everyone gathered.

No vivid light approached from the doorway, but Brianna’s mouth hung open, the lines of resentment in her face melting away. I scanned the benches, where many faces mirrored my own tears.

I finally dared look at Brantley. His scowl pierced me like a soldier’s sword. He lurched to his feet and left, the scrape of his bench echoing through the longhouse.

More tears slid down my cheeks, and I stifled a sob.

Fiola, undeterred by her son’s abrupt departure, hobbled to the center. Enfolding me in her arms, she tilted her face upward. “What was lost is found. Oh, Maker, we are sorry our neglect and fear pushed You from our village. Forgive us. Grant us courage to live in truth. Truly, indeed.”

“And truly, indeed,” several people echoed in a hushed tone.

“Truly, indeed!” Fiola repeated with all the volume her frail body could muster.

“And truly, indeed!” The group spoke with more conviction.

A young woman with a babe in arms rose, lifting her gaze past the ceiling of the longhouse. “Precious Maker, we sent our girls away when the Order asked, forgetting that You alone are our Protector. Forgive us.”

Murmured agreements floated up from the benches.

A gruff old man hefted himself to his feet, his voice breaking as he said, “We argued about which gifts are most worthy. I’m sorry.”

As more people stood to speak, I helped Fiola back to her bench, and sat beside her. Although I didn’t see Him in tangible form, the Maker was present, and I wanted to leave the center of the room to Him. Watching Him move throughout the villagers of Windswell was as awe-inspiring as seeing Him travel on light across the ocean or lift me above the world. This was a miracle hidden within the ordinary, but a miracle all the same.

Prayer after prayer rose from hearts broken in repentance and souls awakening.

A hand lightly rested on my back. I glanced up.

Brianna’s eyes were reddened with tears. “Dearest Maker, I resented a dancer who only sought to share truth. Show me how to help her.”

Gratitude filled me like a deep breath, and I stood to hug her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“And I’m sorry for all the harm the dancers caused you.”

The patriarch stood and cleared his throat. “This is an astounding discovery. Our village will make changes.” He sounded congested, his nose clogged and an emotional hitch in his throat. “Let’s celebrate that what was lost is now found.”

Those in the longhouse poured out into the clearing. A man lit a bonfire and drew in some of the villagers who had left the meeting. Murmurs and quiet interactions built to laughter, hugs, and excited chatter. Mothers bounced children at their hips, and teens jostled each other for a place close to the fire.

I sat on the longhouse steps, soaking in the scene, and whispering my gratitude to the Maker for the way the village had embraced His letter.

In the shadows under a pine at the edge of the clearing, Brantley leaned against the trunk, also watching.

A woman brought out a stringed instrument and plucked a few notes. A cheer rose and she began to strum a folk song that made my toes tap. All those years music had been forbidden to me. Perhaps that had been one of the cruelest losses. I’d never known how powerful music could be.

A boy ran to Brantley and tugged his arm. I couldn’t hear over the singing, but watched as Brantley shook his head, then after more urging, he finally shrugged and drew his whistle from a tunic pocket. Was he going to call Navar inland?

Still remaining in the shadows, Brantley added the high, clear notes of his whistle to the song. In a rhythm similar to a rain pattern, his melody skipped and jumped. A man grabbed his wife and swung her into the clearing. A group of boys joined hands and snaked around the bonfire, galloping and tugging at each other. More people moved and spun in any open space and the music urged them forward.

I pressed a fist to my mouth. What were they thinking? It was taboo for anyone to dance unless they trained for years in the Order. These were no formal patterns, but exuberant expressions. The Maker’s letter had said that some had the gift of dance . . . the special sort of dance that the Maker infused with creative power. However, it hadn’t actually said it was wrong for others to dance just for the joy of it. Yet a lifetime in the Order made me uneasy at the sight.

Uncovering the truth when I’d lived in lies for so long would be an ongoing process for me. I gnawed on my lip, but stayed to watch, wishing I dared join in.

As the rhythm built, everyone began to jump together, bouncing higher each time. How did untrained dancers get such elevation in their jumps? The longhouse steps swayed, and I realized the coordinated jumps were moving the earth like a sheet stretched and billowed between two washer girls.

A surprised laugh broke from my throat. Here was dancing that cast away loss and sorrow and left room for only rejoicing. My sort of dancing was clearly not the only way the Maker blessed His people.