Daks couldn’t have heard what he had heard. He inhaled from his pipe and then sent out a lengthy exhale.

  He found himself taking a step towards Prim as she sobbed and wrapping his arms around her. She jumped at first with a small cry, but then her body relaxed into his.

  “Why? Why?” she kept crying.

  Daks had no words. But he did not let go.

  After what seemed like the longest time, Prim’s sobs slowed, dissolving into sniffling and then silence. She pulled back.

  Daks walked Prim to the barn in silence. What else could be said? His first thought was to comfort a crying woman, but in light of the circumstances, he wasn’t sure he should. What was a person supposed to do or say in such a situation?

  He let her into the barn, and she gazed at him as she pulled the doors closed. Her eyes showed a different kind of tired.

  As Daks laid on the couch, eyes open, his mind swam in the outrageous confession this woman had made to him. What was this?

  He had known Prim nearly a month and had never seen anything that would have shown that she could be capable of such a violent act. He hadn’t lived a very long life thus far, but, anymore, people rarely surprised him with the awful things they did. Prim was so young, though, several years younger than he. Strangely self-aware. So good with his child and even seemed to care about her. Courageous enough to tell him—courageous or mad?

  Why had he held her? That seemed like the least right response to a murder confession. And not even an accident. No. Prim had confessed to deliberate murder.

  And he was allowing her to stay on his property with his daughter—all that was left of Quin—and his cousins whom his aunt and uncle had trusted him with. What kind of father—nay, what kind of man was he? So stupid! And he had let her stay, even after she had told him what she had done.

  That woman could come back into his home and kill him.

  But she wouldn’t do that. He knew she wouldn’t.

  There was a dead woman out there. Her son was now an orphan. They deserved justice.

  He imagined Prim hanging lifelessly by her neck in a loop of rope from a branch of the Dead Tree in the city.

  But he had done so much worse than she. He had been given many chances and had finally taken one—Quin. How could he condemn her when he had been given so much?

  He could not be the one to tell the Spotters where their fugitive was, much less bring her to them. He wouldn’t.

  And Ora had latched onto Prim so tightly. He couldn’t take Prim from her in that way.

  Prim had committed murder.

  He couldn’t think about it anymore. Exhausted, he turned over and went to sleep. Decisions were for daytime.

  Prim couldn’t sleep. Not one wink. She was tired—oh, so tired!—but her mind kept running over things. Why why why! So often, she had yearned to leave the pub. She was finally a grown woman after all. But she couldn’t bring herself to leave the only people who wanted her in some way…at least, they had once wanted her.

  She hadn’t even been in a fight since the orphanage, and that was mostly out of necessity. And now…she was a murderer?

  She should have turned herself in. She could feel the wooden handle of the kitchen knife in her hand, as if she still held it in a rigid grip. The rage. The rage had been palpable.

  A scalding, Prim-shaped balloon stretched inside her body from her head through all her limbs, expanding until she felt she would explode. She hesitated but for a moment before sinking the blade into Aiglentine’s back.

  Suddenly, the balloon collapsed inside Prim. She pulled the knife out, without thinking, and dropped it. The knife clattered loudly on the stone floor.

  What had she done?

  She backed away.

  Aiglentine dropped the dish she had been washing.

  Prim felt the plate shatter. How was it so loud?

  Aiglentine grabbed the sink. Her breathing was forced and strange-sounding. Slowly, she turned back towards Prim.

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  Prim’s eyes felt so wide that they might fall out of her skull. How could this be real?

  Aiglentine’s face contorted in bafflement and then panic. She reached out toward Prim, falling slower than Prim thought possible. Not a word spoken. Not a scream or even a whisper.

  Prim’s feet were made of stone, her eyes fixed on the woman laying on the floor before her. Wisps of sweat-soaked, dirty blond hair clung to Aiglentine’s face. Her slight frame bleeding, wheezing, and struggling to breathe. So much blood. How was there so much blood? The wheezing continued for ages, but Prim still could not move.

  Finally, Aiglentine’s body became silent and still, her gray eyes glossy.

  Prim’s eyes darted to the knife in a pool of blood on the floor.

  The sound of footsteps on the floor above freed her feet from the stone floor. Mildred and mayhaps Scur were awake. Prim rushed out of the kitchen, through the main pub area, and burst out the front door. She slammed into Pepin on the stairs outside as he was coming up with bags from the market.

  “Prim, what’s wrong? What happened? Are you well?” His face would forever be etched in her mind, the face of ignorant innocence.

  Prim pulled her hands off his shoulders. Now his tunic was sodden with bloody handprints. She gasped. She looked at her hands, both of which dripped with blood. Blood soaked her skirt and apron that she had not taken off from the night before. She pushed past Pepin.

  He called after her with an increasingly alarmed tone until his voice faded.

  She ran.

  Prim tossed and turned all night, sobbing as quietly as she could so not to disturb the boys in the loft, crying into her pillow.

  Her eyes closed but for a moment and then jolted open to the touch of a hand on her shoulder.

  “Prim, breakfast is ready,” Sandy said quietly.

  She looked up at his sweet, awkward face, plastered with a thousand freckles. She could tell by his tone and the concern in his eyes that he had heard her crying in the night or Daks had told him something about their conversation. Or both.

  “Thank you, Sandy. I’ll be there shortly. You all don’t need to wait for me.”

  Daks stood by the fireplace, stoking the fire, when he heard the front door open. He looked up as the flames reached maturity.

  Prim’s face was weathered, her large eyes dreary with dark eye bags. Her hair, messy waves over her shoulders. A loop of hair perched on top of her head. She appeared similarly to when she first emerged from the chicken cype so long ago. She nearly fell over taking off her boots, but she caught herself on the wooden chest beneath the coat rack. She sat down and put on her house shoes. She looked up at Ora and the boys sitting at the table.

  “I’m sorry for sleeping in. You didn’t have to wait for me.”

  “Well, Alf and Sandy thought you might need some extra rest this morning, and I agreed. No apology needed. Just go sit down and enjoy.”

  Daks pulled out a chair for her. “Come sit.” He took his own seat once Prim was settled.

  “Why did Prim need more sleep?” Ora asked.

  “Hush, Rae-Rae,” Alf whispered.

  A plate of corn bread and boiled eggs sat at each of their places at the table along with a mug of milk.

  They all bowed their heads and crossed their hands over their chests. “O Gracious Eric, we are so grateful for this food and drink and for the roof over our heads. Show us your ways and bless the work we do. Atcha.”

  “Atcha,” they all echoed.

  As they ate, Sandy and Alf started laughing with Ora about something one of the cows had done the day before.

  Daks could feel Prim’s gaze drilling into his face as he ate. He finally looked up after a few bites of egg.

  Her eyes begged for reassurance.

  He nodded. She could stay. He didn’t understand why, but she could stay—should stay.

  Prim’s body unclenched slightly.

  Ora ate voraciously. Daks smiled. “Slow down, Rae-Rae.”

  “But, Daidi, we’re going to town tomorrow! There’s so much to do! I want to hurry so I can help!”

  Prim said, “I hope I remember all you’ve taught me.”

  “You will!” Ora said. “You’re so good at milking the cows and getting eggs without getting pecked by Clifford!”

  “Besides,” Alf said, “Me and Sandy will be doing most of the work anyways. Don’t worry.”

  Daks chuckled. “As long as they’re fed, they’ll be happy.”

  Prim smiled. “Sandy and Alf or the animals?”

  “Yes.”

  They all laughed.

  There it was—this dissonance between the Prim Daks had come to know and the Prim she had described last night. He couldn’t make sense of it. It would be good to have some time away to sort out his thoughts.

  He watched Prim’s laggard nibbling on her cornbread. She wore such a heavy coat of guilt and shame and fear. It had been in front of his eyes the whole time, but he hadn’t seen it.

  The following day, Prim, Ailfrit, and Sandy waved as they watched Daks and Ora drive away in the cart drawn by the black and white-speckled horse, Maeve. The sky no longer imbued with the reds and purples of the sunrise but instead veiled by a blueish-gray mist.

  “Bye, Prim! Bye, Sandy! Bye, Alf!” Ora waved violently. “Take good care of Clover! She’s my favorite!”

  “We will!” The boys closed the front gate and then walked away to continue the farm work. Prim stood watching until the cart went over a small hill and behind a clump of trees.

  The boys had already done the morning chores. She dragged herself back to the cabin. She dropped onto the sofa. Her eyes bathed in the light of the fire. The flames flickered darkly.

  Daks had said they’d return in a sennight. What if he had used her to help around the farm only to bring back Spotters to collect her?

  She would stand on a stool under the Dead Tree as they dropped a loop of rope over her head. They would tighten the rope. She would look out at the crowd rolling in rage and vengeance. Right out front would be Pepin, staring up at her with a face of stone—no more innocence, no more joy.

  She rolled up into a knot of limbs, too exhausted to cry anymore. Could a person die of shame? She couldn’t imagine enduring this for years. It was impossible to fully block it from her thoughts every moment. She ran her fingers through her hair and then pulled it tight. She had hoped the discomfort on her scalp would distract her from the pricking, scratching, chafing throughout her body. For the shortest measurable moment, it worked, but then the mind-swallowing, madness-inducing pain of reality returned in full force.

  How was she still alive?

  She had stolen so much from Pepin. He was only a few years younger than Sandy, only a few years older than Ora. Now he was like Prim—no mother, no father. The image of his eyes from that morning hovered relentlessly in her mind.

  Her stomach roared. Cold had crept over her. The fire was now down to mere embers. How long had she been sitting there?

  The fog clogged up her mind as she willed herself to move off the sofa. She nursed the fire back to life. Afterwards, she wandered to the kitchen to start dinner for her and the boys.