My eyes snapped open like window shutters in a storm. Everything looked fuzzy at first—just blobs of color swimming in the dusty sunlight. I wiggled my toes. Ouch. Then fingers. Ouch, again, checking if I was really alive. My whole body felt resembled the time I fell out of the apple tree and landed on a rock pile.
"F-Fleda...?" My voice came out all croaky, giving the impression a frog with a cold.
The door creaked open. A blurry gold shape launched itself at me. "Sis!"
Fleda's hug squeezed the breath right out of my lungs. Her tears soaked through my nightshirt, warm and sticky. "Y-You slept forever! Like a cat but uglier!"
"Again?" I tried laughing, but it turned into a cough. "How... long?"
"A whole week!" She held up seven fingers, her own hands wrapped in bandages that smelled akin to a mint salve. "Fram's dad carried you back from... from..."
Her chin wobbled. I patted her hair the way Mom used to—used to before the iron poker and black-hole eyes. "It's okay. I'm tougher than old boot leather."
Fleda sniffled, examining my face, thinking I was a messed-up puzzle. "You look like when the goats trampled the pumpkin patch."
"Gee, thanks."
She helped me sit up, propping pillows behind me. Sunlight streamed through the cracks in Fram's walls, making the dust sparkle. My arms appeared to be overripe plums—purple and yellow bruises everywhere. The worst was the burn on my chest, shaped like Mom's favorite iron spoon.
"Hungry?" Fleda bounced on her toes, suddenly all business. "I made something!"
Before I could answer, she scurried out and returned balancing a chipped bowl. The steam smelled autumn leaves and secret recipes.
"Ta-da! Mushroom soup!" She thrust it under my nose, nearly spilling hot broth on the quilt. "I picked the mushrooms myself! Well, Albert helped. And Fram's dad checked for poison. But I stirred the pot!"
The first sip surprised me. Rich and earthy, with little onion bits floating akin to a tiny rafts. "Fleda! This is... this is..."
"Gross? Too salty? I knew I shouldn't have added the—"
"Amazing!" I slurped louder than polite, broth dripping down my chin. "Way better than Mom's!"
Fleda's cheeks turned pink as sunrise. "Really?"
"Cross my heart." I made an X over the spoon-shaped burn. "You'll be the best chef in the whole village!"
She beamed, then froze mid-smile. "Your... your locket."
The silver pendant felt colder than creek ice against my skin. We both stared at its strange glowing runes—the ones that hadn't been there before.
"Pretty," Fleda whispered.
"Scary," I countered.
"Pretty scary. It reminds me of glowworms in the outhouse."
We giggled until my ribs ached. Outside, Fram's dad chopped wood—thunk, thunk, thunk—a steady sound that made the walls feel safer.
Fleda curled up beside me, her bandaged arm resting gently on my least-bruised leg. "Sis? What if... what if she comes back?"
The soup turned to stone in my belly. I thought of Mom's smile-stretched-too-wide, her crow-black eyes. Of the way she'd hummed while swinging the poker.
"Then we run," I said, fingering the locket's icy edges. "And keep running till we find a place with... with no moms. Just us and a million cows."
Fleda wrinkled her nose. "And a cheese castle?"
"And a cheese castle," I promised.
She yawned, her breath evening out against my shoulder. The locket's glow softened to a sleepy shimmer, painting stories on the ceiling—tales of faraway lands where sisters could heal faster than bruises, where nightmares dissolved in dawn light.
I counted Fleda's freckles instead of cracks this time. Thirteen on her left cheek. Twenty-seven on the right.
Enough to wish on.
***
Night crept in without us noticing. Fleda and I had been chattering like sparrows, our words stitching the hours together until Fram's knock startled us. His dad loomed in the doorway, smelling of pine resin and fresh earth.
"Up already, little duck?" Uncle Theo's voice rumbled like distant thunder. Even with his shirt sleeves rolled up, I could see the new scratches raking his forearms—angry red lines that made me think of Mom's fingernails.
I tried sitting straighter, ignoring the burn on my chest where the locket lay cold. "We're okay, Uncle. Really."
He settled onto the stool beside my bed, its legs groaning. Fram hovered behind him, uncharacteristically quiet.
"Need to tell you something, duckling." Uncle Theo's calloused hands flexed, knuckles bruised purple. "But first—promise not to frighten your sister."
Fleda pressed closer to me, her bandaged fingers twisting my nightshirt. I nodded.
"We were coming back from the north fields when we heard… noises." His throat bobbed. "Like a fox caught in a leg trap. Found you in the yard, your ma…"
He trailed off, staring at the wall where Fram's mom's embroidery hung—sunflowers fraying at the edges.
"She wasn't right in the head, duck. Eyes black as chimney soot. Had to…" He raised his hands, the bite marks oozing faintly. "Had to wrestle her like a rabid wolf."
Fleda's breath hitched. I squeezed her shoulder, feeling the locket's chain dig into my collarbone.
"Took three of us to drag her to the grain store." Uncle Theo's laugh came out jagged. "Elders say it's demon sickness. They're keeping watch till the Druwd comes."
Demon sickness. The words slithered into the quiet. Outside, an owl hooted—the same sound Mom used to mimic when tucking us in.
"And you?" Uncle Theo leaned forward, his shadow swallowing us whole. "What'd she do to my brave girl, eh?"
My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. Before I could lie, Fleda blurted: "Mama hit Sissy with the fire stick! Over and over and—"
"Fleda!"
She clammed up, cheeks flushing. Uncle Theo's face did that twitchy thing adults do when trying not to cry.
"Rest now." He ruffled my hair, avoiding the scabbed cut above my ear. "Fram'll bunk with me. You girls take his cot."
Once their footsteps faded, Fleda curled against me like a barn cat seeking warmth. The locket hummed faintly, its icy edges cutting through the muggy night.
"Sis?" Her whisper tickled my neck. "What if Mom comes back?"
I stared at the ceiling cracks, counting them like sheep. "Uncle Theo won't let her."
"But what if—"
"Then I'll bite her harder!" I snapped, then instantly regretted it. Fleda's flinch made my bruises throb.
We lay there, breathing in sync, until her snores replaced the crickets' song. The locket's chill seeped into my ribs, numbing the spoon-shaped burn.
Good, I thought, clutching it tighter. Freeze the memories. Freeze the hurt.
Somewhere, a wolf howled. Closer than it should've been.
Fleda whimpered in her sleep. I pressed my nose into her hair—still smelling of smoke and fear—and made a new list in my head:
Things That Don't Change
Fleda's snore-snort when she's extra tired
Uncle Theo's boots by the door (left one always untied)
The locket's coldness (even in summer)
I got to seventeen before dawn painted the walls gray.
***
One month crawled by like sleepy caterpillars. My burns had scabbed over into weird shapes—one resembling Granny Gudrun's grumpy goat. Fleda's burn marks also faded to pink moon crescents. We'd been squatting at Fram's place so long, his lumpy cot started feeling quite homey. But today, summer sun blazing hotter than a blacksmith's forge, we finally trudged back to our own doorstep.
"Bye, Fram! Bye, Uncle Theo!" Fleda waved until they disappeared around the bend, her voice wobbling.
The walk home smelled of baked earth and sweat. My dress stuck to my back where the locket pressed its icy secret against my skin. Old folks bent akin to a question marks in the barley fields tossed us bread bundles as we passed—warm loaves wrapped in corn husks, still crackling from the oven.
"For the brave girls!" croaked Granny Wen, her smile showing three teeth.
Fleda hugged the bread like baby chicks. "They're being nice 'cause we're pitiful," she whispered.
"Nuh-uh." I bumped her shoulder. "They're being nice 'cause your nose is sunburnt like a ripe tomato."
She stuck her tongue out but didn't argue.
We collapsed under Old Man Harkin's oak, its shade barely denting the heat. Fleda tore into a loaf, sending crumbs tumbling onto her lap. "Tastes like… like…"
"Dirt?" I teased; mouth full.
"Sunshine!" She glared, kicking my ankle. "And butter!"
She wasn't wrong. The bread's golden crust crackled between my teeth, softer inside than dandelion fluff. We ate till our bellies ached, watching ants march off with our crumbs.
Home loomed ahead—a squat stone box hunched under cobwebs. Our front door hung crooked, as if a mule kicked it. Fleda froze; her bread half-raised.
"Race you!" I blurted, charging forward before she could think.
Dust bunnies fled as we barged in. Sunlight speared through cracked shutters, spotlighting the mess—overturned chairs, Mom's favorite vase in shards, dark stains on the hearthstones I didn't wanna name.
Fleda grabbed the broom upright. It was an act resembling a knight holding a sword. "Operation Clean Sweep!"
We attacked the grime with the intensity of someone collecting a debt. Sweat pooled under my arms as I scrubbed floor stains that might've been wine or… other stuff. Fleda tackled the spiderwebs, humming off-key battle songs.
The kitchen nearly broke me.
There—the dented stew pot Mom always burned. There—the knife block with Dad's whittling blade missing. My hands shook so bad I dropped a teacup.
Crash.
Fleda didn't look up from sweeping ashes. "Five-second rule! It's still good if you pick it fast!"
By sunset, the house almost looked normal. We'd piled broken things by the door—shattered plates, a cracked mirror, Mom's bloodstained apron. Tomorrow, we'd haul it all to Old Aldwin's. Tonight, it could rot.
Fleda flopped onto my bed, legs dangling over the edge. "My arms feel like noodles."
"Wiggly noodles," I agreed, collapsing beside her.
She rolled over, poking my cheek. "Can I sleep here? Just… just tonight?"
"Why? Scared of bedbugs?"
"Scared of… of…" Her chin wobbled. "Scared they'll come back in my dreams."
The locket went arctic against my chest. I pulled her close, our sticky skin glueing together. "They'd have to get through me first."
We lay watching shadows stretch across the ceiling. Fleda's breathing slowed, her fingers clutching my sleeve even in sleep.
Outside, the last sliver of sun drowned in the wheat fields. My eyelids turned lead-heavy, but my brain kept cartwheeling:
What if the elders let Mom go?
What if Dad comes looking?
What if—
Fleda sneezed in her sleep, smacking my nose with her elbow.
"Oof!"
She mumbled nonsense, drooling on my pillow. I wiped it discreetly on the sheet.
One by one, I counted her freckles, again and again, in the dying light. Thirty-two on her left arm. Fifteen on her right ear. Numbers steadier than thoughts.
The locket's chill seeped into my ribs, numbing the burn scar. I pressed it tighter, imagining frost creeping over memories best forgotten.
Somewhere, an owl called—the same hollow note Mom used to mimic when checking for mice in the rafters.
Fleda whimpered.
"Shhh." I hummed Dad's haystack song, off-key and cracked. "Nobody's here. Just us and the dust bunnies."
Her grip loosened.
When sleep finally dragged me under, I dreamed of bread ovens and Granny Wen's three-toothed grin. Not a single nightmare dared show its face.
***