Three moons had come and gone since the world cracked open. Dad stayed vanished—no footprints, no whispers, just empty air where his laugh used to rattle the rafters. Fleda and I became our own grown-ups: I hauled water till my shoulders screamed, she burned stews black as crow feathers. We were terrible at it.
Butter-churning? I spilled more than I saved. Fleda's first sewing attempt left her nightdress looking like spiderwebs. Still, we high-fived over every charcoal pancake, every lopsided bucket. Small victories glittered brighter than Granny Wen's gold tooth.
The village wrapped around us like a wool blanket. Uncle Theo came every Market Day, teaching me to split logs without chopping off toes. Fram tagged along, snickering when I missed the stump. Fleda glued herself to Aunt Isla's hip, learning to knead dough without weeping. Even grumpy Old Oscar slipped coins into our milk jar when he thought we weren't looking.
Tonight, sweat crusted my temples from axe practice. Fleda flopped onto our shared mattress, hair frizzing similar to dandelion fluff. "Sis!" She poked my ribs. "Guess what?"
"You left the bread out to burn again?"
"Nuh-uh!" She sat up, eyes moon-round. "I… I just wanted to say thanks."
"For what? Letting you hog the blanket?"
"For staying." Her smile wobbled. "Even when I'm annoying."
My throat clogged. Fleda didn't know about the nights I'd crept to the well, staring into the dark water till my tears blurred the stars. Didn't know I'd almost… almost…
I flicked her earlobe. "You're way less annoying than Fram's goat."
She giggled, but her fingers knotted the quilt. "Promise you won't disappear too?"
The locket pulsed cold against my chest—our secret. I'd found it glowing last week, runes shimmering akin to minnows under ice. Didn't tell a soul, not even Fleda. Some truths were too heavy for her bird-boned shoulders.
"Promise." I crossed my heart. "Now scoot over, blanket hog."
She curled into me, all knees and elbows. Outside, cicadas sawed their summer song. I counted her breaths, matching mine to theirs.
"Sis?"
"Mm?"
"What if… what if we're not enough?"
I thought of Uncle Theo's calloused thumbs wiping Fleda's flour-dusted cheeks. Of Fram sneaking honey cakes into our woodpile. Of the village square where Granny Wen still saved us the shadiest bench.
"We're not," I whispered. "But the whole stupid village is."
Fleda's snores rose soft as bread rising. I traced the locket's icy edges, its secret humming through my veins. Maybe one day I'd tell her about the frost patterns it painted on my skin at midnight. About the voice that sometimes whispered come back when my bones felt hollow as bird nests.
But tonight, I let her drool on my sleeve. Let the crickets chant their alive-alive-alive. Let the promise stick like sap to my ribs:
However cracked our world, however thin our supper soup—we'd keep patching it together.
***
Knock-knock-knock.
The knocking jolted me awake faster than a bucket of well water to the face. Fleda snored on, drooling on my pillow as I stumbled to the door. Morning light stabbed my eyes—too early for visitors, unless…
"Coming!" I yelled, tripping over Fleda's discarded boots.
The door creaked open.
Cold sweat prickled my neck.
There she stood—Mom.
But not Mom.
Her hair hung in greasy ropes; worse than the mop we'd thrown out last week. Rope burns circled her wrists, raw and oozing. And her belly…
"Morning, chickadee." Village Chief Adolf loomed behind her, smile sharp as a sickle. "Brought your mama home."
My knees turned to jelly. The locket froze against my chest, its chill creeping up my throat.
"W-Why?" The word came out mouse-small.
Adolf crouched, his breath reeking of turnip stew. "Elders voted. She's… better now."
Liar.
Mom's eyes stayed empty—black pits that swallowed the sunrise. Her fingers twitched like spider legs.
"But…" I gripped the doorframe, nails digging into wood. "She's…"
"Now, now." Adolf straightened, nudging Mom forward. "Be a good lass. Theo's boy'll check-in. Elders' orders."
Mom shuffled inside, her swollen belly brushing my arm. I gagged at her stench—rotten apples and unwashed wool.
Fleda's sleepy voice cut through the fog. "Sis? Who's—"
Crash.
Her water cup shattered. "M-Mom…?"
Mom's head swiveled, slow as an owl's. Fleda backed into the wall, nightdress tangling around her knees.
"There's rules!" Adolf barked, suddenly all business. "No knives left out. Report any… oddness. Elders'll handle the rest."
He left, boots crunching gravel. The door clicked shut.
Mom stood statue-still, staring at the hearthstones she'd stained months ago. Fleda trembled like a leaf in stormwind.
"M-Mom?" she tried again.
No answer.
I edged between them, heart hammering. "Let's… let's make tea."
The kettle clattered as I lit the fire. Mom's shadow stretched across the floor—too long, too twisted. Fleda clutched my skirt, silent tears plopping onto the ashes.
"Drink," I ordered, shoving a chipped mug at Mom.
She took it mechanically. Liquid dribbled down her chin.
Better, your head.
Fleda's whisper tickled my ear. "What's wrong with her belly?"
"Dunno." Don't care.
The locket's frost spread to my fingertips. Outside, Fram's laugh floated from the sheep pens—normal, alive.
Mom's mug slipped, shattering. She didn't blink.
"Clean it," I snapped, thrusting a broom at her.
She obeyed, movements jerky as a puppet's. Fleda's grip tightened.
Rules.
Oddness.
Elders'll handle—
"Sis?" Fleda's tears soaked through my sleeve. "Make her go away."
I watched Mom scrape porcelain shards with bare hands. Blood welled, black as tar.
Fleda's whimpers clawed at my ribs as I hugged her tighter. "Shhh, it's just for a little while," I lied, stroking her hair the way Mom used to before she became a hollow-eyed stranger. But Fleda squirmed free, fleeing to her room like a spooked rabbit. The lock clicked—a sound too final for a sunny morning.
When I noticed the blood droplets on the floor, it hit me that there was work to be done. Sigh.
Few minutes later, I found Mom by the washtub, motionless as a rain-soaked scarecrow. Flies buzzed around her matted hair, which made me remember the time a possum died under our porch.
"Sit," I ordered, voice wobbling.
She obeyed, joints creaking, reminded me of rusty hinges. Up close, her skin was crusted with dirt and… other things I didn't want to name.
The first bucket of water turned brown instantly. I scrubbed her scalp raw, gagging when clumps of hair came loose in my fingers. Mom didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Just stared through me, thinking I was window glass.
"Hold still," I muttered, though she hadn't moved. Her ragged dress hit the laundry pile with a wet slap. Bruises mottled her arms—finger-shaped ones around the wrists where the elders had bound her.
The locket burned icy against my collarbone as I worked. By the tenth bucket, Mom's skin emerged pale as mushroom undersides. Almost like before. Almost.
"There." I stepped back, hands raw from lye soap. "Good enough."
She tilted her head, water dripping off her nose. For a heartbeat, I almost saw her—really saw her—in the curve of her cheekbone. Then the blankness returned.
Inside, Fleda's muffled sobs threaded through the floorboards. I dumped Mom's filthy water on the tomato plants. Maybe the stink would keep rabbits away.
The sun climbed higher, baking the yard. Mom sat where I'd left her, damp hair attracting a fresh swarm of flies.
"Come on," I sighed, tugging her sleeve. "Let's get you—"
Her hand shot out, cold fingers clamping my wrist.
"M-Mom?"
Her lips parted. A fly crawled into her open mouth.
I wrenched free, stumbling backward. The locket's chill spread down my arm, numbing where she'd touched me.
"Inside," I croaked. "Now."
She rose, obedient as ever, leaving wet footprints that evaporated in the heat.
That night, I dreamt of scrubbing stone statues that bled black syrup. Fleda's whimpers blended with the owls' cries.
But Mom stayed clean.
Small victories.
***