“This is the first time I’ve left home.”
At this, the woman releases her hand from the wagon and peers in closer at me, like a bird, a crane on the shores of the river reaching out to pluck a silvery fish was the water. “I believe I knew your mother.” Her words are swift, furtive, so they won’t carry beyond the wagon. “Many years ago.”
I feel my eyes widen. “You knew her?” Mom rarely talked about her life before she had me, before she returned to where she was born, and settled in the valley. She never talked about friends or the places she lived, only that the world out here wasn’t meant for us—it was dangerous and cruel.
A cold line dips between the woman’s brows, eyes turning darker, long spidery lashes lowering to frame her eyes. “You shouldn’t have left.”
“What?”
“You should have stayed there, in the valley. Where you were safe.”
I feel the workings of something churning in my chest. “How did you know my mom?”
“Go back,” she hisses, leaning in so close that I can make out thespots in her eyes that remind me of algae blooms expanding over her retinas. “Before they discover who you are.”
Fear carves a straight line from my spine up to my skull, making it hard to breathe, and the woman’s jaw shifts forward, clicking her tongue, both of us eyeing the other—trying to discern the secrets hidden behind each of our eyes.
“Do you—” My voice catches and I clear my throat. “Do you know the Architect?” I know the risk in saying the name aloud, my voice trembling on the word, but I lean closer to her, hope itching at my thoughts. If she knew Mom, she might know other things too. Things most won’t talk about. Most are afraid to say. “Do you know where I can find him?”
Her eyes dart away, to the rows of swaying wheat outside town, yellow and amber waves. “The Architect?” she asks, face to the wind, as if wading through lost memories. Ones she’d like to forget.
“Do you know him?”
Her gaze swings to the rope hanging from the building ahead of us, and she blinks dryly; then her eyes flatten on me, a strange curl to her upper lip. “You must go back,” she insists again, baring her bottom row of angled and broken teeth. Like she’s been chewing on rocks. She drops her shoulders, mouth punched into a tight line. “Don’t go saying that name aloud. It’s much too late to be chasing old, forgotten tales. Leave the past where it is…. There’s no saving us now.”
“Please.” I lift both my eyebrows and lean even closer to her. “My mom is dead, and I—” The desperation gnaws at my throat, wishing I could pluck the truth from her mouth. “I need to find him…” I drop my voice lower. “I have to find the Architect.”
She yanks her hand away from the edge of the wagon, as if I have just bitten her with my words, a snarl tugging at her upper lip. “Foolish girl,” she says, clouded eyes spearing through me. “You won’t find him here.” She steps away from the wagon, as if I am something to fear. Something she never should have gotten this close to. An animal caged in the wagon, too dangerous to touch, or even speak to. “Go back where you belong.”
Behind her, up the road, Pa has clapped a hand against the sick man’s shoulder, nodding. The man reaches into his pocket for a coin, for some payment, but Pa shakes his head and mutters something only the man can hear. There is a silent exchange of looks, and then, under the watchful eye of the midday sun, Pa ambles back to the wagon.
“Imogene,” his voice booms, recognizing the old woman. “Are you well?”
I sink back into the corner of the wagon, out of sight. The woman’s clouded, silvery eyes slant away from me and fix themselves to Pa. “The price has gone up,” she rasps.
“Again?”
Her head tilts, as if it’s on a lever. “Bees aren’t producing like they used to.” She reaches into some hidden pocket in the folds of her skirt, bells chiming, and produces a jar half the size of Pa’s tonic jars. But inside is a thick, golden liquid, the color of a summer sun.
“How much?” Pa asks.
“Double.”
Pa makes a sound of irritation, but he reaches into his coat pocket and holds out six coins, handing them to the woman. She takes them in her shaking fingers and lets Pa have the jar.
The woman—Imogene—dips her head, her body like an old piece of wood grown in on itself, depleted of water, and she begins shuffling away up the road. I want to call out to her, beg her to come back, but my throat has gone dry, words strangled. I could see the fear in her eyes, and I knew she wasn’t going to tell me anything else. She wanted to get far away from me—far from the girl who should have stayed in the valley.Foolish, foolish girl.
A half second later, she has evaporated back into the dusty corridors of the town, only the soft sound of bells hanging in the air.
We leave the town behind just as the sky turns the color of rust. The air finally cools, and the wagon rattles up the road through the wheat fields. But I keep thinking of the woman, of the hanging rope with a knotted loop at the end—perfect for cinching tight around necks. “How far to the next town?” I ask, a chill in my voice.
“Not far.” Pa clicks his tongue at Odie to keep moving when she tries to reach out for the tall stalks of wheat. “I saw you talking to Imogene.”
I can still feel the sharpness of her eyes on me, the sound of tiny bells ringing in my ears. “Only for a moment.”
“What did she say to you?”
My hands pick at the hem of my sweater, a thread tugging loose, then breaking. “I think she might have known Mom.” The words tumble out before I can stop them.
