Page 13
Not just alive. Overflowing. Burdened with red globes that glisten through the melting snow. Dozens of servants are piling tomatoes into crates, laughing in disbelief. Even Madam Claudia and Mr. Crawly are helping.
Arlo skids to a halt at the edge of the patch. “You see it?” he shouts. “You see it, right? It’s real!”
Sable stumbles back a step, one hand pressed to her throat. The color drains from her face until she’s pale as the snow around us. A servant nearby is praising the heavens for this miracle, but a miracle isn’t always a blessing.
I can’t move at first because the world tilts, and I count the seconds it takes my brain to catch up to the lie I’ve planted in the ground. I look at my hands, horrified by what I’ve done.
Sable shoves me forward, her frail body surprisingly strong, and I stagger into the field. The other workers pay no attention to us as they strip the vines and toss the fruit into the once-empty crates.
Mr. Crawly’s cheeks are flushed, shouting instructions, directing the flow of the harvest like a king at war. Even Claudia is grinning, her hands and apron slick with juice.
“Girls!” Claudia’s cries. “Did you ever in your life? Look at this! We need every hand. These go to the market, and if we’re lucky, we’ll have enough money and food to last.” She grabs two empty baskets and thrusts them at us, her eyes shining. “It’s over, girls! The ground is thawing!”
I take the basket in numb hands, watching her hustle off, leaving us at the edge of the field. Sable’s voice is so low I barely hear it over the laughter. “How many seeds did you drop, Alessia.”
I try to swallow, but my mouth is dry. “I only placed a few. It wasn’t supposed to—”
Sable’s nails dig into my wrist, her eyes wild. “Do you remember the sunflowers in the town square just before the purge? They were . . .” She breaks off, shaking her head at the memory, and I cringe.
I was partly responsible for the Arcanum being discovered. We were in hiding, and I was too young to understand the dangers of using magic. Now this field is proof that history repeats itself.
We move down the row together, picking fruit as we go, but I can’t stop staring at the tomatoes. None of them have so much as a bruise, not a split in the skin, not a green spot. Every last one is a perfect twin.
We work in silence, filling our baskets, our breath fogging the air. The laughter fades as the crates pile up. Mr. Crawly counts them, then stops, then starts again, unable to comprehend the numbers. His lips move, mouthing prayers to the gods, but I know better.
“Girls,” Claudia calls again, waving us over. “Hurry, help get these on the cart!”
The cart that will take the produce to the market, the one that will parade our miracle through the entire town. I can already imagine the rumors blooming as fast as the tomatoes did.
Sable’s breath is ragged. “If the King’s Guard sees this—”
“I know,” I cut her off.
She doesn’t look at me, just keeps picking tomatoes, her fingers tracing each globe like she’s counting something that doesn’t add up. “They’re all the same, Alessia. Perfect. There isn’t a single spot, not one bad one in the whole field. Just like the sunflowers.”
She’s right. In my desperation to make something grow, I pictured only perfection. A field of flawless fruit, all ripened at once. It’s a child’s drawing of a harvest, not the messy, imperfect reality of nature.
“The king will be pleased!” Mr. Crawly booms, striding between the rows like a general surveying his soldiers. “We’ll meet the king’s levy with this, and it might be enough to pay half the taxes and barter for grain! A true blessing!”
“Yes, love, but how will we get it all to market without Dutch?” Madam Claudia asks. Mr. Crawly pauses like he has only just remembered we have a cart but no horse. Some of the men have pulled the cart to town themselves, but they have never carried a load like this.
Mr. Crawly scratches at his stubble, eyes flickering to the narrow path connecting his farm to the one next door. “I’ll give Mr. Taylor from down the road a few crates to borrow a horse or two. Maybe he’ll let us use that big truck he’s got as well.” He takes off, muttering something I can’t decipher. Crawly hates bartering with Mr. Taylor. He always says the man’s greed isn’t decent, but a running truck is rare among farmers, and I’ve seen the way Crawly envies Mr. Taylor for having one.
The sun climbs as we work, and the last of the snow melts into mud, revealing the dark, fertile earth I commanded. A faint steam rises from the soil, and with it, a smell I know too well. The clean, sharp odor of ozone, of raw magic lingering in the air; it’s like the scent that follows a thunderstorm. Sable’s nose wrinkles, and I know she smells it too.
By midday, the yard is a churn of mud and boot prints. The air is damp with cold soil and the sharp green bite of fresh-cut stalks. The cart almost buckles under the weight of the harvest.
Mr. Crawly tracks across the field, leading two of Mr. Taylor’s horses to the cart. “Three crates of tomatoes just to borrow two horses,” he scoffs. “Hitch ’em up, Arlo,” he hollers.
Crawly heads toward the house, pulling his hat off as he approaches his wife. Whatever he says makes Claudia’s face turn gray.
“We don’t need the truck anyway, just the horses. We’ll make as many trips as it takes,” Claudia shouts, fisting her dirty apron. “She doesn’t have to—”
“Enough, woman. She’ll do what she’s told. I need that truck.” Arlo’s hitching the horses to the cart very slowly, but his eyes are narrowed on Crawly’s back. Claudia watches helplessly as her husband stalks toward the row of cabins, and when he disappears into Arlo’s, my heart races.
Marian comes out behind Crawly, her expression blank, and Arlo’s back straightens. He drops the reins and heads toward his mother. I can’t hear what they’re saying at first, but his voice explodes. “I’ll be damned—”
“Just watch your sister,” she shouts, pointing at the cabin. “I’m going to get the truck.” Arlo looks sick when he storms off, and Marian heads for the dirt trail in the woods that leads to Mr. Taylor’s farm.
