Dead Iron

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Rose Small rubbed the soft cloth over the top of the pew, the honey smell of wax filling the still air of the empty church.

Cleaning every scrap of wood in the building wasn’t her idea of a way to spend an evening as nice as this one, the dusk still clinging to the warmth of sunlight before autumn shook the heat and leaves off the land.

But her folks had heard about her walk last night. Likely from Henry Dunken’s gossipy mother. So Rose was here in the church, as she would be every night this week, contemplating her inexcusable behavior beneath God’s watchful eyes. Offering up to Him elbowgrease tithing for her sins.

At least here in the church she was left in peace to think her own thoughts away from her mother’s angry tirades, away from the women who shook their heads in pity at her, and the men who thought she didn’t notice how they looked at her like she was a broken thing they could use if they wanted.

Oh, she’d seen the letters her folks had written up, asking about eligible men in the nearby towns. She’d more than seen them—she’d volunteered to put them in the mail, and thrown them down the privy hole instead.

The thought of tying herself down to this little town and only ever seeing the sun pull up over the same horizon for the rest of her life near about gave her hives.

She wanted to explore the world, wanted to see what amazing gadgets and tickers and inventions chugged along between the high buildings in the old states, or pressed wide, round backs against the sky, steering the winds across the ocean to far-off lands, or harvesting the rare glim. She wanted to touch those things, make those things.

She wanted to fly. And wanted to do so much more.

When Rose was six, she’d insisted she wanted to be a blacksmith and a deviser when she grew up. She’d heard her father make the blacksmith, Mr. Gregor, promise he’d never put a hammer in Rose’s hand.

And he hadn’t. Though he’d let her pump the bellows and mind the coals and fetch his tools, all the while talking to her of what he was doing and why. Rose figured she knew more about metal and the making of it than a whole university of books and thinkers.

She’d done her devising in secret, hidden in her pockets, hidden beneath her bed where no one ever looked. Little trinkets, little tickers. When her mother had discovered the thimble bird Rose had made when she was nine, she’d demanded to know if Rose had been devising, doing the work allowed only to men.

Rose had told her Mr. Gregor made it. Told her it was a gift to the family and that she’d kept it in her room because she liked it so.

She hadn’t counted on her mother marching her by the arm down to the blacksmith’s shop. Hadn’t counted on her demanding the truth of the story from Mr. Gregor.

And she sure enough hadn’t counted on Mr. Gregor telling her mother, without a bat of a lash, that Rose’s story was true and that he had indeed devised the bird and given it as a gift.

But whatever thin warmth she had felt from her mother froze away over the next few years. Rose knew her mother wanted her married off so that she was no longer a problem to hide or to mind.

Some days she thought the only reason she hadn’t left this town was because of Mr. Gregor. Just thinking about poor little Elbert wandered off into the wild made her heart catch.

She hoped that Mr. Hunt—in whatever skin he was wearing—would be able to find the little child.

Her thoughts lingered on Mr. Hunt. She’d heard stories from travelers passing through that there were men who could change into wolves. Native stories of men turning into all sorts of animals.

But she’d never thought to see such a thing here, with her own eyes, in the little town of Hallelujah.

It might be the wolf in him that kept him private. Or at least she assumed.

There was something behind the closed-off pain in his eyes. A way to his words that spoke of knowledge she didn’t have and wished he’d share.

Rose walked across the aisle to polish the next pew. She supposed she should just be grateful that he believed in the Strange, or at least seemed to. When she’d mentioned the bogeyman to him, and Elbert gone missing, she’d seen the recognition in his eyes.

Rose had always known the Strange were real. The land grew thick with them. Something about the gears and metals drew them, she thought. Something about matics and contraptions called to them. It was one of the reasons she combed the shadows at night, looking for castaway bits and gathering them up before the Strange could come find them.

The door to the church opened, letting in the early-evening air and a liquid wave of dying sunlight.

The shush of petticoats and bustles swept in by the slow chattering of voices, gossipy as birds.

Rose didn’t have to glance their way to know it was Mrs. Haverty, Mrs. Dunken, and the others come to go through the church yet again for wedding plans.

So much for her peace and quiet. They’d likely have her fetching them tea and cookies and things down from the attic for the rest of the night.

As soon as they caught sight of her, they fell silent like birds ducking a wing that had just covered the sunlight.

“Rose Small?” Mrs. Haverty, the banker’s wife, had the sort of bearing Rose had always imagined a queen would hold. Never a hair out of place, never a wrinkle in her skirts, she looked like she’d stepped right off the pages of a fancy catalogue. “I did not expect to find you in the church this evening,” she said. “Did your mother send you to lend us a hand with the wedding planning?”

Rose did not stop wiping down the woodwork, but did glance over at the women, eight at least, all clucking about, with plump and pushy Mrs. Dunken giving her a smug look she’d never seen on her face before.

“No, ma’am,” Rose said. “My mother promised the pastor I’d dust down the pews. So everything is ready for service tomorrow.”

Sad-faced Mrs. Bristle spoke up. “Are you saying you don’t care about Mrs. Haverty’s daughter Becky’s impending nuptials? Even a . . . castoff like you should show some respect.”

Rose squared her shoulders and kept the backs of her teeth together so no words could slip out. She was taught to respect her elders, but words would fall through her lips too quickly if she didn’t keep her mind on them. Then they’d all know exactly what this “castoff” thought about them and their judging ways.

“Now, don’t be so cruel to the girl, Mabel,” Mrs. Dunken said. “I’m sure Miss Small will settle down and behave properly soon enough. She just needs a man with a strong hand to rein her in. A man like my boy Henry.”

Rose rolled her eyes and went back to dusting. Henry thought he was the strongest, prettiest man in town because that was what his mama was always telling him. Even though his parents had sent him off to school in New York more to be rid of him than to get him some real learning, he’d come back only a year later, saying he’d decided politics were his future. He’d set his eyes on taking the mayor’s place.

“That’s kind of you to think so,” Rose said to Mrs. Dunken. “But I’m sure Henry has his sights set on a girl of much higher standing than I, what with his political aspirations and all.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, dear,” Mrs. Haverty said.

Rose stopped dusting out of shock. She’d never heard the banker’s wife say a kind thing to her in all her days.

“You may be of low standing,” Mrs. Haverty continued, “but you do have land to your name. A good parcel of land can make even the most plain of girls pretty enough to marry.”

A slow, creeping dread came along with those words. Mrs. Haverty sounded like she was certain about that. Rose glanced over at Mrs. Dunken. Still the same smug look.

Oh no. They’d done something, made some plans to marry her off.

A shadow crossed the doorway and Rose knew who it was before she even glanced that way. Henry Dunken.

“Good evening, ladies,” he said, striding into the room and taking up too much space. “I understand you need a hand with the wedding preparations?”

Rose tucked the cloth away in one of the pockets of her apron and picked up the tin of wax. She crossed the room to take it back to the storage cupboard, and to get herself out from beneath their notice.

“Henry, yes, I’m so glad you’re here,” Mrs. Haverty said. “You can help Rose fetch down the candleholders from the attic.”

Rose froze halfway across the room. She most certainly would not go into the attic with that man. She’d known him nearly all her life. He was mean when they were young and was meaner now. His smiles and polite manners fit him like a bad suit, and fooled no one, least of all her.

“I’ll have to beg your apologies,” Rose said. “I promised my mother I’d help her close down the shop. And it’s already late.”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Haverty said. “I was just at the shop, and your mother said she’s coming this way any minute now. I’m sure the store is already closed.”

Rose’s mind tumbled and spun, looking for a new escape route. “I have chores at home, waiting for me.”

Mrs. Dunken swished her way over and took Rose’s arm. Firmly. She tugged her off toward the stairs to the attic in the back corner of the room. “My old knees just won’t do those stair steps any longer. Be a dear, for us, Miss Small. I’m sure your mother is in full agreement with you minding as you’re told.”

She gave Rose a shove, and Rose took the first two steps, just to keep from falling.

And then Henry Dunken was right behind her, smelling of booze and blocking her retreat. He leaned in far too close for a man who should know his place and his manners in front of his mother and other women of the town.

Rose took another step, just to fit some air between her and him, and the candle he carried in one hand.

“Go on up, Miss Small,” he said quiet and nice. “Won’t take long to bring the women their fancy candles; then I’ll be on my way.”

She didn’t believe him. But unless she wanted to shove him down the stairs and stir the wrath of all the old biddies, it’d be best to get this done and over with.

Rose clomped up the stairs, Henry just a step behind her, breathing hard enough she could smell the alcohol on each exhalation.

The attic was dark, the posts and beams and rafters dancing side to side in the light thrown by Henry’s candle. The window at the end of the attic was dark too, the moon not yet off the horizon.

“If I recall, the candlesticks are back there near the window.” Rose pointed. She had no intention of going into the dark corner with Henry in the room. She was staying at the top of the stairs, where she could retreat, if needed.

“I’ll need a hand gathering them,” he said, still too quiet and still too nice. “I’d be right obliged if you held the candle for me, Miss Small.”

He stepped up close to her, too close, and offered her the candle he held. He smelled of booze and smoke and sweat. She didn’t know where he’d spent his day, but she’d guess it was in the saloon.

Rose took the candleholder, but Henry did not let go. He smiled, and nice Henry, quiet Henry, melted away, leaving that cruel boy she’d known all her life.

“You grew up real pretty, Rose. Got yourself curves that keep a man awake at night. If it weren’t for that smart mouth of yours, and all those wild contraptions you busy yourself with, you’d be married off, softened up, and have six babies tugging at your skirts by now.”

Rose tucked her left hand in her apron pocket, but did not let go of the candle that Henry still held.

“Henry Dunken, if you don’t have the decency to treat me like a lady, I will leave this attic and tell your mother what a hog you are.”

That got a smile out of him. Not a nice smile. “You’re gonna run and tell my mama? That didn’t work when you were ten. That ain’t gonna work today.” He stepped tight up into her. “And there ain’t no Mr. Gregor to run to here.”

Rose got her fingers around the gun she kept in her pocket. She jabbed the barrel of it below Henry’s belt. His eyes went wide.

“You feel that, Mr. Dunken? That’s one of those wild contraptions I busy myself with. It shoots a man clean through. Then the powder and oil I devised eats away at flesh and bone until there’s a hole left behind wide enough to stick two fists through.”

Rose smiled. She reckoned it was not a nice smile either. “You step away from me, Henry Dunken, or I’m going to blow your manhood to kingdom come.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed, and a bead of sweat trickled down his temple to catch in his sideburns and beard. She could tell he didn’t believe her. Maybe didn’t believe she had made such a thing. Maybe didn’t believe she would use such a thing.

But she had. And she would.

Rose cocked the hammer, and the click of gears sounded like knuckles breaking.

Henry Dunken let go of the candle and took a step back. His hands were in fists. Rose remembered how much those fists had hurt when she was nine. She vowed then she’d never let a man hurt her so again.

“You’re a hell-spawn woman. Made of the devil’s rib. No wonder your mama squatted you out in the dirt on the Smalls’ doorstep. You’re nothing but evil.”

Rose nodded. “So it appears I am, Mr. Dunken. And now that we agree to my nature, I’d say it’s best to your advantage to gather up those candlesticks and carry them down these stairs.”

“Man doesn’t turn his back on a rattlesnake,” he said.

“Might be he should, if the snake’s pointing a gun.” Just to make sure he believed her, Rose took the gun out of her apron pocket. Plenty enough candlelight to show the bulky weapon—not the little derringer she carried. This was a modified Remington revolver. Warmed her heart to see the shock in his eyes.

“Candlesticks,” she said.

Henry got busy piling up the carved, polished candlesticks like rough kindling into his arms. When he walked across the room again, he glared at her. “I’ll be mayor of this town, Rose Small. And I will make your life more miserable than even your mad mind can imagine. If you live that long. After all, I know where you walk at night. And where you sleep.”

He stormed down the stairs, bootheels hard and heavy with his anger.

Rose stayed at the top of the stairs for a few moments. Her heart was beating so hard, she could feel it in her throat, hear it in her ears. That man meant to kill her for his bruised pride. And if he caught her alone again, he’d do just that.

She tucked the gun back in her apron, but kept one hand on it. She didn’t want to shoot a man in front of his mother, but if he tried to hurt her, she wasn’t above it either.

Rose was halfway down the stairs when the steam clock whistled. Three short blasts and one long. There was an emergency. Something was wrong. That whistle would call all the townsfolk from miles around to the church, to find out what the trouble was and what they needed to do about it.

Rose stayed on the stairs a minute or so more, waiting to see where, exactly, Henry Dunken would position himself in this emergency.

He dropped the fancy candlesticks in a pile along the wall and rushed outside, the women aflutter behind him. If Rose wanted to leave the building, now was her chance, out the back door. Easy to slip out unnoticed when an emergency was rising. Course she might just run off into the very emergency the town was rallying against if she wasn’t careful. But if choosing between an unknown danger and Henry Dunken, she’d take the unknown.

She blew out the candle, ready to leave

Then it struck her. Maybe it was little Elbert. Maybe Mr. Hunt had found the child alive and brought him home. Maybe he had discovered the bogeyman that took him and all the town was being gathered up to go hunt it down.

Rose moved up the steps just enough the shadows from the attic hid her from a casual glance. She wanted to know what the trouble was, but didn’t want to be volunteered just yet in the fixing of it.

“Bring him in here, Mr. LeFel.” Sheriff Wilke’s voice filled the hall. “Mr. and Mrs. Gregor will be here any minute now.”

Sheriff Wilke strode into the room; then Mr. Shard LeFel, resplendent in his velvet long coat and silk ruffles, strolled in behind him. He held an unconscious child in his arms. Little Elbert Gregor.

The rest of the people, and there was a crowd of them gathered behind him, stayed well back from Mr. LeFel and his man Mr. Shunt, who followed, as he always did, on Mr. LeFel’s heels. Mr. LeFel walked across that floor like a king, his head high, his eyes filled with a sorrow Rose did not believe. He placed the child gently upon a pew at the front of the room, and Doc Hatcher went to one knee, his hands on the child’s stomach, chest, then face, where he gently drew back the child’s eyelids.

The sheriff had taken the stage behind the pulpit. Mr. LeFel and Mr. Shunt stood to the sides and behind him.

“Come in and have a seat, everyone,” Sheriff Wilke called out. The whole town, and then some, seemed to be trying to wedge themselves into the building.

“Mr. LeFel has some information we all should know,” he continued. “First, though, I’ll tell you the Gregor boy is breathing.” He looked over at the doctor.

“He’s in bad shape,” Doc Hatcher said, and if Rose hadn’t been looking right at his face, she wouldn’t have heard him over the chatter of the crowd. “He needs rest.”

“Sit down,” Sheriff Wilke hollered over the crowd. “Take a seat. Make room for your neighbor.”

“Out of the way,” Mr. Gregor bellowed from the door. Rose knew the blacksmith’s voice, though she had never heard that mix of anger and panic in his tone. And just like snowmelt before the fire, the crowd receded, leaving a clear path between the pews for Mr. Gregor and his wife. Little Mrs. Gregor bobbed down that aisle, one hand pressed over her mouth, holding back the sound of her sobs, the other clutching up the hem of her skirt to keep from tripping.

Mr. Gregor stormed down the aisle behind her, his hands curled as if he wished the weight of a hammer and vise lay within them.

“Where is my son?” he demanded.

“He’s here, right here.” Sheriff Wilke pointed to the pew. Mrs. Gregor was already pulling Elbert up into her arms and sobbing over him.

Elbert fussed and then cried softly, clinging to the fabric of his mother’s dress.

Mr. Gregor glared at the men on the stage, the sheriff, the rich dandy, and his servant, Mr. Shunt. “Who found him? Who had him? Where was he?”

Shard LeFel stepped forward and it was like every candle in the room leaned his way, every eye locked on him, every head bowed to hear his words.

“I found him, Mr. Gregor.” Shard LeFel’s voice was like hot wine, and there were folk in the pews who sighed at the sound of it. “And not a moment too soon.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“He’ll be telling us all now, Mr. Gregor,” the sheriff said. “Take your family home, if you want—get that poor boy in bed. We’ll take care of matters here on out.”

“I’ll stand and stay,” Mr. Gregor said.

The blacksmith glanced down at his son, who looked up at him with tearful eyes before burying his face once again in the crook of his mother’s neck. Mr. Gregor placed his hand gently on his child’s head, and the boy turned his face away. Elbert’s eyes were dazed, and Rose shook her head, her heart catching when she thought of what he must have been through.

Then the little boy looked at her. Saw her there, in the shadows. And smiled.

Rose pressed her hand over her chest, as if the boy’s eyes had shot an arrow. A cold and fearful sensation crawled over her skin. That little boy was not Elbert. He might look like Elbert; he might cry like Elbert. But that boy had more of the Strange to him than Rose had ever seen in a child.

She pressed herself up against the stairwell wall, wishing there were more than just shadows between them.

The sheriff took a few steps away from Mr. Gregor so he could catch everyone’s attention. “Listen up, folks. Mr. LeFel has something to tell us all.”

The townspeople had filled the church to the brim, every pew taken, and every wall with people standing along it, right up to stuffing up the aisles. Rose saw more people gathered than she’d seen at the last county fair. Must be nearly three hundred tucked up tight in the room that wasn’t built to hold more than a hundred, most.

“Mr. LeFel?” Sheriff Wilke gave the rail man the floor.

LeFel glided up to take his place behind the podium. When he smiled, it looked like an apology.

“Good people of Hallelujah, I bring you most distressing news.”

Before he could continue, the church doors opened, and a fresh breeze sliced through the thick air, drawing the candle flames straight up on their wicks again.

“Hear there’s been a ruckus,” Alun Madder said as he sauntered in, his brothers, Bryn and Cadoc, shoulder to shoulder with him.

They all clapped their gloved hands together and rubbed them like they were scrubbing warmth up out of a campfire.

“What seems to be the trouble?” Alun asked.

Everyone in the church turned at the brothers’ entrance. Except Rose. She watched LeFel’s face screw into a dark visage of hatred. The kind of hatred that made a man carve another man’s heart out and spit in the hole left behind.

Rose unconsciously clutched the locket beneath the thin cloth of her dress.

At that small movement, Mr. LeFel looked up away from the Madders, his eyes searching the shadows where she stood until he spotted her there. He was startled to find her watching him; that was clear. And the smile he gave her was no comfort. It was a warning.

“Settle in, and quiet down, Mr. Madder,” Sheriff Wilke said. “All of you. Mr. LeFel has the podium.”

Alun’s eyebrows rose. “Didn’t see you there, Mr. LeFel,” he said without a hint of apology in his voice. “Must be the rising moonlight so bright it struck me blind. Carry on. Carry on. And do take your time.” He and his brothers folded thick arms over their wide chests and simultaneously leaned against the church doors, blocking the way out.

Mr. LeFel licked his lips and glared at them. “As I was saying, I have dire news for us all.”

He glanced out over the people gathered. There was that aristocratic air about him. It hooked up each and every eye and mind, and not a soul seemed able to lean away. When he flicked that gaze at Rose, she put her hand back on the gun in her pocket and glared at him.

He scowled, looked back at the Madders, then once again looked at her. But this time there was surprise, and some kind of new understanding, in his expression.

“Mr. LeFel?” the sheriff prompted.

LeFel finally turned his attention back to his breathless audience.

Rose’s heart thumped hard. In LeFel’s look was the same cold creeping she’d sensed in the boy. But she felt the sure pressure of someone else looking at her. She glanced down the stairs. Alun Madder was indeed watching her. He smiled . . . and nodded.

She didn’t know that it should, but it seemed a reassuring gesture. She didn’t know if he saw the hatred in Shard LeFel. She didn’t know if he saw the Strangeness of him and his man. But all the same, she was glad to see there was at least one—no, three other people in the room who weren’t caught under Mr. LeFel’s thrall.

“I was out,” Shard LeFel crooned, “taking an evening constitutional, and by and by I wandered past the widow Lindson’s property. I heard a terrible crying—a child wailing—and beyond that, I heard a woman singing. But not any church song. It was a witch’s tune.” He paused a moment, letting his words steep.

“I didn’t want to believe it myself.” He shook his head, and more than one head shook along with him. “But when I stepped up close to look in the window, I saw Mrs. Jeb Lindson, working her magic—the devil’s magic—on this poor boy.”

He nodded again, and this time all the folk nodded with him.

“Nonsense.” Alun’s voice cut across the silence like a fire across the plain. “Do you have any proof at all? Anything that would cast that poor woman as a witch?”

Shard LeFel’s head snapped up and Rose saw the devil himself behind those eyes. No, worse than the devil; she saw the Strange. “Of course,” Shard LeFel growled. Then, regaining his composure, “Of course I have proof. Mrs. Gregor, if you would just pull up your son’s shirt, you’ll see the mark, the cursed spell, she left there on his back.”

Rose couldn’t see Mrs. Gregor’s face from her place on the stairs, but she heard her gasp as she drew up Elbert’s shirt.

Rose instead watched Sheriff Wilke’s reaction, since he could easily see the boy’s back. He frowned and shook his head.

“It’s a pentagram.” Mrs. Gregor stood up with Elbert in her arms. She turned toward Mr. Gregor. In doing so, she revealed the boy’s back to the room.

Very clearly, the mark of a star standing on one point was scratched into his back.

“Mae Lindson has done harm to this boy,” Shard LeFel said. “And that’s all the proof needed. She is a witch.”

“Witch,” Mr. Shunt repeated from the shadows.

“Witch,” the people in the church echoed, inhaled, exhaled, back and forth to one another, the word building and growing, breathing stronger at each repetition until it seemed as if the very walls vibrated with it.

Until another word was born in its place: “Burn. Burn her.”

Rose couldn’t believe her ears. In just as much as a heartbeat, the entire town had gone mad. Regardless of if Mrs. Lindson was a witch or not, this was a civilized age. People didn’t go around burning people just because one man stood up and called them a witch.

Her heart was pounding and every instinct told her to run, to flee, to get away from these people before they turned on her and called her something worth burning.

But Mae was her friend. She had to do something. Anything to help her. To stop this. Which meant she had to stand up against Mr. Shard LeFel.

And an entire town of people with murder in their eyes.

Rose pulled her shoulders back and walked down the stairs, her boots making too much noise for such a quiet room. Her knees shook and her hands went slick with sweat.

“You’re wrong,” she said, blunt as that.

Mr. LeFel looked over at her, hatred twisting his face into a mockery of a smile. He opened his mouth to speak, but Rose spoke first.

“Mae Lindson isn’t a witch. She’s a kind and helpful woman who hasn’t done more than mind her own business and weave blankets for this town. She’s a lace maker, a wife, and nothing more.”

“Don’t mind the girl,” Sheriff Wilke said. “She doesn’t understand these things.”

“I understand you are all talking about killing an innocent woman,” Rose said.

An angry murmur rose up in the room, and Rose caught more than one voice saying “mad,” “wild,” “crazy.”

Shard LeFel waited a moment, letting the voices hush against the rafters. Then he spoke. “You have seen what this ‘lace maker’ has done to the boy, Miss Small. She has left him with the devil’s mark, taken his blood. Would likely have killed him. She is a witch. And that is the proof.”

“That,” Rose said, “isn’t the Gregors’ boy. I don’t know what gears and steam you have cobbled together, but that boy isn’t Elbert. It’s a monster.”

A startled cry rose up from the women of the town and the men’s deep grumbling rolled beneath it. This time it did not quiet, but instead grew.

“I swear to you,” Rose said, “that it’s some Strange thing left in Elbert’s place. Some Strange matic.”

“Rose!” her mother called out sharply. “This is no time for your fool mouth.” She stood up from where she had been sitting near the front of the room and stormed toward Rose.

“It’s the truth. That’s not Elbert.” Instead of retreating, Rose walked down the crowded outer aisle, getting more than one surreptitious prod and elbow. But she didn’t care. She only needed to make one person believe her. She marched over to Mr. Gregor.

The sheriff stepped in her way, keeping her from coming any closer to Mr. Gregor, or the boy.

“You believe me, don’t you, Mr. Gregor?” Rose asked. “I tell you true—that’s not your boy. I’d know Elbert. I’d know him like my own brother.”

Mr. Gregor shook his head, his expression a mix of shame and pity. “That’s enough, Rose. Go on, now. Do as your mother says. You should go home.”

“I’m not wrong.” She searched his face, searched his expression, for the man who had always smiled at her curiosity and applauded her strong spirit. Looked for the man who had always believed in her. “I’m not crazy, I promise you so.”

“Go on, Rose,” he said tightly. “This business isn’t for . . . people like you.”

Rose felt like he had just dunked her in a trough of cold water. He didn’t believe her. He thought she was insane. Wild. Foolish.

She might believe the whole town could be blinded by a stranger’s words, but not Mr. Gregor. He had always been kind and helpful to her, and wasn’t afraid to speak against a crowd with calm words and reason. But not today. Today she meant nothing to him.

Sheriff Wilke put his hand on her arm. “Mrs. Small,” he said. “Please see your daughter home.”

“Rose Small,” her mother said. “Come here this instant.”

Rose knew a losing fight when she saw one. There wasn’t a single chance anyone else in this town would believe her. They were set on burning an innocent woman alive for a crime she didn’t commit. Rose might not be able to change their minds, but that didn’t mean she was going to stand aside and do nothing.

Rose shook off Sheriff Wilke’s hand and started walking. But not toward her mother. She was headed toward Mr. Shard LeFel. “I know what you’re doing, Mr. LeFel.” She was close enough she could smell the lavender and spice of his expensive perfume. “And I know what you are—what you and your man are. Strange. Come to blight this land.”

LeFel’s eyebrows raised again. And his man, Mr. Shunt, lowered his head, until his eyes burned from beneath deeper shadow.

“I am quite sure you are mistaken, Miss Small,” LeFel murmured. “I am here with only the highest regard for this town and these people. I am bringing to Hallelujah all the riches and future the rail and steam can offer.”

“You are a liar.”

Mr. LeFel’s hand shot out so fast, Rose didn’t even see him move. He caught her wrist in his grip, and squeezed down tight.

The entire room seemed to go distant and fuzzy. No one moved. Seemed like no one breathed.

“Mind your tongue,” Shard LeFel growled. “Lest you lose it altogether.” He squeezed down so hard, she couldn’t feel her fingers. She slipped her left hand into her apron, fumbling for her gun.

Still no one in the church spoke. Still no one moved.

Except the Madder brothers.

Rose could hear them push away from the door as if they were one man. She felt the vibration of their steps as they marched down the aisle, their boots heavy as the mountains falling from the heavens.

“Let go of the girl, LeFel,” Alun said low and clear, coming closer and closer, “or we’ll have ourselves a go at you.”

The brothers were smiling, eyes mad and drunken bright. They each brandished weapons in their hands: hammer, ax, and gun.

Shard LeFel’s gaze shifted between each of the brothers.

“Might be a good night for someone to die,” Cadoc said. He pulled a pocket watch out of his vest and pressed the winding stem down, sending the watch ticking.

Shard LeFel eyed the pocket watch, then let go of her wrist. “You are a waste of my time, poor Rose,” he said. “And so too your kind.”

Kind? Rose looked back to the Madders. Their expressions were unreadable. Was she somehow like them?

But as soon as the watch had begun ticking, the townsfolk seemed to wake up out of their sleep and the room came back sharp again, though not a person appeared to notice they’d lost a minute or two.

The Madder brothers stood shoulder to shoulder in the center aisle. They moved apart just enough to make a place for Rose to stand between them. She hurried to do so and walked with them back to the doors of the church.

“Think he broke your wrist?” the second brother, Bryn, asked as they walked forward behind Alun. Cadoc walked backward, watching LeFel.

“No,” Rose said as she rubbed at her hand to get the blood moving in it. “It’s fine.”

They were at the back pews now, and all the room was riled up again, mumbling and chattering, repeating the words “bewitched” and “deviser” and, most frightening of all, “burn her too.”

Her mother stood behind the last pew, face stoked red as a baker’s oven. She pointed at the door. “Get on home, Rose Small. Lock yourself in your room. You make me sorry I’ve ever called you my own. No wonder your mother left you to die.”

Rose opened her mouth, closed it around nothing but air. She had no words, not apology or anger, though both raged a wild storm in her. A deep, silent sob of betrayal twisted at her heart.

“Get home before I throw you out for good,” her mother said.

Alun Madder smiled at Rose’s mother and tugged his beard. “Maybe the girl’s old enough not to belong to anyone anymore, Mrs. Small.”

“You have no place preaching to me, Mr. Madder,” she said. “You and your dirty brothers don’t belong in this town.”

The Madders laughed, but Rose kept on walking, head up, arms straight at her sides, wooden as a doll. Her eyes burned with tears.

She pushed open the door and hit the fresh night air like she was running from a fire. She wasn’t running home. No, she’d never go back to that house. Never go back to those people. She didn’t belong there. She had never belonged there, and her mother had just put words to the truth they’d both been denying all her life.

There wasn’t a lock or latch that could keep her in this town a moment longer.

And there wasn’t anyone, or anything, that was going to keep her from helping her friend.

She ran straight down Main Street, the bits of metal and wood in her pockets jingling with each step. She had to get to Mae’s farm. Had to get there in time to warn her. Had to get there faster than the townspeople’s torches.