Prologue
Year 2202
The towering stalks whisper and sigh as they fall, their collapse swallowed by the musical notes of distant birds. The scent of grain hangs thick in the air, making my nose itch and my eyes water, but that grants me no excuse from the work that must be done today.
“They are to be cut down so new growth can replace what once was.” That’s how Sister Odessa explained it to me.
She moves through the field with the others, swinging her scythe in steady arcs as they reap what has grown wild and unruly in our absence. The blade curves wickedly, flashing silver each time it catches the sun.
Her skin glistens with sweat. The beige work shirt, darkened under the arms, is now covered with remnants of wheat from a hard day’s labor. Her ankle-length skirt is tied up on one side, exposing dust-streaked calves. It’s normally not allowed, but since no men are present, the sisters have bent the rules to make it easier to move about.
Even like this, she’s still pretty. Her green eyes hold flecks of gold like mine, and her hair, the color of cinnamon, falls in damp strands around her face.
We’re very similar, except my hair and freckles are a few shades darker than hers. Closer to the rich brown color of my boots. Because of this, I have often wondered if she’s the sister who birthed me.
It’s a question I have never dared to ask.
We do not speak of such things in the Order.
So it’s a thought I keep secret and safe and just to myself.
When she pauses to rest, she takes a handkerchief from her pocket and dabs her brow. I choose this moment to approach and tug at her skirt, the coarse fabric rough between my fingers.
“Sister, my hands hurt.”
I hold them out so she can see.
After gathering armfuls of wheat for what feels like hours, the skin on my arms is raw, and my palms sting from binding the bundles tight with twine.
She bends, grabbing her canteen. The water inside sloshes softly as she lifts it. After taking a few deep swallows, she peers down at me and addresses my complaint. “Any blisters?”
“No, not yet, but they’re red and itchy.” The itch grows sharper as I speak of it. I rub my hands together in small, quick motions. “See?”
Her lips purse. “Hmm. That might make it worse. Here.” She raises her canteen and pours cool water over my palms. The stream spills out between my fingers and drips onto the thirsty earth below. For a moment, all I feel is relief—the cold a balm to the feverish heat, washing away the pain.
“Better?”
“A little, yes.”
A small smile builds on her mouth, softening her features, and her gaze lingers for a moment over my face as if measuring my discomfort. Then her gaze leaves me to wander over the field to the endless stretch of wheat and bent figures. The slow, rhythmic swish of slicing blades is nothing but background noise. “We still have so much to do before we’re done for the day.”
My hope floats away as I, too, take in the work that still lies before us. At this rate, we’ll be back at it tomorrow. Maybe the day after. My hands will not survive it. “I know.”
Her eyes turn kind and compassionate. “Tired?”
I shrug. Complaining when others haven’t seems like a sin, like a failing I should conceal. I should be able to keep up with the other girls my age. But it’s hard to breathe in this muggy heat, and I would much rather work inside on days like this than out beneath the burning sky.
She releases a long sigh. “I guess a small break would be okay.”
“Really?” I can’t contain my excitement as it rushes through my chest, sudden and bright.
“Yes, but stay close.” Her frown is instant, stern lines replacing her softness. “Don’t wander off. You tend to do that, and I don’t want to have to stop working to hunt you down. You hear?”
I’m already skipping off as she calls after me.
“Stay where I can see you!”
“I will. I promise!” I shout back, the breeze snatching my words and carrying them off to her.
