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Prudence shrieks again as Sage grabs a fallen branch and swings it at her head.
Everything stops including Prudence.
Sage stares at the branch then at us. “What?”
Prudence slowly turns toward her and her face falls.
“Oh.”
But Prudence drops to her knees. Not falls—kneels in front of Sage.
Every root stops moving and the field goes silent.
Sage still holds the branch over her shoulder. “What the fuck is happening?”
Prudence bows until her forehead presses against the dirt.
Beside me, Malakai whispers, “Bride.”
Sage snaps her head toward him. “Stop fucking saying that.”
Movement in the corn cuts off anything he might have said.
Another woman steps between the stalks.
A red ribbon circles her wrist.
Sage goes still.
The woman lowers herself to her knees beside Prudence. Then the corn begins to move everywhere.
Women emerge from between the rows, their dresses belonging to different centuries, some little more than rotting fabric hanging from decaying bodies. Red satin circles their wrist, impossibly bright against gray skin and exposed bone.
They gather around Sage without making a sound. And one by one, they kneel. Dozens of women. Dozens of red ribbons. Every Bride this fucking field has ever taken, bowing at her feet.
Sage lowers the branch. “Oh my God.”
I count. Seven. No. Eight… nine… shit more are coming.
Ezra moves closer to Sage. “We need to go.”
One of the women raises her head. Her mouth isn’t stitched. That might be worse. Her lips split into a smile. “Home.”
Sage recoils. “Nope.”
The woman smiles wider. “Bride home.”
“I am not your fucking Bride.”
The woman’s head tilts. “McBride.”
Sage goes still and the woman begins laughing. The others join her. Some with mouths, some without.
The sound crawls beneath my skin.
Sage backs into Malakai and he wraps an arm around her.
The laughter stops. Every dead woman’s attention shifts to his hand on Sage’s body. Their expressions change—recognition.
