After her stint in the Ice Pillory, Meya’s sentence was to donate her wages from the last three months to the manor’s coffers. Since all that gold had long transformed into her flesh, Meya must instead toil without pay for three moons.

  Once they had yelled their heads half off, Dad and Farmer Armorheim flounced across the bridge to settle their taxes. It fell upon Jason to steer Meya and Deke straight home without stumbling into more trouble.

  High noon had fallen by the time they made it to the village. The dirt road was empty save for flocks of sparrows and pigeons pecking for seeds in clumps of spiky grass along the wayside, and the occasional pile of sun-baked dung swarming with flies.

  “How come you’re here, Jason? ’Tisn’t bazaar day, is it?” asked Meya as she massaged her hands. After almost freezing in the ice, they chided her by burning. Jason sighed as he handed Jezia his waterskin.

  “The king’s overseer, is how. He summoned all merchants to the castle to discuss the coinage shortage.”

  “The what what?” Meya gawked, having never heard of those words in her almost seventeen years, wincing as Jezia doused her hands with water.

  “We’re running out of metal. ’Tis why the treasury issued new coins. Precious metals are more expensive. They’re even thinking of scrapping money altogether.” The merchant cocked his balding head, his voice lowered,

  “They’re still hushing it. Ore ships haven’t returned from Everglen since last month.”

  “What happened?” Deke joined in. Jezia leaned in and whispered,

  “That’s the problem. Nobody knows. The king’s sent several ships to investigate. They’ve all vanished, too.”

  Meya frowned as she navigated the pothole-strewn lane. Mining had been banned in Latakia for two centuries. According to the fourth High Priest to name himself Uriel, the goddess Freda suddenly realized digging too deep a hole would allow the evil she’d sealed underground, the demoness Chione, to emerge and wreak havoc upon the land once more. And thus, she conveyed her enlightenment to Uriel in a vision during his daily prayers.

  Why the goddess hadn’t divined the obvious four centuries sooner when she created Latakia wasn’t a harmless sentiment to ponder aloud, as Meya discovered at the tender age of six for the price of a lump on the head. Since the Ban, Latakia had been ferrying ships across the sea to a barren land ironically called Everglen to carry ores back.

  “Just when Myron got his letter! Typical Freda,” snorted Meya. After all the butter Myron piled on Yorfus the Blacksmith for an apprenticeship, them ships just had to sink. “Will you two be fine? What’s gunna happen if we dun have coins?”

  Jezia looked to Jason, who heaved a deep sigh of gloom.

  “Crosset could survive without trade, I reckon, but for us merchants and the great cities, our only hope is lifting the Ban.”

  “King Alden’s fought to lift it since he took the throne, but more dukes on the Council are against him. Baron Hadrian’s leading the lot. He couldn’t ever get enough votes to abolish it.”

  “Ain’t he s’posed to be all-powerful?” Deke frowned. Jason chuckled.

  “Wouldn’t want a second Devind so soon, would we?”

  “Can’t we make money out of other things?” asked Meya. At Jason’s raised eyebrow, she added, “say, I dunno…seashells, shiny pebbles, wooden chips…?”

  Out of examples, Meya shrugged. Jason’s eyes twinkled. He gestured at the pink-with-brown-patches piglet Deke was leading on a leash.

  “Say I want to buy Hanna for fifty snail shells. Would you accept?”

  Meya glanced at Hanna, puckered her lips, then shrugged again.

  “If everyone else was trading snail shells and I could buy a new piglet, I s’pose I’d accept.”

  “Really? You don’t seem too happy about it.” Jason observed with a shrewd, glinting look. Meya blew a breath of annoyance.

  “Of course I’m not! I’m selling me pet for fifty snail shells. What am I supposed to do with them? Grind ’em up, salt Morel’s soup with ’em?”

  Jezia and Deke guffawed. Jason nodded.

  “Exactly, Meya. Anyone can pick up a snail shell. And no-one has a use for them. ’Tisn’t the same with gold, silver, copper. Or diamonds, rubies, sapphires and emeralds. Everyone in Latakia agreed these things are rare and precious. That’s how they became tradable.”

  Jason trailed away as Meya’s house approached. Hild cottage did justice to its seven-generation history of poverty, with its grayish daub walls decorated with cracks like cobwebs that fell away to reveal crisscrossing wattle, and its thatched hay roof dabbed with mildew. A crooked, soot-black metal pipe stuck out like an old feather on a straw hat, serving as their chimney. The steady trickle of smoke meant Morel, Meya’s second sister, was preparing dinner.

  Out front, Meya’s big sister Marin ambled about with a reed broom, scraping fallen leaves glued to the ground by yesterday’s drizzle. She was a willowy woman on the cusp of her twenties, with shining copper hair and bright blue eyes. What little of her skin poking from her sleeves was porcelain white, unblemished by a single freckle.

  Young men peeked through oiled parchment tacked over their windows, savoring the precious moments before the reigning May Queen was locked up for the night, like a diamond in its chest.

  “Yea, diamonds are precious. Like Marin,” drawled Meya, crunching footsteps halting just beyond Marin’s earshot. “As opposed to yours truly, the Queen of Swine Dung.”

  Jezia giggled. Deke grimaced as he scratched his head. Jason’s beady black eyes narrowed.

  “Meya,” he said somberly. Meya turned, eyebrows raised. “In Fyr’s Lake, ’tisn’t wealth, nor beauty, nor wit, nor high blood, but your deeds that are weighed.”

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  Meya avoided his eyes, bitter smile on her lips.

  “Freda’s teachings aren’t to guide the living. They’re to fool the dying and forgotten,” she muttered. Jason tilted his head with a smile.

  “Perhaps. And to remind every father of a daughter.” Meya blinked, puzzled. Jason grasped her shoulders, pinning her with his willful, melancholy gaze.

  “Mirram cares about you, Meya. Much more than gold. Much more than your mother’s Song. And he’ll prove it to you when you need it most. You don’t have to put yourself through this.”

  Jason cradled her hands, mournful eyes roaming over bruise-red, swollen, trembling fingers. Even as her heart writhed, Meya huffed a breath of derision.

  “He left me to rot in the Ice and I got out on me own, Jason. Either there’d never be a day I’d need him most, or no need of me would be enough for him.”

  “’Tisn’t the same, lass! You didn’t need him for the Ice. You could bake bread with these scorching hands!”

  Meya shrugged. Yet another blessing for her list, next to glowing eyes, never falling ill, and fingers growing back after being diced alongside carrots. The Hilds didn’t eat stew that frightful night, and Meya wasn’t asked to help with dinner again.

  For the general populace, the Ice Pillory meant black, frostbitten hands to be axed off. For Meya, the chance of swift freedom. Meya requested it knowing that otherwise, Farmer Armorheim would bribe the warden, even if Dad wouldn’t bother.

  “I can’t bake. Heat from me hands ruins the dough,” she jested, voice flat as her empty face. Jason shook his head.

  “Someday, lass. Someday.” The old merchant patted her shoulder, then gestured with his chin. “Well, hop along. We’re here ’til next Monday. Don’t forget to drop by.”

  He slung an arm around Jezia, who gave a tiny wave. Meya wondered how Dad’s hand felt on her shoulder, when he wasn’t crushing her collarbone in his grasp after catching wind of some wicked shenanigan.

  Grinning, she raised her hand, and Deke clapped it.

  “See you tomorrow.”

  He left Hanna’s leash in her palm. Meya watched her friends until their retreating silhouettes vanished behind the dip of the hill, breathed deeply then trudged home.

  Marin perked up at her approaching footsteps.

  “Meya! You’re back so early!” she chirped, face aglow with delight.

  “Hope that’s still lawful,” muttered Meya under her breath as she swept past her sister into the garden. After leaving Hanna in her pen, she pushed open the back door.

  “Is the pig tied tight?” said Mum’s husky voice as her big toe crossed inside. She was bent over the hearth hole, stirring the dinner stew. Morel sat nearby, chopping vegetables.

  Meya sighed in relief. News hadn’t reached these three. She closed the door and strode in, singing with all the liveliness she could muster.

  “Tight as the noose ’round Johnsy’s ne—oof!” A flying basket collided with her chest, knocking the wind out of her.

  “Parsnips!” Morel barked. She’d win the Fools’ Week plate-throwing contest for sure, if she’d deign to sign up. On a fine day, Meya would chuck the basket back and demand she walk three steps to hand it politely. This was no fine day.

  “Parsnips.” Meya nodded, heading back out.

  “In a quarter-hour! So dun go chasing some shiny beetle into the woods, doofus!”

  “Aye, milady,” Meya grunted. She shuffled to the vegetable patch, gathered her dress, then hunkered down to yank out tubers, tossing them into the wicker basket, which she pressed over a water basin to rinse.

  After she’d half-thrown, half-slid the basket before Morel, earning herself a glare, Meya turned to leave and kill time with Hanna, but Mum stopped her with her hoarse, damaged voice.

  “Have you seen Mistral?”

  Meya swallowed the bitter lump in her throat. Mum and Morel seldom left the house or joined the village’s gossip rings. Still, Meya had hoped, after seventeen years raising her, Mum would’ve sensed something off.

  “No. Still weaving with Silma, probably. She’s teaching her new patterns today.”

  Mum bobbed her head as she stirred.

  “And Marcus and Myron? And Maro?”

  “Working the fields,” of course! Where else d’you expect they’d be? Meriton?

  Meya itched to add. Pity Mum’s ladle looked too deadly swirling in the boiling stew.

  “Hm-hmph. Seen your father on the way here?”

  “No, sorry,” Meya lied. She hadn’t seen Dad on the way. She parted with him before she set off. Mum didn’t seem to suspect foul play. She scooped up a ladleful of brown stew and let it plop down, studying its texture.

  “Hmm,” a hum escaped her pursed lips. She turned to Morel, who was reaching for an onion. “Leave the onions for later, Morel honey. Your father would take some time.”

  Meya bit back a sigh and turned to leave.

  “Meya, wait.”

  Meya spun around. Mum had peeled her eyes from the stew to look at her. Meya was taken aback.

  “Have you fetched the chicken?”

  Meya froze. Ah, crap.

  “Ah, no. Er, I’ll get to it.” She hung her head, hoping to hide her burning eyes.

  “Take a copper for Old Horth.” Mum pointed her chin at the money tin on the shelf, sitting next to a block of Morel’s fruitcake.

  “How about this instead? Jason said coins are getting short.” Meya held the cake up for Mum to see.

  “Really?” Mum blinked in mild interest. She cocked her head. “Take the cake, then. You fine with it, Morel dear?”

  Morel shrugged.

  “What can I say? Shepherd Horth loves me cooking.” She smirked, not one for modesty. Mum mussed her golden hair.

  “So does every shepherd in the pasture.”

  The two tittered. Meya let her smile sag, her shoulders hunch. Mum accepted her lies without protest, no matter how suspicious she strove to be. She’d always ask Meya about her siblings, the livestock, the vegetables. If she wouldn’t ask about her to her face, perhaps she’d ask the others, at least.

  Meya snatched her ragged black cloak as she retreated outside. Stowing Morel’s cake in one of its pockets, she swung the gate into the garden again.

  The coop was empty. Every morning before heading to the fields, Meya would herd the chicken onto a wheelbarrow and trundle them to the communal pasture outside the village, where they would forage among the livestock of other villagers under the shepherds’ watchful eyes.

  Hanna, in her pen, had settled in for a snooze. Meya unlatched her door and bent down to muss her head. She grunted and opened one bleary eye.

  “Sorry, Hanna. Wanna go with me to the pasture?”

  Her other eye snapped open. Oinking, wagging her tail, she scrambled up and waddled along. The round wooden tag swung on her collar as she followed Meya down the meandering dirt lane to the grasslands spreading beyond rolling green wheat fields. Myron had carved letters onto the tag, spelling Hanna. At least, Meya believed they did. She couldn’t be bothered to learn to read.

  Back home, in the hole in the dirt where Meya kept her belongings, she’d collected ten tags, bearing names of piglets she’d raised since coming of spring only to send to the slaughterhouse by eve of winter.

  They could raise one pig at a time, so Meya couldn’t help treating her annual piglet like a pet, albeit one you must butcher and eat. Meya never touched their meat, though, no matter how much her stomach ached in winter.

  A gust of wind carried bleats and moos from the communal pasture, reminding Meya of creamy fresh milk and golden cheese and butter. They couldn’t keep flocks of sheep or cattle. Luckily, the Armorheims insisted on giving their poorer neighbors a daily pail of milk.

  At the chirp of a robin streaking by above, Meya tilted her head back, following his journey across the clear, light blue of spring’s eve. Wispy clouds sailed towards the horizon on the wings of the flower breeze.

  Where was the little fellow headed? If he flew high enough, he could see if there were a deity, the goddess Freda, up there, if the Holy Scriptures were true.

  Then perhaps he could ask Freda why she made Meya a girl. And a Greeneye, too. Meya could do much more for her family if she were a boy, with beautiful blue or brown eyes that didn’t glow like a pair of cursed fireflies from a haunted forest.

  At least, she wouldn’t have to resort to wage fraud to earn her dowry, and end up losing it to a hefty fine. She could dream of becoming a merchant like Marcus, could take up an apprenticeship like Myron, could be useful. Now, she could only waste the family bread.

  Meya glanced at Hanna. Would it make much difference with her neck on the butcher’s board this winter?

  With a jolt, she remembered Morel loved bacon. Pork must taste better than Greeneye meat.

  Would you care to sample bakery made of flour fortified by powdered snail shells? (It's shock-full of calcium!...I think?)

  

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