In a few weeks, Harvest ended and Harvestfest came.

  When Minnie appeared at the festival, no one blinked. Everybody knew that Martha kept in touch with the weird folk in Westroad, on the other side of the castle, and even with the bastards in Thornhop, all the way by the south wall, so the villagers just assumed the girl had come from one of those. As per Greengrove custom, nobody asked.

  That morning, before the festival, Old Clim had pulled Minnie aside, heart hammering.

  He had seen the Crone arrive, draped in her usual illusion of a plump elderly woman, with round face and red cheeks, reminiscent of youthful beauty, but even the smallest children and the fiercest farm dogs knew better than to come near. The air shimmered around her, bending light at odd angles, and her shadow stretched too far for her size. The faint smell of rotten eggs clung to her path. No one needed to be told to give her room.

  “Listen, Minnie,” Clim said, his voice hoarse. “The rule for branding is: you must be silent, unless you're asked a direct question. It’s… painful. And scary. But you mustn't scream. You mustn't struggle.”

  He hated himself for saying it. Bob had been right; she was too small. Normally, children weren’t presented until thirteen, fourteen even, if they looked frail. But he couldn't wait with this one. Not with how she'd come.

  Martha appeared quietly beside them and handed each a peppermint candy. Clim munched his with noisy satisfaction, but Minnie winced, the taste was too sharp and her mouth went numb.

  Martha chuckled. “Think about this candy when it hurts,” she said. “And remember, you're getting a sign like the rest of us.”

  She lifted the fringe of her hair and showed Minnie the faded glyph on her forehead. It was dark and strange, impossible to name. A looping mark of too many lines, which blurred the harder you looked.

  “This way, you’ll be one of us. If you shout during the ceremony, the Crone will think you don’t want to stay, and she’ll take you away,” Martha added.

  Clim winced. If the girl made a sound, she’d be dead, and he would be lucky to escape with a flogging. And if the Crone realized Minnie wasn’t his daughter… there was no telling what she would do. She might just take her away, or she might destroy the entire village. It happened before.

  Martha patted his back. “Stop worrying, Clim,” she said. “This isn’t the first time we’ve brought a child to the branding.”

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  Only Clim knew her well enough to catch the tremor in her voice. She knew, as did he, that this one was nothing like the other six.

  When the hour came, the children were gathered near the eastern slope, just beyond the festival grounds. The adults stood at a distance, watching with tight mouths and stiff hands.

  Only three children stood in the clearing that year.

  Ted, round-faced and pale, shifting nervously despite the feathery shadow of a moustache that betrayed how long his parents had delayed.

  Tomash, handsome and tall for his age, standing with his chin lifted and the casual confidence of someone already halfway to manhood.

  And Minnie, small and lost, her hands clenched tight at her sides.

  Tomash put a warm hand on her shoulder and whispered “It’s gonna be okay. Just think of something cold, and it will be over in a flash.”

  The Crone sat beneath a makeshift canopy, her gaze drifting over the villagers, to the hazy sky. She appeared as she always did, plump, soft-cheeked, othermotherly. Even the birds had gone quiet wherever she looked.

  Her branding servant stepped forward. He was a silent thing, face hidden beneath his hood, robed in dark green that looked black in the shade. In his gloved hand, he held a slender rod of polished iron, its tip already glowing.

  He did not speak. He simply beckoned.

  Ted went first. His parents had their arms wrapped around each other behind the line, their faces damp and grey. The boy stepped forward and knelt.

  The servant pressed the iron to Ted’s forehead. A sharp hiss, a sudden reek of burnt skin. Ted did not cry out. His jaw clenched, tears rolled down his pudgy face, but he made no sound. The Crone gave him a brief, disappointed look and went back to cloud gazing.

  Tomash came next. He knelt with less hesitation. The iron met his skin, and though a shiver ran down his back, he bore it with grace. A thin line of smoke curled into the air and was carried off on the wind. The Crone never even looked, as if she knew his type would never make a sound of pain.

  Then the servant turned to Minnie.

  She took a step forward on stiff legs. Her feet barely made a sound in the grass. She knelt.

  The servant paused, just for a moment, as if the rod had suddenly grown heavy in his hand. Then he raised the brand.

  The pain went through her like a needle threaded into the bone. It swallowed thought. It was worse than anything she had ever known. Somewhere in her mind, a mocking, ancient voice offered the obvious: you’ve only had three weeks of knowing anything; of course it’s worse.

  She did not scream from the pain. She was too busy raging silently against that internal betrayal.

  When she was back in the real world, it was all over. The Crone stood up and got moving the moment the branding rod left Minnie’s forehead. She took off towards the castle in a hovering gait that made her disappear in minutes.

  The villagers waited until she was out of sight. Then they exhaled, almost in unison. The servant was left to pack his gear, looking somewhat deflated, but the festivities commenced right around him. There were dancing and laughing and eating. The crops were bountiful; no children died at the branding. That was reason enough for celebration.

  Minnie danced with the others, helped set tables, stole an apple when she thought no one was looking.

  She had the brand. She was one of them now.