And the bucket full of blood.
I slipped off the low milking stool, landed hard, and nearly knocked over the tainted pail. Bessie swung her head around, mildly concerned at the crash. She was working on a mouthful of cud and chewed it thoughtfully as she regarded me with docile brown eyes.
“What happened, girl?” I asked, righting the stool and running a hand along her side. She shivered under the ministration, and a heavy worry pressed into me. Was she getting sick?
It wasn’t wholly unusual to get a little blood in the milk—udders could grow raw and chafe—but I’d never seen so much of it in one bucket before. This wasn’t a soft pink hue that Papa would overlook and Sadie would refuse to drink. It was a dark red, harsh and angry in the soft predawn light.
I took an udder, inspecting it with a critical eye. There wasn’t any damage to it, nor on any of the others. The skin was as pink and smooth as ever.
“Then how—”
Cringing, I tilted the lip of the bucket toward me. Pale liquid sloshed along the bottom, frothed with bubbles from the force of Bessie’s stream. I blinked heavily, trying to clear my eyes.
It was just milk.
Nothing more, nothing less.
I seized hold of the udders once more and gave them an experimental pull. More milk hissed out, every bit as white as it ought to be.
I kept working, slowly allowing my head to rest against her side. The rhythmic motion of my hands and the steady beats of the milk into the bucket lulled me into a hazy trance. My eyelids fluttered shut, once, twice as I struggled to keep them open. My sleepless nights were catching up to me, making me see things that weren’t there.
We would make the sugar cakes this morning, as soon as we were done with breakfast. I’d tell Merry and Sadie everything and finally be able to rest once more. My forehead pressed into Bessie, a dead weight, unable to hold itself up. I felt my mouth fall slack, and my breath deepened.
In the far corner of the barn, something stirred, and my eyes shot open. My neck creaked, stiff and sore, as though I’d spent the entire morning propped at that awkward angle. But the stalls were still dark and the bucket not even half-full. I couldn’t have been out for longer than a minute or two.
“Merry?” She must have come after me when she realized I wasn’t in the house.
There was no answer.
“Sadie?” I tried, though it was wholly unlikely my littlest sister would have come all the way down to the barn by herself at this hour.
I cocked my head, trying to pick out what noise had drawn my attention, but I couldn’t hear anything over Bessie’s even breaths. Picking up the lantern, I left the stall, straining my ears against the quiet. I held out the little beacon of light to cast back the darkness, but it only deepened the shadows in the corners, allowing them to fester while my imagination ran wild.
The silvery woman had learned of the sugar and had come to take it. She’d waited until my defenses were down, my mind sluggish from lack of sleep. She was real and she was here to steal it, and like a fool, I’d left it out in the middle of the room.
A series of soft whispers came from just over my shoulder, and I whipped around, ready to catch the thief. Thieves. It was probably a whole team of smugglers. An army of women in pale dresses with long, taloned fingers.
But there was no one, only Bessie.
The whispers came again, now from the far wall where Papa kept the pitchforks and scythes. Each one hung properly on its peg, shining with dull splendor in the feeble lighting. I crossed over to them, certain the intruders were hiding behind the half wall bordering the birthing stall, but there were only bales of hay, stacked high into columns. The birthing stall wouldn’t be used until spring. Papa was fanatical about keeping everything as neat and tidy as he could.
The whispers persisted, growing loud enough for me to nearly make out actual words, and they all seemed to be coming from the hay.
“Who’s hiding there?” I cried out. “I can hear you—show yourself!”
“Shhh!” someone hissed, and the murmuring cut off with an abrupt halt.
Exchanging the lantern for one of the smaller pitchforks hanging on the wall, I paused on the threshold. The wall of hay loomed in front of me, dominating the small space like a tangled hedge grown wild and unkempt. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out how the woman had wedged herself within the bales, but I knew I’d heard her hiding there. Brandishing the wickedly pointed tines, I stepped into the stall. “I know you’re in there,” I said, trying to force the trembles from my voice. “Show yourselves.”
The silence dragged by as I waited for a response. My entire body felt taut, like a cord wound too tight and about to snap. When a rustle sounded, soft and low to the ground, I sprang into action without thinking. I ran toward the bales with the pitchfork raised high, then brought it down again and again, stabbing at the straw with as much force as I could muster.
I knew I was being illogical.
I knew there couldn’t truly be people hiding inside such tightly packed hay.
But I didn’t care.
I was tired of the worrying. Tired of the fretting. I was sick of waking every morning in fear and dread.
It felt good to stab that hay, physically attacking the anxieties and doubts that had haunted me since the fire. I remembered how Mama had said she did the same when making dough, and I redoubled my efforts, flinging chunks of straw about the stall without care. Every bit of me felt like it was screaming itself raw, and the only way to make it stop was to raise that pitchfork again and again.
Then, I struck something decidedly not hay.
The pitchfork jabbed into an object within the straw. There was a moment of resistance before the points sank in, finding their mark. Instantly I let go of the handle, but it remained in place, stuck within the hidden obstruction.
My mind raced, trying to imagine what could possibly be stored within the bales. I’d not gone deep enough to encounter the wall, and I couldn’t remember a post being in the stall. Had Papa squirreled away some extra stock of rations here, saving away sacks of flour or cornmeal for a rainy day?
Pressing my lips together in a grim line, I wrapped my fingers around the wooden handle and gave it a tug. With a wet squelch, the pitchfork came free. It fell to the ground with a clatter as I caught sight of its bloodied tines.
Slowly my eyes lifted to the wall of hay. Blood trickled out from the section I’d destroyed. First one rivulet wet the dry stalks, then another, and another. I opened my mouth to let out a cry, but the only sounds I could make were choked gasps for air, like a fish pulled from water and left to die on a wooden dock.
With trembling hands I began to pull down the remainder of the bale. Hot blood coated my fingers, smudging and staining Papa’s heavy coat. The front of my nightdress was soiled beyond repair. Whatever I’d struck was bleeding out fast.