“We are friends,” I said firmly.
“We were,” she corrected me. “But that ended the second my father was strung up at the Gallows.”
I dropped back, as if slapped. “I had nothing to do with that!”
“Your brother did. If he didn’t—if he hadn’t—” Her eyes darted out toward the side yard, where Simon fussed with a harness. “It doesn’t matter. I’m done—with all of you.”
“You don’t mean that.”
The line of her jaw was hard and unforgiving. “I do. I lament the day I ever befriended you. The Downings have brought nothing but misery to my family, and I only wish Papa’s fire had finished you all off.”
The force of her words bit into me like a hatchet striking its mark. I wanted to believe she didn’t mean it, wanted to excuse it as nothing more than the fevered uprising of grief, but I couldn’t. Some things ought never to be said. Some words were too cruel to forgive.
I turned away from her without a guilty conscience.
She said she wanted me out of her life.
I could happily oblige.
She stepped out into the cold without another word.
“Rule Number Six: When neighbors reach for helping hand, extend your own, as God commands.”
“Lima beans,” I repeated, passing the larder again.
It was my third time by.
Merry tapped her chin as she examined our dwindling supplies.
“It’s what we have the most of,” I added, turning for another loop of pacing.
“It’s what everyone has the most of,” she said, a deep scowl marring her features. “Remember market last month? I’ve never seen so many beans in all my life. Green beans, butter beans, navy beans, kidney—”
“Lots of beans,” I interrupted, hating that she was right.
“I never want to see another bean again as long as I live,” she muttered, shifting the glass containers.
I stopped pacing to watch her. “They’re keeping us fed.”
Merry hummed in response and pulled out the second-to-last jar of onions. “We could get something good for these.”
“Not if everyone else is bringing beans,” I pointed out.
The corner of her lips twisted with reluctant agreement, but she made no motion to pick up the jar.
“Merry?”
She let out a sigh. “No. You’re right.” She grabbed the beans and brushed past me. “You’re always, always right.”
It was said under her breath, so low, I almost missed it.
“What?”
She turned to look at me, her face a placid mask, eyebrows arched. “What?”
“What did you just say?”
Merry cocked her head. “Nothing. Only, you’re right about the beans….Maybe we can trade these for green beans. Sadie loves them so.”
I studied her closely. This wasn’t the first time I’d thought I heard her muttering little snide remarks, but I’d never been able to quite catch their full meaning. Merry was the one person I usually got along with—I never butted heads with her like I did with Sam, and she never bickered like Sadie.
But now…
She seemed quicker to anger and less prone to confide her thoughts.
The winter had changed her.
But it had also changed me, forcing me into a position I wasn’t quite ready for. I was trying to fit roles I couldn’t hope to properly fill. I felt far older than my eighteen years, and the weight of my new worries warped and stretched, leaving me too thin, saddled with too many burdens.
Who would ever want to be around someone like that?
“We should probably leave soon, if we want to get any good deals,” Merry called over her shoulder before leaving me in the hallway alone with my thoughts.
* * *
The Gathering House wasn’t as full as it usually was.
A dozen families, maybe fewer, wandered about the hall, critically eyeing their neighbors’ wares, judging and determining how they could best profit. Dark circles lined hungry eyes. Dresses gaped too large. Belts were notched too many holes deep.
The Elders had arranged for market days, spread out to once a month, as a way to help Amity Falls make it through the long, uncertain winter. People brought whatever items they had in surplus, to barter or trade with. Some people promised away their first bounties of spring. Others offered to help with farming or repairs.
The markets had started out as a success—everyone smiling and eager to be of assistance—but as the snow piled higher and higher, anxiety lined the faces of those present. Worry hung so heavily, you could taste it in the air, a coppery bite, potent and bitter. The same goods seemed to be brought every month.
Beans.
Eggs.
Never the flour or meat we all so desperately hoped for.
But still we came.
“Mama canned these just at the peak of summer,” Merry said, offering our jar to Cora Schäfer. “Would you want to trade?”
The older woman had brought the prized item of today’s market—a large canister of cherry preserves—and everyone circled about her like vultures.
“I’ve got all the limas I could ever want, Merry Downing.”
We stepped back, allowing for other people to try their luck, but Cora grabbed Merry’s upper arm, detaining us.
“I think you girls have done a kind deed, allowing your uncle and cousin to stay with you. Don’t let others tell you anything otherwise.”
Merry frowned, unaware of the conversation I’d had with Rebecca and Simon. “What do you mean?”
Cora’s eyes darted about the room. “There are some who think we ought to cut ties with them. That they ought to be shunned.”
“Some?” Merry asked. “You mean Amos?”
“Leland,” I added pointedly.
Cora had the grace to redden as her husband’s name was mentioned. “They’re all becoming a bit unreasonable these days. All three of them. It’s the strain of the situation. They’re only trying to take care of the town, however they can. Trying to keep the balance of powers steady.”
“Balance of powers?”
“From Briard, of course. Haven’t you noticed he’s not here? That several of the more…fervent members of his congregation aren’t either?”