Page 20 of A Land So Wide

She’d check inside first, then go back into the darkness. She’d search all night if she had to. She’d find a lantern and a weapon to arm herself with, and if the sky was about to shatter down upon them, she’d be protected.

“An ax,” Greer decided. “An ax or a kni—”

She stopped short as the very word she was about to say materialized before her, like magic.

A knife.

There was a knife stabbed into their cabin door.

Greer blinked, wondering if her muddled mind was hallucinating. Tentatively, she touched the handle. It was solid and substantial.

The knife was real.

Only after she confirmed its heft did Greer notice that the blade was skewering a bit of parchment to the door. An angry scrawl of letters addressed the missive to Hessel.

Curiously, Greer pulled at the knife, trying the dislodge it, but the blade would not budge. Whoever had left this had used all their might to impale it in place. She debated whether to pull the message free, ripping the paper in the process, to devour the contents for herself.

Everything about the letter felt wrong.

It was the day of Reaping. With so much work to get through, when would anyone have had the time to stop and write a note to Hessel?

And when had they left it? Greer was certain it had not been on the door as she and Martha had departed, their arms laden with offerings. No one would have missed Reaping, especially this year, and no one had been missing from the circle.

She stared at the paper, unease curdling in her stomach.

Who had written this note?

Greer ran her finger along the flap, opening the paper as much as the knife would allow. But it was too dark, and the handwriting too messy. She could only catch quick phrases: “indebted,” “the boy,” “perdition upon you.”

Just as she made up her mind to seize the note, damage be damned, footsteps approached from the woods.

Greer studied the shadowed trees. She couldn’t hear anything but the crunch of dried leaves, the snapping of twigs. She couldn’t hear the approaching person’s breath, couldn’t pick out a familiar cadence to the stride. What if whoever had left the note had decided to come back?

“Who’s out there?” she asked, throwing her voice into the night. She hated how it trembled.

“Greer? Is that you?”

A broken cry escaped her, and she all but fell down the porch steps. “Father?”

Hessel staggered out of the darkness. He looked terrible. Face ashen, clothing torn. Something had slashed his temple, and red lines ran down his face.

Heedless of his injuries, heedless of her own, heedless of anything but the swell of relief flooding through her, Greer ran across the yard and threw her arms around her father.

He held her loosely at first, as if he wasn’t sure what to do with this wild thing caught in his embrace, but then pulled her close, fitting her beneath his chin.

“Are you all right? Are you hurt?” he asked, daring to stroke the mess of hair tumbling down her back.

“My head,” she said, unsure if he could hear her words with her face buried deep into the wool of his coat. “I can’t hear anything…not like I usually do.”

Hessel pulled away, cupping her face as he squinted, studying. “Let’s get you inside. You might have a concussion.”

She resisted, looking over his shoulder as if expecting others to emerge from the trees with him. “Did you see Martha? When the attack started I—”

“She’s fine, she’s fine. She’s with Ada Sturgette. Twisted her ankle something fierce. Martha is helping her home.” He made a motion toward the cabin.

Greer stopped him again. “Father…” She swallowed. “There’s a note on the door.”

He frowned, his eyebrows drawing together. “A note?”

“Someone left it while we were at Reaping. They…they used a knife.”

It took her father three attempts to free the blade from the door.

When they got inside, Greer began lighting the hurricane lamps and building up a fire in the cast-iron stove. She expected Hessel to join her, but when she turned, he was already disappearing into his study. The door closed with a firm finality.

“Father?” she called out anyway. When he didn’t answer, she knocked on the door, pounding the wood with the side of her hand.

“What?”

Ignoring his tone—harsh, and devoid of any of the concern he’d just shown—Greer twisted the handle and invaded his sanctuary. He sat behind the desk, reading the missive by the light of a single taper. Strange shadows were cast along the shelves of books and journals lining one wall.

She said nothing, waiting for him to feel her presence, forcing him to look up and acknowledge her. A full minute passed. Then another, and Greer finally broke first. “You said I might have a concussion.”

He glanced up from the letter, his expression distracted. “What? No. I’m sure you’re fine.”

“What does it say?”

He looked back to the note, then folded it closed. “Nothing of importance.”

“Who was it from?” she persisted.

“No one.” He folded it in half again, running his nail along the paper to press it into submission.

“No one used a knife to stab a note of no importance to our door?” She blinked.

Hessel’s sigh was pained. “It’s nothing for you to fret over. You should rest. You’ll need your strength for tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“The Hunt.”

Greer let out a humorless laugh. “Are you in jest?”

“We need something to distract from all this…unpleasantness. The Benevolence will restore order soon, I’m certain.”

“I’m sure the Calloways would love to be distracted from all their unpleasantness,” she snapped.

“Greer.” His voice was heavy with warning. “For the good of the town, the Hunt will continue as planned. I know it seems callous, but if you only—”

“For the good of the town?” she echoed in disbelief.

“For the good of the town.” He tucked the paper into his coat pocket as if the matter was settled.

Greer waited for him to say something more, to say anything at all, but those words did not come. She curled her hands into fists. “I’m going to bed.”

Hessel nodded, relieved. “A fine idea. Dawn comes early for us all.”