Small Favors

IMPORTANT FAMILIES OF THE GATHERING

The Downings

Gideon (apiarist) and Sarah, Samuel, Ellerie, Merry, Sadie

The Danforths

Cyrus (farmer), Rebecca, Mark

The McClearys

Amos (Elder and owner of the general store) and Martha

The Dodsons

Matthias (Elder and blacksmith) and Charlotte

The Schäfers

Leland (Elder and shepherd) and Cora

The Briards

Clemency (parson) and Letitia, Simon

The Buhrmans

Calvin (tavern owner) and Violet

The Lathetons

Edmund (carpenter) and Prudence

The Fowlers

Gran (poultry farmer) and Alice (schoolteacher)

THE RULES

as drafted by the Elders and Decided by at the first Gathering of Amity Falls

A rope of great cords will not fray, snap, or weather. The Falls stands strong if we all bind together.

Tend your land, your beasts, your field, and prosperous bounties the Falls will yield.

Fifteen harvests children sow, then to the Gathering let them grow.

Seek not to harm your fellow men, for Amity’s wrath circles round again.

Let from your lips no false words pour, damning characters evermore.

When neighbors reach for helping hand, extend your own, as God commands.

Enter not the forest deep. Beyond the Bells, the dark fiends keep.

The smoke smelled of burning pine needles, dark and sweet. It seeped from the hive box in front of me and danced across the fields, caught on a balmy breeze. Papa pressed down on the bellows to release another cloud, training it carefully toward the tall wooden structure’s entrance. His head bobbed as he silently counted the passing seconds. Finally he nodded.

Even though my hands were completely covered, they shook as I approached the hive. I’d never been allowed to help remove frames before, and I wanted to make sure I did everything exactly as Papa said. With a muffled groan, I strained to hoist the heavy lid before setting it aside in the grass, careful to avoid three drowsy bees crawling across its top.

After puffing more of the smoke deep into the box, Papa stepped back, allowing me full access to the hive. Take out one of the super frames and we’ll inspect it. His voice was muffled under the thick netting swagged about his face.

Though I could only see the limned highlight of his profile, he looked pleased. Proud, even. I prayed I wouldn’t let him down.

Usually I was in the kitchen with Mama, Merry, and Sadie during harvests. Samuel helped Papa, bringing in the heavy, honey-laden frames for us to process. I’d hold them upright while Mama ran a wide knife down the combs, slicing off waxy caps with practiced ease. The dripping frames would go into a large metal drum, and Merry and Sadie would take turns cranking the handle until all the honey had spun free and was ready to be filtered.

I glanced toward our farmhouse now, imagining my sisters jostling for space around the hearth as bottles were boiled clean and set out to dry. They’d be squabbling and begging for Mama to let them go out. It was too pretty a day to be spent over a hot fire and iron pots. A hawk screeched overhead in tacit agreement, spinning lazy circles in the late-August sunshine.

Ellerie, Papa prompted, drawing me back. The first frame can be the trickiest. Sometimes the bees seal the edges over with resin. You might need to chisel it free.

Won’t that upset the bees? I peered down through the slats of the frames. The ever-present hum had died down, but I could still see some movement in the lower boxes.

Not if you do it right, he teased unhelpfully. I sensed his smile behind the netting. The first time my father let me take the frames out, I was stung six times. It’s a rite of passage.

Growing up with beekeepers for parents, I’d certainly been stung before, but it wasn’t an experience I cared to repeat. I’d kept the entire household up with my first sting, sobbing through the night—not for my swollen hand but for the poor bee who had died in the process.

Reaching under my own heavy netting, I wiped at the sweat trickling down my face, debating where to start. There were eight frames in this section, each spread out with uniform precision. I chose one near the middle and gently wiggled it back and forth, testing the sides. It moved easily enough. I held my breath as I pulled it free, careful to not brush it against any of the others on the way out.

Let’s see, then. Papa leaned forward, studying the bees’ work.

Lacy patterns of honeycomb sheeted over the frame, some filled and capped but most empty.

He clucked his tongue, considering. Not yet. Could be a late harvest this year. Too much snow last winter. Put it back.

With the utmost care, I eased the wooden frame back into its slot, then breathed a sigh of relief.

Now the next.

We check every one?

His head bobbed. If you go through the trouble of smoking the bees, you need to make sure to thoroughly inspect the hive. Honey isn’t the only thing we’re concerned with. We’re stewards for the hives, protectors of these bees. We need to make sure they’re healthy and their needs are being met.

He set the smoker down and lifted the top box, peering into the lower chambers. After setting aside the first box and counting the second’s frames, he took one out, and gently brushed aside two bees clinging drunkenly to the combs.

Tell me what you see.

I squinted through the veil. There were more honeycombs, as golden as a stained-glass window. At the center of almost every cup was a tiny white speck, no bigger than a barley seed. Those are the eggs, aren’t they?

Very good. What do they tell us?

I felt uncomfortably on the spot, like a knobby-kneed schoolgirl no older than Sadie. That the queen is laying? He made a noise of affirmation, encouraging me to go on. So if she’s laying, that’s good, right? A healthy hive?

He nodded. It means the hive is queenright. He pointed to the eggs, his usually sure and swift movements hampered by the thick gloves. Eggs this size mean there was a queen here at least three days ago. When you check the boxes, you always want to look for fresh eggs. A box without them is a dying swarm.

He deposited the frame back and removed another, showing me the grubs, fat white blobs that looked nothing like the buzzing honeybees soaring about our yard. Another frame contained the pupas, cocooned away in caps of honey, growing and dreaming.

Those will break free in only a few days’ time, Papa said approvingly. New workers or drones. Our hive is thriving, Ellerie. Let’s put everything back together and let them wake up. We’ll check on the honey next month.

And they’ll all be okay?

I hated the note of worry in my voice. I knew they would be. Papa had never lost a colony before. But seeing how everything fit together, up close and right in my hands, reinforced what a fragile existence these bees had. Leave a frame out by accident, and the bees could crosscomb, filling up the extra space with so much honeycomb, you’d destroy the box trying to free it. Set the lid off-kilter, even slightly ajar, and the bees wouldn’t be able to regulate the internal temperature. They’d work themselves to death, fanning and buzzing to heat the hive.

They’ll be just fine. You’ve done well today.

My face flushed with pleasure. I’d wanted to impress him, to show him I was every bit as capable as Samuel was. Samuel should have been here, should have been wearing this veiled hat, not me. But he’d slipped off after breakfast this morning, and Papa’s face had grown as dark as a summer rainstorm sweeping across the mountain peaks.

Samuel had changed over the summer, racing off the farm with his best friend, Winthrop Mullins, as soon as chores were finished, sometimes even leaving the last of them to be divided up among us girls. He often quarreled with Papa, bickering over little annoyances until the two stood hot-faced, their noses curled into sneers. Mama said he must be sneaking off to see a girl, but I was at a loss to guess who it could be. We never kept anything from each other, my twin and I, and it seemed absurd to imagine him storing secrets now.

Once the box lid was securely tightened, I swooped down to pick up the metal smoker before Papa could, offering to carry it back to the supply shed for him. When we were a good distance away from the hives, he pulled off his hat, then balled up the netting and his pair of gloves into its center.

I think this will be a good winter, he predicted, swinging his arms back and forth as we walked. I smiled as he whistled a song through his teeth, hopelessly off tune.

What’s that flower there? he asked, pointing to a patch of pink blooms sprouting along the path.

I removed my hat for closer inspection. Fireweed, I exclaimed proudly.

He clicked in disapproval. Its real name?

I tried remembering the species, written in tiny scrawl in Papa’s botany book.

Epilobium angustifolium? I guessed, stumbling over the Latin.

Papa smiled. Very good.

Maybe…maybe I could help with the next inspection too? I asked, keen on taking advantage of his happy state.

He nodded, and my heart leapt. Papa was a man of few words unless you got him talking about his bees, and then he’d prattle on for hours.

I envied Sam, born just minutes ahead of me—and a boy. He’d stroll after Papa to the shed without a backward glance, confident and certain of his place in the world.

Not like me, stuck in the house, forever poised and waiting for the next step in my life. Waiting for a boy to come along and ease me into my next purpose. A wife. A mother.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Until today.

Inside the shed, I held on to the veiled hat for just a moment longer, fingers sunk deep in the netting. I was scared to let go and release the magic of the afternoon. But an angry vibration buzzed against my thumb. A stray bee was entangled in the mesh. I struggled to gently sort through the layers, trying to free the honeybee as her legs squirmed in rage.

Don’t sting, don’t sting, I whispered to her. I’m only trying to help. You’re nearly free….

The stinger sank into the side of my finger as the air split in two with a howl of anguish.

It hadn’t come from me.

Papa rushed outside as more cries and shouts rose. This wasn’t the sound of a children’s game turned too rowdy. This pain wouldn’t be patched with a splint or a kiss on the knee. It echoed across the valley, becoming a confusing cacophony of desperate heartache.

Ellerie, get your mother. We’re going into town. Papa was already halfway to the path leading into Amity Falls.

Another scream rang out, sharp and shrill, and a cold sweat trickled down my neck despite the warm afternoon. My feet remained still and unmoving. I did not want to know what was behind such torment.

Ellerie! Papa urged, sensing I wasn’t behind him.

I tossed aside the hat, my finger swelling uncomfortably. The body of the honeybee spilled free from the netting and fell into the dirt, already dead.

Samuel was there, already a part of the crowd gathered around the porch of Elder Amos McCleary’s store. Across from the clapboard schoolhouse, the general store was centered at the heart of Amity Falls. It was the place where good news came to be spread and bad news was met with instant comfort.

Mama and Papa pushed their way through the wave of bystanders, and I grabbed at Sadie to keep her from trailing after them. Merry stood next to me, tall and slim, coming nearly to my shoulders. I felt her stiffen as she caught sight of what everyone had circled around.

Molly McCleary—Amos’s daughter-in-law—stretched across the body of her husband’s prized stallion, Samson. He was an absolutely enormous beast, standing nearly nineteen hands tall, but he seemed less now, lying in the middle of the dusty road, chuffing in pain. Molly clung to the beast, her sobs buried in the wadded saddle blanket. The ends of the fabric were ripped ragged and stained with dark brown splotches.

Blood.

The air was tainted with the biting taste of copper pennies.

Merry, why don’t you take Sadie and some of the other children over to the schoolyard? I asked, my hands fluttering uselessly about my little sister’s face as I tried to keep the scene from her. The supply train had left just a day before, with Jebediah McCleary and Samson at the lead. Whatever had happened since then didn’t need to be heard by a seven-year-old, no matter how very grown-up she fancied herself.

Sadie squirmed to avoid my grasp, blond braids flying. I want to stay, she protested. I’m not a baby anymore.

No one said you were— I started, but Merry skillfully cut me off.

Look, there’s Pardon and Trinity. She pointed to Sadie’s friends. They also lingered on the outer edge of the group, standing on tiptoes to catch what they could. Did you hear, Trinity picked up five jacks last week? On just one swipe.

That’s impossible! Sadie scoffed, eyeing her friend with outright suspicion.

Merry shrugged. It’s what she said.

Sadie reached into her pocket and removed a handful of metal trinkets. I’ve got mine. Let’s see if she can prove it. She always kept a set of jacks on her, and we all knew it.

I offered Merry a grateful smile as our little sister loudly challenged the girls to a game of jacks. They were soon out of earshot, spreading their lightweight voile skirts across the schoolhouse steps. Though Merry immediately joined their game, engaging and distracting them, I felt her worried stare like a tangible weight.

You won’t! You won’t! Molly screamed, railing at Elder Matthias Dodson and snapping my attention back. The blacksmith stood over her and the horse, pistol in hand. Jeb would never allow it.

Molly, look at his leg. The bone is shattered. There’s no way to fix that. He’ll never walk again.

He came back here, didn’t he? It can’t be as bad as you think.

My breath caught as I spotted the broken hind leg. It twisted to the side at an impossibly wrong angle. Matthias was right. The bones would never properly heal. Samson would have to be put down. It was criminal, allowing him to linger in such blatant misery.

Approaching thirty, Matthias was the youngest of the three town Elders, and he rubbed at the back of his neck like a little boy, clearly wishing someone else would intercede. I don’t…I don’t know how he made it this far, but we can’t—

Jeb will never forgive me. No. No, you can’t. Her hand ran across the stallion’s sleek black hide. It came away wet and red.

Molly, it’s not just the ankle….

I said no! She was on her feet in an instant, pushing at him, pushing at the gun.

The crowd took an uneasy step back. Molly had covered the worst of the stallion’s injuries, and the front of her dress was slick with the animal’s blood. His side was clawed open by four deep marks, revealing sinew and bone. Samson shifted uncomfortably, his breathing labored. Flecks of white foam gathered in the corners of his velvety lips.

Mama stepped in, her hands out to show she meant no harm. Her voice was low and soothing as she rubbed comforting circles across the woman’s back, just like when we were too sick to leave bed. Samson is hurting, Molly.

She nodded miserably.

I know it’s hard, but he’s trusting you to be brave, to do the right thing.

I know. Molly’s voice croaked out. But Jeb…

Jeb will understand.

Shivering, Molly threw herself into my mother’s arms, staining her dress. He’ll want to do it himself. He has to do it. He’d never forgive me if…

Mama turned, her clear blue eyes searching the crowd. They met mine for only a moment before shifting on, looking for a man who was not there. Then, where is he? Was he taken to Dr. Ambrose already? Where’s the rest of the party?

Matthias’s jaw clicked. No one else came back. That poor horse came tearing down the road, eyes rolled nearly to the back of his head. Never seen anything like it…but Jeb wasn’t with him.

I glanced toward the tree line as if the rest of the supply train might come bursting forth at any moment, racing away from whatever had mauled the fallen stallion. But the pines loomed over the Falls like watchful sentinels, tall and unmoving.

Molly fell to the ground with a violent shudder, grabbing at the saddle blanket and burying her screams within it. They welled up deep within her, as pointed and sharp as barbed thorns, tearing at everything they could on the way out. He’d never leave that horse. Not if he were… The sobs broke her words apart.

Mama knelt beside her, whispering things too soft for us to hear. Eventually she helped the suffering woman to her feet, and they slowly made their way up the steps to the general store. Before Mama disappeared over the threshold, she turned back with a firm nod to Matthias. Do it.

The bloody business was over before we had a chance to look away.

A tarp was thrown over the body so we didn’t have to look at the poor beast.

But I couldn’t draw my eyes away, watching four red lines bloom across the canvas, even as Samuel slipped in beside me, like a matching bookend. Though obviously not identical twins, with our fine golden hair and soft gray eyes, there was no doubt we were kin.

What happened on that supply run? I whispered, my insides turning and twisting. If there was something out in the woods that could have taken down a horse of Samson’s size, I shuddered to guess what it could do to a person.

He adjusted the brim of his straw hat, scanning the forest. I don’t know.

The other men…do you think they’re—

I don’t know, Ellerie, he repeated firmly.

Where were you this morning?

I was…I was over near the shoreline, and we heard shouting. By the time I got here, Samson was already… He pointed to the tarp. With that gash, and the ankle…But it’s like Matthias said, there weren’t any others….Just him.

Who’s ‘we’?

He dragged his eyes from the trees. Hmm?

You said ‘we heard shouting.’ Who’s ‘we’?

A short, middle-aged woman pushed her way to the front of the crowd before Samuel could answer me. It obviously was an attack of some sort, Prudence Latheton, the carpenter’s wife, guessed. Wolves, probably.

Never seen a wolf with claws that big, Clemency Briard said, running his fingers over the tarp where the marks had bled through. Even with the parson’s fingers spread as wide as they could, the wound was bigger still. Must have been a bear.

But the howling… Prudence trailed off. Her faded blue eyes looked about the group, seeking confirmation. You’ve all heard it too, haven’t you? In the night? It’s been…just awful. And so close to town.

I knew what she spoke of. For the past three nights I’d awoken to the sound of the wolves. Their cries haunted the dark, horribly pitched and chilling. Even though I knew I was safe in our loft, I’d press myself against Merry’s back, snuggling close, unable to warm myself.

There was a grizzly near the tree line just last week, Cyrus Danforth confirmed. Biggest damn thing I ever saw. He gestured to his shoulders, estimating its height. And that was just on all fours. It was nosing around the Abels’ smokehouse. Didn’t think it’d…Not this.

Where are the other Elders? Papa asked, looking to Matthias. We should be forming a search party.

The blacksmith scratched at his beard, as dark and shiny as a beaver pelt. I haven’t seen Leland Schäfer. Cora said he went out along the western ridge with the flock this morning. He wouldn’t have heard any of the commotion from out there.

And Amos?

We all glanced back uneasily to the general store. We could hear the old man’s sobs even from here.

He and Martha ought to be with Molly now, Matthias concluded. And, Parson Briard? Perhaps they’d appreciate some comforting words from you?

Clemency’s thick lips twisted with dismay. He clearly wanted to stay and watch the drama unfold. With a sigh, he gathered himself up, stretching as tall as his squat frame would allow, before giving out a benevolent nod. I suppose you’re right, Matthias. Keep the McClearys in your prayers. Good Blessings to you all.

Good Blessings, we repeated as he headed toward the store, his steps now charged with purpose.

We’ll organize this on our own, Papa said, returning to the problem at hand. If there was an attack, bear or otherwise, the supply train could have scattered. People may be injured and lost.

The hell we will. Cyrus spit out a sluice of tobacco, narrowly missing Prudence’s hemline. She jumped back, disgust wrinkling her nose. That fool stallion probably threw Jeb and crossed paths with the bear before he could make it home.

Papa shook his head. The Danforth farm bordered along our fields. Our families had years of disagreements stacked between them, never truly forgotten. Papa and Cyrus could put on civil faces when needed, but the animosity was always simmering beneath the surface, threatening to boil over. We owe it to the supply train to at least search the nearby woods.

Look at that stallion. Torn to ribbons. You want that to happen to you, Downing? You want your wife and daughters seeing your riderless horse?

Papa narrowed his eyes. Of course not. But if there’s a chance others could be alive—

Prudence’s husband, Edmund Latheton, reached out to Papa. He was even shorter than his wife, and his auburn beard was kept square and neat. Gideon, maybe we should wait—the run should be back in another week or so…

If you were out there, would you want us waiting a week?

Edmund swallowed, his jutting Adam’s apple bobbing up and down like a ship at sea. I…no, but…we’ve seen things too. Not a grizzly, he quickly clarified as his wife began to protest. Or maybe it was….I don’t know. It was big, with silver eyes—

Glowing silver eyes, Prudence added.

Glowing silver eyes, he agreed. And it was fast. Faster than any bear I’ve seen. He opened his mouth once, twice, clearly unsure how to finish the story. Yes, if I was out in those woods, I’d want someone to come find me…but having seen that…thing…I don’t want to be the one going after them.

Glowing silver eyes, Cyrus repeated, waggling his fingers theatrically. You sound as nutty as your pa did, Latheton.

Papa’s eyebrows shot up. Is that you volunteering, then, Danforth?

Cyrus wiped a sodden handkerchief across his forehead. Hardly. I’m not about to get myself killed for Jebediah McCleary. I don’t care if he is an Elder’s son. He knows the risks he takes every time he goes over the pass. And so does every other fool who went with him.

You don’t benefit from those runs? Papa asked, his voice heavy with skepticism.

I’m a self-made man, Cyrus said, his chest puffed out as wide and important-looking as it would go, undoubtedly to try to make up for the several inches of height Papa had over him.

A self-made man who took sugar with his coffee this morning, Samuel muttered, his nostrils flaring with derision.

I was listening so intently to the argument that my brother’s comment first slid over me, unnoticed. But like a burr, it caught in my mind, prodding for recognition.

I leaned in toward Samuel, lowering my voice. How do you know how Cyrus Danforth takes his coffee?

What? he asked, unmoving. His eyes were fixed on Papa with a sudden intensity as if he couldn’t bear to look away.

You just said he had sugar this morning, I pressed. Why were you at the Danforths’?

I—wasn’t.

Samuel was an awful liar. The tips of his ears always grew pink, and his sentences were reduced to stammering messes.

A bit of movement at the edge of the group drew my attention, and I looked over to see Rebecca Danforth joining the crowd. My best friend raised her fingers with a small wave, and my own hand echoed in automatic response before I noticed that Samuel’s did the same.

He’d focused wholly on Rebecca. When he dragged his eyes back to me, his smile died away and his cheeks turned a faint red.

Did you go see Rebecca this morning? I hissed, my voice softer than a whisper. A bolt of realization struck me, leaving me aghast. "Is she why you’ve been sneaking off all summer? Rebecca Danforth?"

No! he insisted. Let it alone, Ellerie.

Are you courting her?

I said let it alone.

But—

Enough! he growled. The thick lines of his eyebrows leveled into an angry ledge, and his face was splotchy.

I snuck one last peek at Rebecca, my mind racing. When Mama had supposed that Samuel was off visiting a girl, it had never occurred to me it might be her. It just wasn’t possible.

By all rights, we never should have become friends. The bad blood between our families went back generations, to even before her great-grandfather had killed mine. But as Danforths and Downings, we were always paired as desk-mates at school, and proximity can often create the best of relationships. We’d grown up sharing our pail lunches, weaving each other chains of clover, and swapping stories in the wildflower fields that separated her house from mine. Though we were no longer little girls, we still shared everything—books, recipes, even the few bits of jewelry we owned. She couldn’t have kept a secret like this from me.

And Samuel…

He was my twin. I should have sensed this; I should have known.

But looking between them now, I knew I’d missed it. Whatever bond I’d shared with them wasn’t as strong as I’d imagined it to be. I’d been completely in the dark, without even an inkling of suspicion. My own cheeks heated and my stomach churned as I imagined how my cluelessness must have amused them.

When had it begun? Rebecca had stayed overnight just last week. We’d slept in the barn’s hayloft, giggling about the boys in town till the moon had sunk behind the mountains. She must have thought it was such a good joke, never letting on about the truth. She must have thought I was the biggest fool, never guessing her secret.

I’m going into the woods, Papa stated, firm enough to bring me back to the present. Jeb would never have let that horse out of his sight—we have to assume something on that run went terribly, terribly wrong….I can’t make any of you come with me, but I can ask. It’s the right thing to do, no matter what might be out there.

A fool’s errand, Cyrus sniped. And I’m no fool. I won’t be a part of any of this. With a snarl, he released a final slug of tobacco. Somebody bury that horse before it starts to smell.

He stalked off, muttering to himself. Rebecca’s lips pressed together into a thin line.

Papa scanned the crowd, his dark gray eyes lingering on every man present. He paused, clearly hoping for others to volunteer. Judd Abrams?

The tall rancher ran his hands through silvering hair, tousling it uncomfortably. You know I would, but I’ve got a field of pregnant heifers, due any day. I can’t leave them.

Papa ran his tongue over his teeth. Calvin Buhrman?

Violet grabbed her husband’s elbow, silently pleading with him to stay. After a moment of indecision, the tavern owner shook his tight, dark curls.

Matthias Dodson? Will you ride with me?

I hated the look of crushed hope in my father’s eyes as the Elder waved aside his plea. You know I can’t leave town, especially with Amos in such a sorry state.

The three Elders were tied to the Falls in a way that none of its other citizens were. They were the keepers of law and tradition, justice and order. While Parson Briard might have been in charge of nurturing and nourishing the soul of Amity Falls, the Elders protected its head and heart.

I’ll go with you, Papa.

I heard the words before realizing it was my own voice that spoke.

There was a nervous titter from the group, but I didn’t care. I’d been there this morning to help him, and I wanted to help again now.

I’d show him I was every bit as capable as Sam was.

More so even.

Because I was there. Here.

I could be the reliable one he needed.

My face burned crimson as Papa shook his head.

I could be of help. Even if it’s just… I racked my mind, searching for something to lift the weight of defeat from his shoulders. The brush Samson ran through! It’s bound to be bloodied. It’ll need to be burned away, or it’ll draw all sorts of things. Let me at least do that.

I need you at home, Ellerie, looking after your sisters.

Mama would have your hide if she knew you were going into the forest by yourself. And what about the Rules? I persisted after Papa as he turned to go. You can’t go alone.

Matthias opened his mouth, undoubtedly ready to offer some sort of dispensation he truly couldn’t make without the other two Elders, but Sam spoke up first.

She’s right, Papa.

Rebecca had stepped to his side, her hand curved just inches from his.

You can’t go by yourself.

I didn’t hear you offering to go before. In fact, I’ve not heard you offering to do much of anything all summer, Papa shot back.

I… Any words that were to follow dried in Sam’s mouth as Papa’s eyes fell to Sam’s and Rebecca’s almost-held hands, missing nothing.

I see there is much to discuss when I return.

Samuel pushed aside Rebecca’s hand and ran after our father. I’m coming with you.

Sam! Rebecca’s voice was soft and pleading, but my brother didn’t stop. He whizzed past me, and I had to step out of the way to avoid being hit.

Papa chewed the inside of his cheek. Fine. Fill a pack, but be quick about it.

My fist struck the dough, smashing into its thick, warm pliancy with a satisfying thud. I struck it again, leaving a giant dent before gathering it up into a loaf. It still looked misshapen. I hit it once more.

Whose face are you imagining right now? my mother asked, coming around the tall kitchen table with a tray of hot bread. She deposited the loaves onto the cooling racks before bustling back to the oven.

I don’t know what you mean, I said, slamming the dough back onto the table. A burst of flour rose into the air, mixing with sparkling dust motes as they danced in and out of the late-afternoon rays of sun that painted the kitchen orange.

Something’s been bothering you since we came back from town yesterday, she observed. You’ve nearly pounded that loaf into oblivion.

Using the back of my hand, I pushed aside a stray ringlet of hair that had pulled free from my bun. I only ever wore my hair up on baking days. Our kitchen simmered with yeast and heat, far too hot for my usual thick braid.

There’s nothing wrong with having a bad day, Mama continued, crossing back to the table. She grabbed the dough from me and worked it into a more manageable shape. And there’s certainly nothing wrong with taking out frustrations while baking. I do whenever your father does something to vex me. Why pick a fight when you can bake a loaf of bread?

She slammed the dough into another loaf pan, adding an exclamation to her point.

Mama, we make bread almost every day.

Her eyes twinkled as she tapped my nose, dusting it with flour. Exactly.

Mama sold her baked goods in town—to the Buhrmans’ tavern and at the general store. Her sourdough was good enough that even the most tightfisted misers would fork over the shiny dime Amos McCleary charged per loaf.

But it was her honey cakes that had all of Amity Falls lining up.

She only made them once a year—just after Papa harvested the combs, and all the honey had been extracted and bottled. He’d make sure our larder was fully stocked for the winter and would then sell the surplus in town—charging a whole dollar a bottle. Though people claimed to be scandalized by the price, he never had a shortage of customers, and the honey was always sold out before day’s end.

All but three bottles.

He saved those for Mama.

Mama’s cakes were deceptively simple. Flour, spices, fresh cream, and three eggs each. No nuts or chocolate or sugared icing. She never added anything to take away from the true star of the dessert—Papa’s honey.

As the story went, shortly after they were married, Mama brought her first honey cake to a church social, and all the women in town nearly stampeded her to get the recipe. But no one could ever correctly replicate it—even using the precious honey they’d bought from Papa. When people demanded to know how to achieve the impossibly thin and moist layers or the perfectly caramelized tang, Mama would smile mysteriously and say it was just a pinch of love.

Some claimed it was more like a touch of magic. Even Parson Briard—after his wife had made a particularly disastrous cake—said Mama must have been blessed by the angels of Heaven. There was no other way to account for it.

I’d watched her make them for years, studying every step—down to the way her fingertips danced across the rolling pin—but I’d never been able to make an exact match. Maybe Mama did have a bit of magic in her.

Tell me all about it, she said, scattering another scoopful of flour across the table before starting on the next round of dough.

I toyed with a hangnail, worrying it back and forth till it broke free. I didn’t know what to say. Samuel and Papa had left while Mama had been tending to Molly. She hadn’t heard who my brother had been sneaking off to see all summer, and as mad as I was at him, it wasn’t my story to tell.

You’re worried about Sam, she guessed, and it felt impossible to disagree. And your father.

We’d watched the brushfires burn late into the night, shimmering through the trees. She hadn’t said so, but I knew that Mama had thought they’d return yesterday.

Do you…do you ever wonder what life is like outside of the Falls? The question bubbled up from deep within, surprising me.

Out of the valley? Mama asked. I nodded. I can’t say it’s never crossed my mind. Especially when I was around your age. I wanted to go off and see so much more of the world. See a big city skyline. Buy a fancy dress and have tea in a proper restaurant.

Why didn’t you?

She raised her shoulders. Other dreams became more important.

Papa?

And you. Your brother. Our home here. She paused, rolling the dough between her hands thoughtfully. Your father left the Falls once.

When Uncle Ezra went missing. I knew the story well.

My father’s younger brother, Ezra, had gone hunting by himself one summer, venturing out past the Bells. He’d never returned. Townsfolk had searched for him for over a week before giving up.

Gideon wouldn’t let it rest. He said he knew Ezra was still alive, out there someplace. He went over the pass, looking for him in nearby towns, even going into the city.

But he didn’t find him, I concluded. We grew up with tales of Ezra and his adventurous spirit, spoken in hushed tones.

Your father still thinks Ezra’s out there, that he’ll come back one day. As big and wide and wondrous as the world can be, everyone eventually wants to come home.

Before I could answer, telling her how much I wanted to leave, how much I wanted to find my place in that wide and wondrous world, Sadie’s tabby cat flew out from nowhere and landed on the table with a hiss.

Sadie, how many times have I told you to keep Buttons out of the house while I’m baking? Mama cried, hollering loud enough for my sister to hear her in the barn.

We saw her small silhouette race by the windows. Her footsteps clattered across the porch’s splintered planks, further aggravating the cat. Sorry, sorry!