Page 40 of A Land So Wide
With a groan, she pushed herself to standing and staggered down the porch.
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?
Andwhenhad 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 toemerge 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?”
