I drop my crate of wine and jump in front of the man who charges after his daughter. The crowd closes in behind me to ensure he can’t reach her. His garlic-filled breath washes over my face as he calls her name. She tries to get to him but chains coil around her body to keep her in line. The Keepers tug her along and she shrieks. Moments ago, she walked calmly to her fate. But this father’s outburst serves only to scare her. Her red hair swirls around her face as they are forced to drag her up the ramp, toward the only exit in our underground cavern.

 

A woman who shares the girl’s red hair grabs the man from behind. He heaves against her. The girl’s cries almost drown out her voice when she says, “She’s a witch, sweetheart!”

 

The man stills and the crowd releases a collective breath. He glances from his wife to his demon spawn, face red and bloated. “Are you sure? She’s only seven.” His words are broken by the witch’s wails. He should be glad he’s rid of such a wretched creature, but it may take time. The situation under control, I inch back towards my crate.

 

The wife raises her hands in a plea. One scar lines the inside of her wrist. She has one accusation. “She fell to the ground again, shaking and jerking about. I had to report her for talking to the devil like that, right in our own home. You have to understand.” Witches once had everyone convinced these were medical conditions, but we know better.

 

Three Keepers approach the cavern wall and the thick metal door that keeps the corruption out. Two are indistinguishable, at least when I can’t see their faces. I recognize the third by the slope of his muscles, despite how a uniform tries to conceal him.

 

Arthur. He must sense my stare; he glances over his shoulder and meets my eyes. At this distance, there is the pull of him in my gut. He offers a glimmer of a smile and returns to his task.

 

One Keeper pins the girl’s arms as another straps a harness around her body. Arthur leans in and cuts a new notch in the leather so it will fit.

 

Arthur turns to face the crowd and his brilliant blue eyes pause on me. “This witch is accused of communicating with the devil for the third time. She must be tried in accordance with the commands of our Savior. If she survives forty-eight hours outside or disappears, we will take the appropriate precautions.” Execution, if she returns alive. And an accusation against her mother when it is confirmed she is a witch. “If she passes her trial, we will retrieve her corpse for cremation.”

 

“Daddy!” the witch howls. The father’s shoulders slump and he buries his head in his hands. It won’t block out his spawn’s cries. The mother leans against him.

 

A Keeper unlocks the door. From the corrupted world beyond, tendrils of heat creep into our cavern. Arthur heaves the witch out. The father’s shoulders shake as the door slams on her screams.

 

A weight rises off my chest. It sickens me to know that even after thirteen years, some still hide among us. Every living witch is a danger to our community.

 

The father drops to the ground and I collect my crate. The trial made me late, but still, I linger. Arthur hurries down the ramp and I can’t help but admire the ease with which he moves. It’s always a treat to meet in public.

 

“Melite,” he calls. His full lips fit perfectly in his sharp face. He’s always clean-shaven, the way I prefer.

 

I smile up at him, the picture of innocence and virtue. “Arthur. How have you been?”

 

His throat bobs as he swallows. “Busy.”

 

“Too busy for me?” I pout in a low voice. He missed our rendezvous last night, which left me alone by the river until curfew. Not an ideal way to spend my free time.

 

He grimaces but shakes it off before I can appreciate it. “You know I’d rather spend my time with you.”

 

I make a frown etch itself onto my lips. I lower my voice to a murmur. “Well, find a way next time. I miss you.”

 

Arthur’s hand moves towards me but falls back to his side. I shift my grip on the crate and his eyes follow the movement. “I can carry that for you,” he offers.

 

“Oh, that would be—”

 

His fellow Keeper cuts me off saying, “Arthur! Isn’t Abigail waiting?”

 

Arthur takes a step back, but he doesn’t turn to go. “I’ll be along momentarily. I’m catching up with an old friend.” I bite my lip to stop the smile that threatens to burst. He’s chosen me over his wife. In a small way, of course, but still. It’s a sign. He’s not hers. My stomach flutters.

 

“Your funeral, buddy.” The Keeper takes off.

 

“How is your search for a match going?” Arthur asks. Our nighttime encounters often lack words, so this is the first time he’s asked after my search in months. Could he be jealous?

 

“All the good guys have been snatched up.” I only have six months until my nineteenth birthday, at which point I’ll either need to announce my engagement or retire to the Children of Nanisni, where unwed women worship God and serve our Savior. Either marriage or the Children would take me away. Arthur won’t let it go that far. He promised.

 

“I’m sure you’ll find someone,” Arthur says. My heart jumps. A reminder of his promise. “Well, I best not hold up the missus too long. I’ll see you soon.” Arthur turns and strides off down the street. Abigail doesn’t understand how blessed she is. She doesn’t serve him well enough. I stare after him until he rounds a corner.

 

~ * ~

 

I drop the crate of wine with an audible exhale. Mischa, who works the pub with me, peers around the corner.

 

“Good, you’re back,” he says. His mop of plain brown hair flops over his plain brown eyes. He’s got a slight frame, the opposite of Arthur. His beard is patchy, like he can’t quite grow one. It’s not a bad look, but not what I like.

 

“Did we get busy?” I tie an apron around my waist.

 

“Just glad to have you back.” His cheeks color, but he doesn’t swallow his words as he would have a month ago.

 

“Sorry to leave you alone so long. There was a trial and I got a bit distracted.” I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to see Arthur, but I need to placate Mischa. He has been kind since he started at the pub, but I remember when he shoved me and called me a witch. I was five at the time, and we still lived above ground. I don’t remember much about the compound, but Mischa and I were best friends. I attempted to comfort him after his mother, a Child of Nanisni, was found to be a witch and tried. He didn’t want comfort. Not from me. He called me a witch as an insult, not an accusation, but it should never be thrown around lightly. I left him alone after that. Since he joined the pub, we’ve spent more time together and our friendship is on the mend. But I still worry sometimes.

 

I lay my hand on his arm. His eyes brighten and his posture stiffens. He doesn’t have many friends of the female variety, so every touch has an effect. His voice is breathy when he says, “Oh. They put her with the rest of the devil’s creatures?”

 

“Of course.” I tuck my hands into my apron. His breath returns to normal but his eyes follow my hand. He’d do anything for my touch. I wouldn’t do that, of course. Not when I have Arthur. But it’s nice to have options.

 

“Good.” He clears his throat and steps back. The distance returns some sense to him and his blush fades. “Look, Melite, I have something I want to ask you.”

 

I offer a coy smile. “Ask away.” I rebraid my hair while he gathers his courage. Maybe I pushed him too far; I still need to get to the counter at some point tonight.

 

I flip my perfect braid over my shoulder and stare up at him. He breathes in deep and lets his words out in an explosion, like a bottle that’s been shaken. “Would you like to go on an outing? With me.”

 

I freeze. Perhaps I’ve misjudged him. No blush in sight, though he has turned to stone. I force a hand up to tap my chin. I thought I’d have more time. But I can’t say no. I’ve no engagement and it would be against the Savior’s teachings to deny him a chance.

 

I plaster on a smile. “Of course.”

 

~ * ~

 

I pace the kitchen and dodge the old cat that sleeps in the middle of the floor. Useless beast is always underfoot. I would have gotten rid of her ages ago, but she makes Papa happy. And she can be here when I can’t.

 

Papa pokes into the room with a scrunched nose. “Something burning?”

 

“Shit.” I yank the oven open and haul out a pan of blackened fish.

 

My father reprimands me with a chuckle. “If Mischa heard you speak like that he’d regret your whole courtship.” I don’t bother to tell him things are different from when he was young, when the Savior had only just made our community, and Mischa has heard much worse from me. Besides, while my time may be running out, I doubt I’ll find Mischa worthy. I have Arthur.

 

I plop the pan down on our stone table. The fish stare at me, as much as anything without eyes can. I curl my lip and groan at the smell. As if I wasn’t sick enough of fish. “Sorry, Papa.”

 

Papa sits at the table and fiddles with his old radio. Most people have thrown the useless things away. They worked when we first moved underground thirteen years ago, but since the corruption a year later, there’s no one left above ground to listen to. Those people should have listened to our Savior. If they had, they’d be alive too. But we’re better off without them. By the time witches summoned the corruption, many women on the surface spoke to the devil and demanded power over men. This way, fewer witches were able to infiltrate our sanctuary.

 

“Don’t worry, my dear. I’ve seen the way Mischa looks at you. He’s smitten.” I hide my shaky hands behind me. “Besides, I’ll kick his ass if he tries anything.” I laugh. Papa may be bigger than Mischa, but his achy joints would hardly allow it.

 

“It’ll be a good night, I know it will,” I lie. I share one truthful thought that eats at my heart. “What will happen to you when I’m married off?”

 

Papa shakes his head. Gray hairs fall over his eyes. “Don’t worry about your old man. I’ve still got some good years left.” He takes my hands in his. His skin is calloused and leathery, as expected of a smith. “Let’s worry about you.”

 

“I haven’t any other worries.” I’ve had three days to prepare; I should be ready for an outing with Mischa. He raises an eyebrow at the burnt fish. I hang my head. “Alright, maybe I’m a little nervous. His brother got engaged on his first outing and what if Mischa expects the same of me?”

 

Papa hugs me tight. “Engagement, and marriage, is a good thing. If he asks, you’ll say yes. Then I won’t have to worry after you so much.”

 

I can’t accept a proposal from Mischa, can I? I bury my face in papa’s chest and breathe in the scent of earth and fire he perpetually carries. It’s the scent of my childhood.

 

Papa is a good man; I won’t let him down. If I must marry, I will. I believe in Arthur but if he can’t leave Abigail in time, I must have a plan. I will not abandon Papa. I will not join the Children of Nanisni. I muscle the expected grin into place and pull back to look up at him.

 

“You’re right, as always. I best hurry and get dressed.” I peck his cheek. He watches me go, pleased. I don’t let him see my face crumple.

 

~ * ~

 

I dangle my legs off the roof and swing my feet in the dead air. The cavern is always hot. Above, stalagmite dangles. Below, hundreds of small houses stretch in every direction. Lanternlight flickers in the windows and the soft light of glow fish drifts through the river.

 

Mischa plops down beside me and drags a basket towards him. It scrapes across the stone roof. “I used to come up here all the time when I was little.”

 

“The benefit of being the Savior’s son?” Few are allowed on the assembly’s rooftop.

 

“I guess.” He fiddles with the basket. “I’ve wanted to bring you up here for a long time.”

 

I lean back. The stone is cool against my sweaty palms. “Why didn’t you?”

 

“I didn’t think you’d come. You always seemed more interested in—well, anyone else.” He’s right. But tonight, I’ll keep an open mind. For Papa’s sake.

 

I fill the empty air with a fond memory from before. Before we moved underground. Before we grew distant. “Remember when we used to steal oranges from Mrs. Allen? She’d get so red in the face but never managed to catch us.”

 

Mischa laughs. “I don’t think she’d know what to do with us anyway. We were a couple of five-year-olds!”

 

“Why did we even do it?”

 

“Oranges were your favorite! You couldn’t keep your grubby hands off them.”

 

I shake my head. “They must have been something. I can’t remember what they tasted like.”

 

“You sure acted like they were the best.” He reaches into the basket and produces a round fruit. An orange.

 

My eyes go wide. “Where did you get that?” As it turns out, most fruits don’t grow well underground.

 

He grins and he holds up the delicacy. “Another benefit of being the Savior’s son, I suppose.” I take the orange and pick at its flesh. Mischa points to a nearby building. Soft light illuminates from within. “See that? It’s where they grow fruit. They use something called LED lights.”

 

“Do they have lots of fruit?” Our current palette options are so limited, any addition would be wonderful.

 

Mischa shook his head. “They can only grow small crops with the LED lights they brought from above.” I don’t hide my disappointment. He continues, “As the Savior’s son, I occasionally have access.”

 

A bribe, then. If I stay with him, I’ll get fruit. I pull the last of the orange skin away and hold the naked fruit in my hand. It’s damp and squishy. I sniff. It wafts a sweet-tangy scent. I let out a sigh and sink my teeth in. Juices squirt down my face. It’s tastier than anything I’ve had in years and I groan.

 

“That’s amazing. No wonder I loved them so much.” I wipe my chin with my sleeve.

 

Mischa beams. “I’m glad you think so. Oranges aren’t my thing, but I wanted to bring you something nice.”

 

I scoot so our shoulders touch and lean my head against him. He tenses and a spike of excitement flies through me. He’s sweet and has connections. I could certainly do worse, if Arthur can’t keep his promise.

 

“I’m glad we both wound up at the pub,” I say.

 

“Me too.” Mischa rests his chin against my head. “You know, you’re something special. I would be honored to take care of you.” My heart pounds and my mind scrambles. He’s more appealing than before, but despite what Papa said, I’m not ready for a proposal.

 

A small distraction. I let the unfinished orange tumble through my fingers. It splats against the ground far below and I shoot forward. My mouth falls open as I glance from Mischa to the splatted fruit.

 

I urge my eyes to water, a skill I’ve perfected over the years. Boys can’t handle tears. “I’m so sorry.”

 

Mischa’s eyes teeter over me and away as he waves a hand. “It’s alright, Melite. It’s no big deal. I’ll bring you another.”

 

I sniff and wipe my eyes. They can’t dry too fast. I stare down at the orange. “You’ll take me on another outing?”

 

Mischa’s movements stop. He bites his lip but nods all the same. It’s not what he wanted, but it’s enough.

 

Next time, I won’t have a way out.

 

~ * ~

 

Mischa hasn’t stopped staring at me. Even when I talk to customers, his eyes follow. I return behind the stone counter, and he stops me with a hand on my shoulder.

 

“What did he want?” He gestures to a boy in the booth.

 

With a smirk, I grab his hand and spin out of his grip. “Me, of course.” Men often hit on me in the pub, though this boy didn’t. Mischa’s jaw clenches and eyes narrow. Jealousy is a pretty look, but too volatile. I lay my hand on his shoulder. “I’m kidding. He was perfectly polite and wants wine and soup.”

 

He relaxes, but his jaw remains strained. “I knew you were joking.”

 

I’m not so sure he did, but a couple of girls enter which interrupts further conversation. I trail my hand down his arm as I turn towards their table. He rewards me with a shiver.

 

When I return from taking their order, a Keeper leans against the bar. Mischa chats as he pours a cup of wine. Thick black hair and hulking frame—I’d know Arthur anywhere. He must have stopped in to visit Mischa. Side by side, it’s clear how little the brothers resemble each other. It makes sense; they only share a father. Arthur’s mother was the Prophet’s only wife, before she died aboveground.

 

I step up behind Arthur and poke the back of his neck. He jumps and his knee crashes into the bar. Mischa and I laugh as Arthur turns a mock glare on me.

 

“Is that how you greet all your patrons?” he asks.

 

“Guess you’d have to visit more often to find out.” I duck behind the bar.

 

Arthur tilts his head towards me. In a loud whisper, he says, “Mischa’s apparently gotten himself a mystery girl.”

 

“Oh?” I grip a pitcher of wine tight.

 

Mischa cuts in. “I owe her discretion, we’re not engaged yet. Besides, it’s not like you told me about Abigail before your engagement.” Arthur opens his mouth to argue but Mischa cuts him off. “I’m not telling you anything.” Arthur pouts as Mischa carries out wine and soup.

 

“Do you know who it could be?” Arthur asks.

 

“How would I know?” As I pour wine into cups, it splashes onto the counter. I let loose a curse.

 

Arthur shakes his head and grins. “Mischa told me you two were working together. It’s good to see you back on friendly terms.”

 

I wipe up the mess with my apron. “Relationships change.”

 

He glances over his shoulder and leans over the counter. His words are so soft a breeze would carry them away. “I’ll be waiting for you tonight, Mel.” I bite back a grin.

 

Mischa’s return prevents my answer, but Arthur’s gaze stays on me. It holds a spark of hunger I know well. I blush.

 

Arthur leans back and asks, “Did you hear about the child witch?” Mischa shakes his head. “It’s confirmed. She disappeared.”

 

I retreat from the bar and the brothers, cups of wine in hand. I practically skip as I approach the table of girls, but they’re too absorbed in their whispered conversation to notice. I catch Mischa’s name and pause a few steps away.

 

“He accused his own mother. She wasn’t even guilty, you know,” the blonde says. My jaw clenches.

 

Words slip from the brunette’s lips like poison. “The other one, Arthur? He’s accused at least five women of being witches. There’s no way they were all witches!”

 

“Well, witches are drawn to the damned,” the blonde replies.

 

The cups shake in my fists. I’ve heard enough. I stomp the last few steps and slam the cups onto the table. Liquid sloshes over the edge and the girls jerk back. No one speaks of Arthur like that.

 

“If you’re going to spread lies about the Savior’s sons, do it to their faces. Damn heathens,” I hiss. The blonde pales.

 

“They’re not lies,” the brunette snaps. “Those boys are trouble, just like their father.”

 

I gasp. Few members of our community dare speak against the Savior so brazenly. She must be an extremist. “Without their father, you’d have burned alive in the corruption with all the other nonbelievers.”

 

She stands. “He’s made our community unbearable. It shouldn’t be a crime for women to read or love other women. And none of the accusable offenses are worthy of death!”

 

“The laws protect us. Why would a woman need to read if not for witchcraft?” I retort. The blonde tugs on her friend's arm, eager to leave. At least one of them has a sense of shame.

 

The brunette shakes her off and glares at me. “Are you so sure you’ve never done something that could be called witchcraft?” I freeze. My relationship with Arthur is accusation worthy. But it’s not the same. His wife isn’t much better than these heathens—he needs a believer like me at his side.

 

“You must be a witch to defend them so.”

 

“I’m not defending anyone except people like you and me. You should try it sometime.”

 

“I ought to turn you in to the Keepers.”

 

She laughs. “Women can’t accuse. Another double standard your Savior perpetuates.”

 

The blonde grabs her arm again and pulls at her. She glances behind me and her face slackens. I follow her gaze to find Arthur, two steps behind me.

 

“Is there a problem here?” He crosses his arms. I want to kiss him for how he makes them tremble.

 

The blonde stares at the ground and the brunette clutches the table behind her. “None at all. We were just chatting.”

 

Arthur raises a brow. “Melite?”

 

I don’t look back at the girls as I say, “They’re dirty heathens. You should have heard what that one said about your father.” I point at the brunette.

 

“I was only trying to explain the hypocrisy of—”

 

Arthur cuts her off. “You called our leader, the savior of mankind, the last prophet of God, a hypocrite?”

 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she scrambles.

 

“Then how did you mean it?” he asks.

 

“Well, just how, you know, men can do as they please. And women can’t. It doesn’t seem very fair,” she says. Very bold of her.

 

“Witches can’t be men.” Arthur’s fingers brush the hilt of his dagger. “Witches killed millions when they summoned the corruption, you would have them run rampant again? Kill the rest of us?”

 

“Of course not. But most women don’t desire power or the downfall of men. Not every woman with her own thoughts is a witch,” she says.

 

Arthur considers. “Maybe not. But any woman with words like yours must be. Roll up your sleeve.”

 

The blood drains from her face. “Wh-what?”

 

“Roll up your sleeve. I need to mark you.” He pulls his dagger from its sheath. I watch with wide eyes. I didn’t expect him to take it this far. Even if she does deserve it.

 

“Please, I could lose my job, please don’t do this,” she begs.

 

Arthur grabs her arm and pushes the sleeve up. Her friend watches, hand over her mouth, as he forces the brunette’s arm to the table. She tries to pull away but he’s far stronger than her.

 

Her eyes water. “Please, please don’t do this. I’m sorry, I was wrong. I’m sorry!”

 

Arthur doesn’t stop. The tip of his blade sinks into the soft skin of her wrist. My stomach turns as blood dribbles down her arm. I’ve never seen Arthur like this. She sobs but Arthur doesn’t care. It’s done. She has a mark. He lets her go and the girls flee.

 

“They won’t be back,” he remarks. I stare after them.

 

“Arthur, that could have been me,” I whisper.

 

“You’re not a witch nor heathen. It couldn’t have been you.”

 

“Right. Of course.” Except I broke the rules. I slept with a married man.

 

“I’ll see you soon, Mel,” he says. I nod after him as he leaves.

 

I stare into the puddle of blood atop the table. She deserved it. She’s likely a witch. I trust Arthur. He wouldn’t do this unless he was sure.

 

I clean up her blood.

 

~ * ~

 

Curfew is around the corner as I wait on the riverbank. I push thoughts of this afternoon from my mind. The girl doesn’t deserve the amount of thought I’ve given her. Arthur was right, I’m not like her. I’m honoring both God and the Savior with my actions. Arthur is a holy man and needs a holy woman at his side, not someone like Abigail.

 

I dip my toes in the warm water. Small fish dart and dive. They emanate a faint glow that illuminates the river. Axavika, one of the only crops able to thrive in our cavern, grows in vast fields behind me. It hangs from the ceiling and is only harvested once it hits the ground. It creates lush curtains of privacy. Arthur and I have met in this spot since the beginning. Five years later, and we still visit in secret. I love this spot but I don’t want it to be our only one. I don’t want to be his secret, and he promises it won’t be forever.

 

A finger pokes my side and I jump. Arthur grins down at me. My heart flutters against my rib cage. I can still see him, blade pressed into the girl’s arm, violent in a way I’d never known from him. But he was protecting our community. It had to be done. I push the memory away.

 

I examine his uniformed body. I know all his hidden bumps and scars. Without a word, he drops beside me. He runs a finger along my single accusation scar. My scar comes from my mother being a witch. It’s different than the accusations that are deserved, like the one from this afternoon. I shiver.

 

He tugs me against him. My body knows his and we fit together in all the right places. It’s perfection. It makes me forget. He presses kisses to my jawline.

 

His breath tickles my ear when he whispers, “I wish you had been older.” Four years ago, he was eighteen and his father insisted he needed a bride. I was fourteen, a year too young according to Arthur.

 

I turn my head. Our lips brush when I say, “Your father would approve a divorce. For you.” The movement undoes us. He presses his lips against mine, gentle and explorative. I weave my fingers through his hair. My mind is a blur of pleasure. But a dark cloud looms, Mischa’s impending proposal and my nineteenth birthday. I pull back so my forehead rests against his. “Won’t you convince him?”

 

“Mel.” My name on his lips sends a thrill through me. “It’s not so simple. I would lose too much.”

 

“Am I not worth it?” I gaze into his eyes, which are brilliant blue with splashes of brown. I’ve poured everything into him these past four years, he can’t let me go. I have to be worth it. This has to have been worth it.

 

“These moments are worth everything,” Arthur breathes. It’s not enough. It’s no better than a flat-out refusal. I’m sick to my stomach. But the strokes of his fingers and soft pressure of his lips prevent any more protests.

 

~ * ~

 

My stomach twists in on itself as if possessed by a snake. Mischa chats as we play Uttounaiva, a game where we aim round stones at a target on the floor, in his father’s basement. This is our second and final outing, if I can get past the lump in my throat and say yes when the time comes. Arthur uses sweet words but he has no intention of marrying me. Maybe he never did. He consumed my matching years, so I don’t have the luxury to be picky.

 

Mischa taps my shoulder and I jump. He frowns. “Are you alright?”

 

I pinch my face into happiness and blink up at him. “I’m excited to be with you.” I take his hand for extra assurance.

 

He eats up my excuse with a dopey smile. He’s handsome enough, if I ignore his thin lips and pudgy cheeks. He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m happy to have you for the night.” It’s true, he has me. I’m out of time and with Arthur unwilling to sacrifice for us, I need this engagement.

 

My insides tangle even more as the game progresses. We engage in conversation, which drifts between topics like a leaf in the current. The end of the night draws ever closer.

 

As I toss a stone, footsteps thump down the stairs. Mischa’s father. He’s aged since I last saw him. Half his hair has fallen out and wrinkles line his face. Mischa and I bow our heads until he gestures for us to rise.

 

“It’s good to see someone putting the basement to use,” he says.

 

“It’s lovely,” I offer.

 

“It is indeed.” He examines me from head to toe. “Do you have a match, Melite?” The Savior knows my name. I straighten.

 

“Not currently, sir.”

 

He raises an eyebrow. “You’ll be nineteen soon. Are you planning to join the Children of Nanisni?” I tilt my head, at a loss. Did he really ask that?

 

Mischa angles so I’m tucked behind him. “She won’t remain unmatched.”

 

The Savior’s eyes rest on his son. He lets silence stretch for a moment until it reaches an awkward peak. “A shame. I could use such a beautiful girl.” Heat floods my cheeks. He wants me to…serve him. Have his children. My skin crawls and I wish I hadn’t spent so much time styling my hair. Or maybe he wouldn’t have said anything if I’d worn a longer dress.

 

Mischa stares at his father. He stands between the Savior and me. I didn’t truly understand what it meant to join the Children of Nanisni before. I take shallow breaths. I’m grateful Mischa will keep me from that fate.

 

“If you don’t mind, father,” Mischa says, voice frosty. He shouldn’t speak to the Savior like that, but I don’t say anything. I just want his father to leave.

 

The Savior shrugs, offers blessings, and leaves.

 

Mischa turns to me. “I’m so sorry about that. He’s…been on the hunt for a new girl for the Children of Nanisni. Few women are opting to join lately.”

 

“O-oh. But it’s such an honor,” I ramble.

 

Mischa waves his hands. “It’s not as honorable as you’d think. But you don’t have to worry about all that.”

 

“I’m glad,” I whisper.

 

Mischa pats my shoulder. “Shall we return to our game? I believe I was in the middle of winning.” I nod and he picks up a stone.

 

When Mischa wins a half-hour later, he oozes sweat. My palm is sticky from holding his hand. His smile is wide and eyes shine as they devour me. It’s time. A bolt of dread sings through me. I’m never going to be ready.

 

In an act of pure instinct, I grab Mischa by the shoulders and plant a kiss on his lips. His scruffy facial hair pricks me. Mischa tenses, but before I can release my hold, he grabs my hips and hauls me against him. His grip is too tight and his mouth rough against mine. The seconds stretch on like hours, days, years. I pull back and he follows me. I push on his shoulder. He blinks and releases me.

 

This may not be my dream, but it’s better than joining the Children of Nanisni. I pout my lips and stare up at Mischa. He struggles to steady his breath and tugs at his pants.

 

When Mischa smiles at me, it’s obvious Papa was right. He’s smitten. He takes my hands and I steel my nerves.

 

“Melite, I’ve liked you for a very long time. And these outings we’ve had, well, they’ve shown me how well-placed my affection is. Will you be my bride?” His words drip with honey, but behind them is a vow. Once accepted, it may never be broken.

 

I barely get the words out, “God willing,” before his lips lay claim to me.

 

~ * ~

 

I trudge through the murky streets and count houses. I stop at number seventeen. A lantern shines through a window, so he must be awake. I knock on the door.

 

This is most certainly a mistake. It may not be him to answer the door. We’ve always kept our encounters to the riverbank. But, I’m not here for that. Not tonight and not ever again. So, despite how I want nothing more than to run away, I plant my feet and wait.

 

The door creaks open and Arthur stands before me with untamed hair, wrapped in a robe. Nothing like the man who sliced a girl’s arm open. His eyes widen and he glances up and down the street. He ushers me in without a word.

 

“What are you doing?” His voice is strained. He doesn’t want me here. Abigail might be home. I square my shoulders and gather all the words I practiced. Before I can get out a single one, his arms wrap around me and he draws me against him. His face fits into the crevice of my neck and he takes a deep breath. “I’m glad to see you.”

 

“Arthur—” I start.

 

“I had a fight with Abigail, she’s at her parents’. Mel, she’s great but she’s not you. I want you, Melite.” The way he says my name sends a flood of warmth through me. My hands find their way to his hips without permission. “Tonight, I want you.”

 

Only tonight. He doesn’t want me the way I need him to. I fight every instinct in me and push him away. He lets go without hesitation. He cups my face and draws my eyes to his. “What’s wrong?”

 

I force the words out while I still can. “I’m engaged.”

 

His eyebrows fly up and his grip tightens. “How? It’s too soon.”

 

I laugh, raw and guttural. “I’m almost nineteen. It’s this or the Children of Nanisni.”

 

His hands relax and the corner of his mouth turns up. “You don’t want it? That barely counts.”

 

I take a step back and his arms fall to his side. “I think it’s best if we don’t see each other for a while.”

 

His face falls. “There’s still time for us.”

 

“There hasn’t been for a while.”

 

“If that’s what you really want.” He steps forward and I step back. My back presses against the wall. Our noses brush and his minty breath washes over me as he says, “If we’re not going to see each other anymore, we best make the most of tonight.”

 

My heart beats so fast I worry I’ll faint. But his hands reach under my clothes and I want him as much as he wants me. One last time.

 

Our mouths find each other and our hands roam familiar places. My mind goes numb in his arms. Clothes fly and soon only thin underclothes separate us.

 

A shriek rings out and my clouded mind doesn’t understand. Arthur does. He jerks back and jumps away from me as though I’m poison.

 

Abigail stands in the doorway, hands over her mouth. And in nothing but my undergarments, I stand shivering against the wall her husband shoved me against. Arthur’s on the ground, head clutched in his arms. I curl in on myself. This isn’t real. The fury in her face is visceral. But maybe she’ll leave and he’ll be left with me. Behind her, people spill from houses across the path, curious about the commotion.

 

“Seductress!” Arthur cries. His cry doesn’t compute. I silently beg him to look at me, to promise everything will be alright. But he stays huddled on the ground. Abigail runs to him and people I don’t recognize take her place. They murmur and point.

 

I can’t take it. Tears escape down my cheeks. “Arthur?”

 

He points at me and his next word slams into me harder than any rock. “Witch!” Abigail glares at me. Tears spill down her face. She hides Arthur behind her. The onlookers take up his cry.

 

“I’m not a witch. This wasn’t…,” I try to explain. They don’t listen. A Keeper shoves his way to the front.

 

He carries chains and a blade.

 

#

 

I huddle in ratty blankets on the stone floor. Gooseflesh peppers my skin and chains restrict me. A fresh slice on my wrist marks Arthur’s accusal, his betrayal.

 

I stare at iron bars in front of me. I’m not a witch. I don’t talk to the devil like the girls who fall and tremble. They exchange physical power for corrupted power. I don’t. The system works, and I’m not a witch. I won’t face trial. This is only my second accusation. When no more accusations are made within 48 hours, they’ll release me. Imprisonment is a precaution, used on witches to break their spells. But I’m not a witch.

 

Footsteps echo through the tunnel on the other side of the bars. Through the gloom, Mischa materializes. My heart skips a beat, relief and worry at war within. My hopes latch onto the familiarity of his soft face.

 

I start to speak, but his glower steals my voice. All I can manage is his name. His expression doesn’t change.

 

“How could you?” His voice is cold as steel. I gape at him.

 

“How can I? How can your brother! He’s lying, you have to know that.” Lying to save his own skin and damn me in the process. I’ll never forget the look on his face as he called me a witch. All those stolen moments, thrown away as though they meant nothing.

 

“So you deny sleeping with him?” The truth of his words cut deep. I may not be a witch, but I am an adulterer.

 

“I wouldn’t do that to yo—”

 

He cuts me off with a harsh laugh. “Should have known you wanted him. Everyone always wants him.”

 

“I do want you, I was going to tell him of our engagement,” I plead.

 

“But you want him most. I won’t be your second choice.” He looks down at me with disgust and hurt. Our relationship is broken beyond repair. Still, I try.

 

“Please, Mischa. It was a mistake. Try to understand,” I say. He spins on his heel, fist clenched at his side. I’ve said the wrong thing. He can’t end our engagement, but he can make my life miserable as his bride. I try once more, voice raw and laced with fear, “Please.”

 

Mischa disappears into the dark and something cold settles in my gut. I am alone. I wonder if mama felt like this when they locked her up.

 

~ * ~

 

The Keepers drag me out of the tunnel and dozens of lanterns blind me. I stand at the base of the exit ramp, supported by the Keepers since the chains coil around my legs. A thunder of shouts accompanies my appearance.

 

When my eyes adjust, it’s to a sea of people stretched out before me. My heart beats rapidly. I don’t know what’s happening. Papa stands at the front, clothes smeared with coal. Tears carve a wet path in the dust down his face. I stumble towards him but a Keeper jerks me back.

 

Another Keeper speaks, “Melite, thrice accused, you are under suspicion of being a witch. Would you like to confess before your trial?” He holds a blade aloft, ready to mark my skin again.

 

I gawk at him, blink twice, and push past the dryness in my throat. “There’s been some mistake, I’m no witch and have but two accusations.”

 

The man unfurls an official document and shows it to me. The top has my full name and date of birth. Underneath, it has the first accusation, my mother’s status as a witch. Then my second, Arthur’s desperate cover-up. And one more. Another accusation of seduction. Signed by Mischa.

 

I can’t breathe. I clutch at my chest but nothing helps. He’s betrayed me, condemned me to death. They both have.

 

At the edge of the crowd, they stand. Arthur leans against a building, as though my condemnation does nothing to him. As though all our nights spent wrapped in each other’s arms were lies. Mischa watches me with the gaze of a hawk, arms crossed over his chest. Done with me.

 

“Mischa,” I struggle in the Keeper’s arms. “I’m not a witch! You know I’m not a witch!” My cries fall on deaf ears. His expression hardens. He turns away.

 

“Arthur,” I try. “Don’t do this, please don’t do this!” His gaze drifts over me, but without the hunger I’m used to. He follows his brother.

 

A scream tears from my throat. “Bastards!” Arthur’s shoulder jerks. I ignore the gasps of the crowd. “You can’t do this! Tell them you’re lying, tell them!”

 

Neither turns around. Tears pour down my cheeks and my face heats. “Bastards! Fuck you, piece of shit!”

 

The Keeper clamps a hand over my mouth. It covers my mouth and my nose and I can’t breathe. The fat of his finger between my teeth, I bite. A coppery flavor invades my mouth. He shrieks and jumps back. I spit blood.

 

The other Keeper tries to force me up the ramp, but I kick and flail. A foot finds the back of my knee and I fall. My face slams into cold stone. The world flashes black for half a second. The Keepers strap the harness on over the chains and slices a thin line into my forearm. I twist and fight, making the cut jagged.

 

“Tell them! Tell them, you lying asshole,” I cry as the Keepers drag me up the ramp. I claw at anything and everything. My fingers tear against the stone.

 

This isn’t real. The great door opens and a blast of heat hotter than any furnace crashes into me. A high-pitched wail is the only sound I can emit. They shove me out of our cavern of safety and into the corrupted world. I dig my fingers into the doorway, my last desperate attempt to live. They smack my hands, but adrenaline aids my cause. My bloody fingers hold tight.

 

Down the ramp, amid the jeering crowd, Papa stands silent. He, at least, still loves me. But his eyes are empty. He shakes his head. His tears are not for me, but for himself. Not even Papa believes me.

 

My fingers slip and the door slams in my face. My screams last until my throat is rough and broken. The sun beats down on me, hot and heavy. A rope tethers me to the only safe place in existence. I drop to my hands and knees. Sand pools around my fingers. They’re wrong. I’m not a witch. I’m not.

 

But…was my mother actually a witch? Was she as scared as I am now? I take a shuddering breath and look up. Sand stretches in every direction except behind me, where the door is set into a rocky cliff face.

 

Through a blur of tears, I spot another rope. The little girl’s. The end is frayed, the harness nowhere to be seen. Did a wild animal drag her body off? Or did she, just maybe, escape?

 

I wipe my eyes and squint at the vast expanse of sand. The unknown. What else could they be lying about?

 

Maybe this doesn’t have to be my end.

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