Jack stayed at the ranch all winter.

The wound healed with time, but it took far longer for Jack to regain her strength. Illness and sorrow had sapped it all from her.

The house was forever drafty. There were not enough blankets to go around; on the second level, where the boarders slept, the curtains were pulled from their rods and stuffed between the gaps in the windows. Other holes were fixed with tar and tree sap. There was no need to make new curtains to prevent prying eyes in such an isolated place. Most days, there was nothing but the wind over the plains to keep all of them company.

Jack thought it a miracle the rats hadn't yet made a home there.

The ranch was shabby out of doors, too. The animals were wont to stay where they were placed, and all were blessed for that. If not, they would have wandered through that gaping hole in the fence long ago.

Food was tight. There were fourteen of them, counting Jack, all packed under a single roof. Jack felt terrible guilt, now, about all the scraps left uneaten in her illness, to say nothing of the tray she'd overturned. She never asked where Booker's body went; she understood. It must've seemed a treat, when most days the girls ate like soldiers: hardtack and dried beans, eggs split three ways.

Jack hardly wanted to eat, anyways. It was only through the dogged persistence of old Daphne that she didn't die of hunger, buried in that musty quilt.

Her room was Ianthe's, in regular times. Ianthe insisted Jack keep it until she was thoroughly recovered. In the time being, Ianthe flitted between beds on the second floor.

Jack grew strong in fits and starts; even when the body was restless, her mind was a hard lump. She lost track of the days she spent listless, unmoving. Her thoughts were dark and disturbed and always, always drew her to the same place.

Oh, Lazarus, what had she done?  If only she hadn’t picked a fight with the Fowlers. If only she’d kept her head down. If only they’d never passed through Loveday, or stopped at a different saloon, or—

There were constant nightmares: lashing, horrible things. Lazarus would stare with his pale, dead eyes and spit all those accusations — far worse — in her face. Jack was a failure, a cheat, a coward. Jack never knew Lazarus at all. She saw him bleeding and rotting, crawling up from his impromptu grave, worms in his teeth.

He’d told her a story, once: about a plantation owner that made a deal with the Devil, who resurrected the bodies of slaves in chains and made them continue to till the fields. In her dreams, Lazarus was on this chain, and he didn’t know Jack from Adam; only those glass gray eyes and the huff, huff, huff of the hoe in the dirt.

Even good days were experienced through a sort of silky veil that kept her from touching the outside world. In these, Jack got to know some of the boarders, and they loved her. Really loved her.

There was Annie Slosson, a widow with a practical bent in her knee and crow’s feet around her eyes. She was one of the first that had come to Devil’s Ranch; Ianthe had found her near-death, after poor Annie had been accused of causing her own son’s demise and cast out of town. Jack was not keen on her, though it wasn't the woman's fault; with her age, and tone of voice, she reminded Jack too much of her own mama.

One day, Jack had been tasked with helping dumb Fanny Toms in milking the cows. Despite the cold, Jack managed to break a sweat, and had shed her jacket. Toms didn’t say anything — hence the dumb part — and only continued to sit upon her squeaking stool, spectacles slipping down her nose.

Annie then came in, looking for Toms. “Master wants you to…”

When Annie trailed off, Jack spared a glance. She was shocked to find Annie staring at her. Of course, Jack froze. She could feel the sweat sticking her thin cotton shirt to her back. She was launched back in time, to when Mama first found Jack "borrowing" Daddy's clothes. She remembered that look — harder than steel, more fiery than Hell — more than the beating.

Annie cleared her throat. "Toms, get along now."

Jack remained even as Toms cleared out. Annie drew closer and crouched behind Jack as the milking continued.

“Did no one ever teach you properly?”

“Huh?”

“You have such good, strong hands. But you’re not using them right.”

"But I —"

Annie drew her arms up around Jack, and laid gentle fingers over Jack’s. “You have to grasp the teat just so, in order to—”

The trickle Jack was making turned into a stream. The cow mooed.

Bang! “Annie Slosson, you better not be fooling around with the boy when you’re supposed to be doing the washing!”

Nan, the laundress, was at the barn door, making a ruckus.

That was the first time Jack realized she was being propositioned. But it was far from the last.

The boarders had a strange culture, a tightly woven net only further complicated by Ianthe. It seemed some of them were attached, some of them were loosely affiliated, and all of them slept with one another without much caring any which way. Jack supposed, in such a cold drafty house, there were only so many beds.

For example: Caledonia was the head of the garden. She had escaped her plantation with the help of her then-master’s daughter, Esther Kinkaid, and found shelter in Devil's Bush, where they could live as equals. Caledonia and Esther were sweethearts, but Caledonia also shared a bed with Macy — though that could have simply been business, since Macy also worked in the garden. Nan and Susan Gist had a pair of matching rings, but Susan's first love (and main priority) was found in her gauze and tinctures and the medical textbooks Ianthe procured for her. Toms didn’t fuck anyone, though sometimes the girls joked (or, at least, Jack hoped they joked) about her rolling around in the hay with her cattle.

On a good day, Jack joined the sewing circle. She was met with open arms, of course. Opal insisted on giving Jack her chair and sitting on the floor at her feet. Jack, never a good sewer, made a mistake a minute, but was never short of a girl eager to fix it up for her. Even though Jack hardly muttered a word the entire time, the women would always be stealing glances at her, then looking back at their sewing in embarrassment of being caught.

They were discussing which room Ianthe was last spotted in.

“Hannah O’Malley’s,” said Opal, with firm confidence. “Again.”

“It’s no wonder,” Susan said flatly. “She’s certainly experienced.”

“Not with women!” Opal protested. “Whoever heard of a whore who fucks girls?”

Annie butted in, “Master can sleep with whoever she wants to.”

“But she’s been with Hannah three whole nights! Certainly she’s worn-out by now?”

“Why don’t you go find her and check?” Nan snickered.

“I bet she sleeps in Annie’s room next. At least it’s clean.” Opal was staring at Susan.

“You leave her alone!” Nan spit. “Susie’s busy saving your goddamned hide whenever you gore yourself with those damn kitchen knives.”

“Or when Master does.”

Jack, who had mostly lost track of the conversation, looked back up as the circle erupted into girlish giggles.

It was awfully strange, sitting there with the knowledge that only a word — even a significant look — would permit any one of those women to sleep with her. It almost frightened Jack, in an odd, undefinable way.

She had always known there was something odd about her. She had simply been cut from a different cloth than the other girls; even Grace was sometimes an alien creature to her. But did she love them, the other girls? She looked at the circle around her, and did not dislike any – they were all pleasantly formed — but she did not desire them. Jack knew what desire felt like. She knew the madness, the anxious jitter, the stupid words that fell from her mouth unbidden. This was not that; she supposed she was not as "like" Ianthe as the other had supposed.

The only desire she had ever felt was for Laz; the only one who could awaken her cold little heart. He could sing such beautiful music as to bring Jack to her knees. Would Jack go to her knees for any of these women? No, no, absolutely not.

Thoughts of him made the darkness descend again, and Jack was forced to excuse herself and sob alone.

One morning, Jack woke to the sudden rap of knuckles on her door – and the bang! of it being thrown open. She had experienced an unusually pleasant night, with no nightmares to speak of, and she was unwilling to leave her warm bed. At first, she rolled over to block the milky sunlight from view.

Click!

But Jack knew that sound.

She was on her feet at once; whirling around, tripping over the covers, and in short order, sprawled on the floor. The barrel of a gun was pointed between her eyes; she saw the glint of silver, shiny black boots and beaten trousers. Her heart skipped a beat.

"Please —"

Pop!

The gun was empty.

With a sharp bark of laughter, Blackbird said, “There! Now you are awake!”

“Wha… what are you doing here?”

“Did Ianthe not tell you?” she said. “I am taking you to the creek.”

It was a silvery sky above as Blackbird led her horse out of the stables, Jack swaying on its back. Blackbird wore a pair of snowshoes and a thick poncho. She said little. Hardly a word was spoken on the journey; they merely walked right through the gap in the fence, and down through the pines on a narrow, rocky path.

The trees seemed to swallow Jack. In the enduring silence, she let her head fall back and watched their crowns dance past as the horse plodded along.

The snow covered every surface. It dripped from pine needles, gathered in hills against the tree trunks where the wind had blown it about. The cloudy sky had a way of turning it mute and gray. While Blackbird walked over the snow, fairy-like, the horse trudged through, mist from its nostrils. The path led them downwards, quite steeply at times. Jack wondered if she would tumble forward and die.

In her nervousness, Jack did what she often did. She pursed her lips and began to whistle a little song.

Blackbird's head turned sharply. Jack felt the admonishment in the girl's steady gaze. Jack swallowed an impulsive apology — for what had she done wrong?

Jack whistled again, with Blackbird still looking at her. The girl was nineteen, and yet she seemed much younger for a moment. Her lips pursed, and it seemed as if she were on the verge of a veritable tantrum.

"What's the problem?" said Jack.

"You should not do it in the house. Ianthe does not like noise," Blackbird said. And then she raised her arm to point straight across from where they stood. "I do not understand how you can make music in a place like this."

The grave was not a Christian burial. The tops of the stones, deliberately placed at the base of a great tree, hardly poked out from the snow cover. Jack slid from the horse’s back onto her knees. She cleared the surface of both. Rough hewn marks beneath her gloves. One read: Iphis, 1857. The other: 1859.

The nearby creek was not-quite frozen over; beneath its icy surface, water ran. It echoed in Jack's ears as she pulled the knife from her belt, lifted the second stone, and carved three letters.

She didn't know how long she spent there, staring at what remained of her lover. By the time she rose to her feet, Blackbird had wandered down the streambed, cracked a hole in its cover, and was refilling her canteen. Jack saw no reason to disturb her. She went back to the horse.

The bags had gotten crooked on their ride, and Jack, itching for a distraction, began to adjust them. She was also itching for trouble. That's why she looked inside.

She had to suppress a gasp. Inside were supplies: food, water. And, more notably, money. The gleam of it dazzled Jack's eye in the cold sun. She couldn't count fast enough. It was — it was enough to settle her for a long while. Enough food to ride out to the next town over (further than Loveday, even) and money to last her until she got on her feet.

Jack had to tear her eyes away, as if the riches would vanish like a mirage. Blackbird was still down by the water. She had a slingshot, and was pelting smooth stones at unsuspecting birds in the branches. Her teeth flashed white from her laughing mouth.

“Heya… heya, buddy…” Jack hoisted herself up into the saddle. The horse shook out its head, as if in admonishment. Jack sat there, between the graves and the young woman nearly dancing in place. She took hold of the reins, lifted her fingers to her lips, and whistled.

Blackbird came back up with a canteen of fresh water and several dead birds strung up by their legs. She draped these over the saddle, and together they plodded back towards the ranch.

That night, Jack was invited to share supper with Ianthe and Blackbird (Daphne ate after they had finished). Daphne served them biscuits and gravy and grilled finches, courtesy of Blackbird. Throughout the night, Daphne stood at Ianthe's back and continually topped off her glass. Ianthe let Jack try the nice whiskey, though Jack didn't taste much of a difference.

"Any night you'd like," said Ianthe, "you're welcome at my table."

Daphne was delighted by how much Jack ate, and how quickly. It was the first time Jack had felt truly hungry in a long while. She ate, she conversed, she laughed and she drank and drank until she was red in the face.

She realized, somewhere between all her hiccups, that she hadn't thought about Lazarus for several hours.

Ianthe fiddled with her cufflinks and spoke to Daphne about tailoring. Blackbird, still in her shirt and trousers, was dictating how she would like to get a roll of red silk next time they went into town.

“You can have a dress for Christmas,” Ianthe said.

Daphne said, “Oh, Master! I could use the rest to make you a waistcoat.”

Jack guffawed. “Aw, then you two would match. Even more than you already — hup! — do!”

Ianthe gave her a queer look — but Jack was right. The two of them sitting next to one another, both in men’s clothes: they could’ve been sisters. They both had black eyes and even blacker silky hair; long curved noses, mischievous smiles. Blackbird was hiding that smile with her glass, staring holes into Ianthe’s cheek. Ianthe only sighed.

Where else could Jack find a place that spoke so casually of women dressing like men? Where else in the world was a place where such was not merely tolerated, but desired?

It wasn't perfect, sure. Times were hard, times were hard everywhere. All who lived on that ranch had come there because they believed in something; they believed in their right to live as they pleased. Jack believed that, too, once upon a time. She believed it enough to leave everything behind.

How could she sit here, in the place she had always dreamed of, and stay stuck in the past? She had left her heart down by that stream, but it was as if another one was growing in its place. The future was upon her, spring was coming, and she was sitting in an oasis in the desert and refused to drink.

“I’m gonna— I’ve gotta—” She spilled her glass as she jumped to her feet.

“What is it?” said Ianthe.

“I’ve— just a moment, I’ve gotta…” Jack stumbled her way over to the door. “I’m gonna fix that fucking fence.”

Jack didn’t, that night. Obviously.

Once her hangover had passed, she went to work. Toms let her borrow what she needed from the barn, and another girl helped her chop a tree and prepare it. Before Jack knew it, she found herself crouching in the snow, hammering away.

She was rapt in concentration when it came — the crunch, crunch of heels against the ice. Jack paused in her work and found, starkly black against the woolly meadow, Ianthe having come to visit her.

Ianthe smiled. "Finally pulling your weight?"

“For the moment,” Jack said. “I’m sure I’ll manage to break a leg and be pampered again, soon.”

“Oh, if you’d like to be pampered, I’m sure we can arrange something.”

“Yeah?” Jack smirked.

Ianthe leaned against the intact section of the fence. She loomed over Jack's crouched figure. "What'd you have in mind?"

"To be honest, I'm not really the sort." Jack fiddled with her hammer. "If you want to motivate me, I'd much rather be kicked around."

Fuck, why did she say that? Jack didn't look at her hands as she swung the hammer — and smashed her knuckles in. Ianthe laughed: at her words, or her fumble? Jack wasn’t sure. She said, “I’d be glad to.”

“I—I don’t want to lead you on!” Jack was sweating all of a sudden. “I am grateful for all you’ve done for me, and you’re quite handsome—” Don’t say that, either! “But, I’m not— I can’t—”

“I was just playing around, Jack,” said Ianthe, her voice suddenly gentle. “I understand.”

She took Jack’s hammered hand, peeling back the glove to look at the wound, and determining it superficial. “I know that it was in such unfortunate circumstances,” she said, “but I am glad we found you.”

The leather of Ianthe's glove was cold, like the skin of a corpse. Jack drew back in a sudden panic. "Thanks. It's an honor to be here."

“You’ll probably be the last for a long while,” said Ianthe. “We’ve run out of space.”

She sighed, and went back to leaning upright against the fence. Her arms were folded; she looked rather like some sort of romantic, masculine hero all done up like that. A stray curl bobbed against her forehead. "It breaks my heart to have to turn them away… but it can't be helped. Even though I swore that I would help whoever came to me in need — I suppose reality is far harsher."

"Yes, I reckon so." Jack hammered away, no longer looking at her.

"I went to Loveday —" Ianthe's words were abrupt. "Several years ago. I wanted to expand — build a shelter for all the troubled girls in the town. First, they laughed me off. Then, when they realized I was quite in earnest, they ran me off their land, all mobs and pitchforks."

“Fuck ‘em.”

“Yes.” Ianthe nodded grimly. “But I still need that land.”

“It’s an awful business.”

"Worth it, in the end." Ianthe paused. "Have you spoken to the girls about their stories? They are positively heartbreaking."

"I've gathered some."

"Poor Hannah was forced into prostitution, and still could not put enough food on the table. Toms was beaten. She was raised a boy, and when her father caught her in a dress…"

"My mama used to whip me with a wooden spoon."

“You understand.” Ianthe’s eyes bored down at Jack. “They are all like that — this land is swollen with starving, desperate women. For every one that we can help, there will be a dozen more. When it comes down to it, I’ll pack this entire ranch house like fish in a barrel before I let one slip away.”

There was a bead of sweat that had formed at the base of Jack's neck. As Ianthe spoke it began its slow descent down Jack's spine, slipping down every ridge. She wanted to shiver and quake in the face of such righteous fury. Ianthe spoke like a fire and brimstone preacher.

"Do not think it impossible. I had a home, once, where we all lived in harmony. It was destroyed — but there is no reason it cannot be built again."

"Whatever needs to be done," said Jack, "you will have my help."

"My right hand." Ianthe smiled.

"That's right." Jack nodded and perhaps she should've left it at that — but, even as her mind conjured the image of this perfect haven, something jammed in the levers. "And speaking of the girls…"

Ianthe tilted her head, smile still upon her lips.

"There was… there's been there’s been somethin’— somethin’ silly, I’m sure — that’s been weighing on my mind.”

“Go on.”

"When I first got here — after Laz had been… you know?" Jack swallowed. "I saw… all the boarders in there. I didn't know who they were at that point. They were just these… these women, and they were so strange, and all around me, and naked as the day they were born…"

“Come now.” Ianthe let out a little huff of laughter; the air clouded before her. “Can you not figure out what was going on?”

“Well, yes.” Jack’s cheeks burned. “I’m no fool. It was only— only on account of the lack of clothes, that I saw…”

She trailed off.

“Saw what?”

"They were — they all had this scar. It was written in some kinda foreign language. Looked like a couple of 'I's, I suppose. They were all the same, and they looked to me like… like…"

"Jack, you're mumbling."

“Like cattle brands.”

Crunch, crunch. Ianthe approached Jack; she leaned down, hands in her pockets, face awash in concern. "Are you quite alright?"

“O—of course!” Jack said.

"We found you in a ghastly state that day," said Ianthe. “You were screaming nonsense the whole time Daphne dressed your wounds."

Jack was staring Ianthe full in the face. "I was?"

"You were going on and on about death and the blood: the Rapture, the Four Horsemen. You frightened the girls half to death."

"I don't remember anything like that."

"You may ask Daphne, when you get back. She got the worst of it."

“Well, I’m sorry, but—” Jack paused. “Why were they branded?”

“Brands?” Ianthe huffed. “There were no brands.”

“But I saw—”

“You were not in your right mind, Jack.” Ianthe touched her shoulder. “I know it’s hard to think about. It weighs on your mind a lot, doesn’t it? You’ve had so many nightmares, all of this one, horrible tragedy that has befallen you. It’s hard to trust your own mind, in such a state.”

“I…”

“It’s like shadows on the wall,” Ianthe said. “Don’t you remember? Being young, and vulnerable, and the moonlight through tree branches became the hand of a monstrous troll?”

“That’s not…”

“It is the same, Jack. You’ve gone through such hardship, and somewhere inside of you, you wish to invent monsters rather than confront the reality of your situation. I’m sorry, Jack. It may be difficult to reconcile, but you must trust me.” Ianthe squeezed Jack’s shoulder. Her voice was gentle, like speaking to a baby animal. “Think carefully. Why would these women be branded? They’re not cattle. It’s a free territory. What good would it even do, besides draw ire to our little ranch? We couldn’t afford that.”

“No, it doesn’t make sense…” Jack shook her head, like trying to loose cobwebs. “That’s why I asked.”

“Here.” Ianthe had reached into her coat and pulled out a flask.

Jack hesitated a moment, staring at her outstretched hand. Then, she took it, tipped her head back, and let the fire warm her chest.

“My right-hand man."

Jack hurried to hand it back to mask the sudden rush of emotion.

There was a modest Christmas celebration. Jack went out with an axe and a gaggle of women fawning at her heels to pick out a tree. Decorations were made from bits of foil and hat trimmings. The girls were merry and drank smoking bishop and sang well into the night. Ianthe drank but did not sing. Jack figured she was thinking about the cost of festivities. All night, Ianthe stayed in her armchair, with Blackbird sitting on her knee.

Jack had gotten a hold of a rusty old harmonica and played it around the fire. The boarders danced until their feet hurt and, even then, only threw off their shoes and continued. Jack was rusty, her throat raw as she sang her carols.

"You're such a lovely musician, sir," said Hannah, with big wet eyes. She leaned forward, pushing her plunging neckline right into Jack's nose. “Would love to see what else you can do with that mouth o’yours…”

“It’s fucking annoying, that’s what it is!” Ianthe was an angry drunk. “Wish you’d be fucking quiet.”

Susan looked up. “We’ll do anything you wa—”

Blackbird whistled loudly, interrupting her words. She pointed.

Jack had backed out of Hannah’s way, and had ended up on her ass just under the mistletoe. Hannah’s eyes gleamed, and she kissed Jack on the mouth before she could protest.

It was warm, and wet, and Jack didn’t like it all that much. She pushed Hannah off, only to find Opal and Esther already gaining on her. Jack leapt to her feet. “S—sorry, I have to—”

The two women looked disappointed for a moment, before Ianthe yelled at them to get on with it. The parlor was filled with cheering as they kissed one another. Jack ran into the kitchen.

Daphne was there all on her lonesome, washing up after their Christmas feast.  Jack took a seat beside her, picked up a towel and the dish, and got to work.

They did not speak, at first. Jack liked that, after all the ruckus; she liked Daphne, despite everything. The old woman was given such a raw deal, doing all that work with none of the reward, but she never seemed bothered by it. Daphne was still smiling even deep into that December night, separated from the others in the midst of their revels.

The kitchen still smelled of mutton and cinnamon, though no food was left; the air was warm, almost sweltering, from the oven. Flour, rustled up from Daphne's gray skirts, danced around the milky window. Jack felt a twinge of something strange. She was in a home, a real home, on Christmas.

"What was Christmas like when you were young?" Jack asked.

“Oh, I don’t remember.”

“You are not that old are you, Miss?”

“No need to ‘Miss’ me,” said Daphne, “I am far below you. And no, I would not say that I am very old — so long as I am able to serve, that is all that matters. I do not remember because I cannot recall my life before I met my master.”

“Really?” Jack put down the plate she’d dried. Clink.

“Oh yes, really.” Daphne nodded, voice bright with wonder. “I met Master when I was… well, I must’ve been a young lady. It is all foggy to me now. I just remember the feeling. I can never forget the feeling — it rests in my bosom forever. Yes, I was a young lady, and it was only myself and another girl who served Master at that time.”

“Who was the other one?”

“Iphis…” Daphne smiled, her eyes crinkling. “Oh, Iphis. She died, you know. A few years back. I miss her very much. She was so big, and so strong. Master was very fond of her. I believe she still feels her absence."

"I can imagine." Jack continued drying the dishes. Then, she realized… "How long have you been with Ianthe?"

"Oh, I've lost count."

"It's just — you said you were a young lady? But Ianthe… she's not older than you, is she?"

"Did I say such a thing? Well, my memory is not so good, as I said."

"Is she older than she looks?"

"Oh, yes."

"How old?"

Daphne paused. "I would not know."

Jack dropped the subject then. Daphne asked her how she celebrated Christmas, back home. Jack, without noticing the contradiction, thought of the range. She thought of doing odd jobs with Laz all through the winter, and settling down in some barn or another, rolling around in the hay, his arms on her arms, and at some point remembering that tomorrow would bring a holiday, and there would be a break from all the work.  

But that wasn’t what Daphne meant by home.

"Oh, it wasn't much…" Jack said. "We said our prayers, sometimes Mama made a nice supper. But she considered all the to-do a heathen Catholic tradition, you see. I always wished…"

That Grace could have experienced something truly special; something like what they saw visiting town in those days — the pine boughs, the carols, the sweets.

Instead, Grace would spend her Christmas watching snowflakes through the thick window glass, Jack’s arm around her.

Jack said nothing about it, and Daphne did not pry. With time, exhaustion came over Jack. Daphne, though clearly sad to see her go, advised her to go to bed. Jack gave her a kiss on the cheek and wished her a happy Christmas.

Jack crept back to her room, taking great pain not to be noticed (and propositioned) again. She was perhaps too quiet — two lovers did not notice her passing.

She didn't mean to eavesdrop, no. That distinctive moan came from a darkened corner, and her primal senses lit a fire. She had to pass in order to reach her room; she should not have looked at all, except curiosity overcame her.

It was Hannah and Ianthe. Hannah's top was down, her bosom heaving while Ianthe pressed her face into the crook of the girl's collarbone. Hannah moaned as Ianthe sucked at her skin.

Jack rushed into her room. She fell into bed, pillow over her ears. Sleep — scored by their ribald sex acts — came swiftly after.

Winter continued. Hannah got sick — real sick — and there was nothing Susan, with her textbook knowledge, or Daphne, with her accumulated household tricks, could do. Her plump body wasted away, and by the end she was a pale flower laid out on her sheets. Jack helped cart her body in a shroud down to the stream. All the girls, in what they could scrounge for funeral garb, cried.

The next day, work continued.

One night, Jack snuck back upstairs. She trod very quietly, and was not heard, despite the creaking staircase, over the hushed and excited conversation that suffused the floor. She found all the women crammed into one room. As soon as she opened the door, however, they shrieked in delighted affront at having been discovered. She was pelted in the face with a hard straw pillow and quickly retreated. Though many of them were in half-dress, Jack did not look long enough to see what she was seeking.

And afterwards, of course, she felt mighty silly. She was so foolish for bringing up such an ill-founded, mean-spirited accusation to Ianthe. Of course they weren't branding girls like property. Every girl at Devil's Bush belonged to each other.

That is, except for Blackbird – who was Ianthe's, and Ianthe's alone.

Blackbird did not sleep with any of the other girls. They did not flirt with her like they flirted with Jack, even though Blackbird — when she so chose — cut the same sort of masculine form Jack did. In Jack's observation, they were leery of her: eager to listen and treat the girl as superior, despite Blackbird being so small and young and reedy.

At first, Jack quite naturally assumed that Ianthe and Blackbird were lovers. They spent so much time together; Ianthe was always lavishing the girl with gifts and calling her sweet names. Blackbird was the only one, besides Jack, who did not play the game and treat Ianthe as master of the house. Jack saw how the two kept each other company in the parlor: Ianthe stroking Blackbird's head where it rested in her lap. It was obvious.

But the months wore on, and at some point, Jack realized that she had never seen them kiss. She'd never seen them embrace. There was no clandestine lovemaking, no sultry gazes. Their relationship was obviously deep and affectionate. But they were not together, in that sense.

Jack very rarely spoke to Blackbird on her own. One day, however, she spotted the girl tending to the horses. Jack trotted up to the fence, where Blackbird was brushing out the coat of her mottled mare. Jack stopped, the horse between them.

“You need some help?”

Blackbird did not look up. “No.”

“I wanted to ask you something.”

“I cannot stop you.”

Jack paused to catch her breath, the icy air harsh against her cheeks.  “You and Ianthe. You’re…”

The mare huffed.

Jack switched tracks. “I have a sister— er, had a sister,” she said. “You know? And we were so close. She was attached to me like a fly to shit, little thing.”

“And she is dead?”

“Oh no! No!”

“What other reason would you speak of her in the past?"

"Just — I left. I'm here." Jack stuffed her hands in her pockets. "What I mean to say is that — I recognize those sorts of things, that kinda love… I was wondering if Ianthe is your sister."

Blackbird’s demeanor changed in an instant. She laughed. “No!”

“Ah…” Jack flushed in embarrassment. “It was only, just— you look so alike, and I never saw you two, erm, fraternizing. I’m— I’m sorry, I only thought… she’s your sweetheart, isn’t she?”

Another laugh. “No!”

“Then… what is she?”

“Ianthe is a monster that creeps in the shadows,” Blackbird said, very matter of factly. “I live in fear that she will kill me any day.”

“Uh, I—”

“And if you ask too many questions, Jack Haw-thorne, she will kill you, too.”

Jack swallowed. She must’ve made a noise of some sort, because Blackbird leaned down underneath the horse’s neck, and laughed in Jack’s face. Her braids dangled in the empty air.

“Do you have a sense of humor?” she said, again, bluntly. “I am joking.”

“It does not seem like a laughing matter!” Jack said. “If you were being kept here against your will, that would be—”

“Hup!” Blackbird lifted the saddle from the frozen ground and thrust it over the horse’s back. Jack scrambled to help. She pulled it over, helped set the straps and buckles. Blackbird, in a perfectly natural motion, swept up onto the horse. She looked down at Jack, her brimmed hat hiding her eyes. “Ianthe is a good friend. She feeds me well.”

Blackbird dug her heel into the horse’s side, and trotted off.