Chapter One: Asphodels

Twelve minutes: that’s how long it takes for eggs to boil in the center of Persephone’s Spring. It’s about the same as the time it takes for the scalding steam to become absolutely unbearable. 

My fingers itch to wipe the sweat off my brow, but the rock outcrop is overcrowded with villagers. Any movement could cause a stir, and I’d rather not attract attention to myself. As the discomfort rises, I remind myself it could be worse. Summer is worse.

I sense a shift as someone leaves. My shoulders lower from their hunched position and my elbows expand out from my sides, filling in the space they left behind. As nice as this feels, it won’t last long. 

As the eggs dangle from one end of the pole into the spring, I steady the other against my hip, using my free hand to wipe the steam off my brow. I take an extra moment to swat away the tawny hair that clings to my cheek. It’s a darker color than usual when saturated with steam like this. It almost makes me feel like one of them. 

Sweat beads just as fast as I can wipe it off. The eggs are almost done.

“Hey!” A nasally whine jolts me out of focus. I look behind me and see a girl, about thirteen, glaring up at me. Behind her, a long line of villagers wait for their turns, too.

She stands there with her arms crossed, her foot tapping against the rock. Her hair is black, her eyes brown, just like everyone else. She will never change.

“Are you done, mutt?”

The label, condescendingly casual, turns my red face even redder. The steam of the spring hides my embarrassment well, but the urge to flee rises like bile. 

“Yes.”

I snatch the twine hanging from my pole and pull the net of eggs out of the water, only for them to pendulate into my arm with searing heat. I bite back a yelp and step back from the pain, letting the eggs drop to the ground with a dull thunk. I look down and find myself slipping past the ledge. Time stands still.

Then a woman grabs my arm and yanks me away. 

“Be careful,” she hisses. 

She’s from the northern village. I can tell. Her voice is full of raw disgust, and she pulls away as though she has just touched fresh manure. All while the girl sneers.

“I’m fine.” I say it more to myself than anyone else. I grab the net bag from the ground and rush off the rock outcrop, weaving through the line of villagers until my boots sink into hot-spring sand, perpetually warm and wet. 

The ashen sands are far less crowded than the outcrop. Villagers sprawl around the edge of the spring, digging for morrow bread. Each one I pass is too focused on their hole to look up. I smile politely to the few that do, but it doesn’t matter: They dismiss me immediately. 

Even Mother is unaware of my presence at first. She hovers over her hole, a pot and a pail of thick mittens beside her. Her braided black hair drapes down over her shoulder. She takes a hand to tuck a loose strand behind her ear and notices me standing in front of her. 

“Are you ready, Alira?” Her umber eyes glance at me before refocusing on the task at hand. It doesn’t matter whether I’m ready or not. She will assume I am. 

I snatch the mittens from the pail beside her and shove them into my armpit. I replace them with the net of eggs, pulling the string to undo the knot and detaching them from the pole in one smooth motion. They slump into the bucket. 

Mother wastes no time. Her spade is already deep in the hole as I set the pole aside. I scramble to put the mittens on as Mother hoists the sealed clay pot of morrow bread up and into my hands. Warmth seeps through, as though I’m not already hot enough.

The empty hole is wet. Thick bubbles form at its depths. Each pop releases an eggy smell of sulfur that sits in the air. It’s so strong I almost set the morrow bread down to plug my nose, but I know doing so will only inspire harsh criticism. I turn away, looking for anything to distract me from the smell as Mother places a fresh pot in the hole. 

I spot the girl at the dock and my cheeks flush. I can’t help but play back the events. The villagers stare at me like I’m an albino deer, targeted by hunters and coyotes alike. The hunters see something unmistakably different, a trophy to hang on the wall. The coyotes, hungry for an easy meal, see my light hair and blue eyes as a sort of sickness: a weakness. 

That girl is a coyote.

“What happened here?” 

My heart flutters. I whip my head around in fear and see Mother studying the pail, running a finger over the hairline cracks that decorate the eggshells.

“It’s nothing. Someone asked for my spot. I fumbled and they fell.”

“Alira, you’re sixteen. You should know by now that you don’t have to rush off the rock if you aren’t ready to. It’s okay to say no.” 

I bite my tongue to keep myself from talking back. She doesn’t get it. She’s a different type of outcast, voluntary and content in her solitude. If the girl had tapped her shoulder, she would have ignored her or told her to wait her turn, simple as that.

But even biting my tongue does me no good. Frustration bubbles up and over my lips.

“Why can’t there be an easier way to do things?” I ask.

“The Earth Queen provides everything we need.” 

It’s a motto she has repeated for as long as I can remember, as if trying to convince herself of its truth. She turns and walks away with the pail and shovel in hand, leaving the pole to mark our spot in the sand. A sense of purpose drives every step she takes, purpose that I don’t have. 

The farther we get from the spring, the fainter the smell of sulfur becomes. The smell of asphodel, sweet as honeysuckle, takes its place. Hundreds of them bloom around the edges of the spring, protecting the ashes of the dead. 

Suddenly, a cry rings out, a cry so shrill and full of anguish that even the blooms of the asphodel flowers quiver, as though the veil between life and death has been opened. Mother spins around and I do the same, looking back at the rock outcrop, where several villagers are scrambling to pull someone away from the dock and onto the sand. I see her short-cropped black hair and know exactly who it is.

Mother’s voice drops in dismay, “That’s not good.” 

Ms. Ilesha, the house professor, whimpers from the pain as the villagers pick her up and carry her away. Her foot, all the way up her calf and creeping up her knee, is a bright, scalded red. 

“Come now.” Mother turns away from the spectacle, “No use gawking.”

Whimpers to fade into the whispering wind as I turn to follow her home.

* * *

This isn’t the first time someone has hurt themself in the spring. An unskilled villager can easily burn their hands if they aren’t careful enough. Simple burns only take a few days to heal. Ms. Ilesha, though, scalded her entire lower leg. All I can think about on the way home is how it could have been me.

When I almost slipped, the girl simply smirked. The gravity of the situation didn’t set in until now. A burn like that, throughout the body, would be no less dangerous than fire.

Unlike the spring, though, fire is highly restricted; only hunters and potters are permitted to use it. Unpermitted uses are considered heretical, and straying too far from our beliefs has disastrous effects. At least, that’s what I’ve been told. 

Soon enough, we reach our allotment and our dwelling comes into view, a small hill in a field of flat, even pastures. The autumnal flowers that paint it are a welcome distraction. Purple phlox creeps down the lush green roof, goldenrod hovers over the windows, and chrysanthemums line the dirt path all the way to the solid slate door.

This house is of the earth. 

As Mother shuffles inside, I pause to study the house insignia on the door. A single meandering line is carved along the edges. It weaves in and out of itself without ever touching, as though forming a sort of labyrinth. It surrounds the delicate hands of our Earth Queen, Persephone. She holds the world tenderly in her palms, like an fortune teller reading from a crystal ball.

It won’t be long now before Persephone returns to the Underworld, where Hades awaits. Her absence will leave the surface so cold that crops will cease to grow. 

But her warmth will keep us safe in our underground dwellings, and she will continue to heat the spring, as well. When she returns, the snow will disappear and the crops that sprout beneath her tender feet will feed us through the year. 

In winter it is true that the Earth Queen provides what we need, but I wonder if she would allow us to appreciate more than her naked power. 

In lectures at school, Ms. Ilesha often mentioned that our house was once much larger and far less restrictive. There’s a reason it is no longer so, a reason that most would rather not rediscover. Whatever caused our house to shrink into itself, Ms. Ilesha made it clear that it was deadly. 

Even so, I can’t help but wonder if there’s a way to make life easier without straying too far. Is it possible to bring more balance without accidentally tipping the scales? 

“Alira? What’s taking so long?” Mother calls. Her voice is stern and rushed. There are more chores to do. This problem will have to wait until they are done. 

I enter the dwelling and set the morrow bread on the countertop for extraction. When I remove the lid, the rich buttery smell wafts upward. It’s sweeter than usual; Mother must have added honey or syrup to this batch. When I tip the pot, the dense bread slides out in one beautiful piece.

I grab a slate shard and cut three pieces out, slicing each lengthwise before setting them aside. Then, I grab a vibrant tomato off the windowpane above the wash bin. As I do, I glance at Mother, diligently peeling the shells from the eggs to reveal smooth, creamy whites underneath. I smirk when I find they weren’t damaged after all, but I know better than to rub it in. Instead, I return to my spot at the table and begin slicing the tomato.

It’s sloppy. Slate doesn’t always cut well, but Mother refuses to trade for a proper blade. The sun merchants often have knives to trade, but they’ve stopped coming to us for anything after Mother drove them all away. She often speaks of them as though they’re dirty for offering us what we may not need, but she never seems to have an answer for the fact that the merchants are the ones who send us pomegranates, a necessary part of every ceremony. 

“Go fetch Flint for breakfast.” She takes the tomato slices out from under my hands and begins constructing our sandwiches. The movement is so abrupt that I lose my train of thought. I pause for a moment, wondering if I should bring up Ms. Ilesha’s fall, but Mother is engrossed in her work. Instead, I follow her orders and fetch my older brother.

While mother and I were at the spring, Flint should have been tending to the sheep. It’s possible he’s still in the barn.

As I get closer, I spot a few of the ewes out in the fields of vetch and clover. They flick their ears as they hear me coming and lift their heads. It only takes a moment for them to catch my scent and recognize me. They should; I lambed each and every one of them. 

I leap down the steps that line the stone ramp down to the barn door and burst through it to find it empty, save for a pail of fresh milk that sits on the table against the wall. Remnants of grain still sit in the feed bins and soiled straw litters the floor. He’s moved on.

I step outside and scan the rooftop garden, shading my eyes from the morning sun. The squash are harvested, the potatoes mounded, and the weeds pulled. There is only one other place he could be.

A basket of vegetables sits on the ground near the gate to the orchard and next to it, our sheepdog, Pebble. She stands at the sight of me, her tail wagging furiously, but she remains next to her basket, ever diligent. This is the only proof I need. He’s in there, hiding behind a wall of bark and leaves. Venturing in, I sense movement near the berry thicket. A slim figure with sleek black hair hovers over a raspberry bush: Flint.

He’s wearing his favorite gray cotton flannel, pushed up to his elbows. His brows are furrowed, his blue eyes focused on the berries in his hand. He inspects each one before plopping them into his basket of woven honeysuckle.

Though I am certain he knows I am here, he doesn’t show it. He keeps working, diligent and unwavering.

Mother claims that Flint took after her and I took after Father, but that wasn’t always true. I don’t know anything about the man who left us, but the Flint I grew up with hated chores and loved to explore the woods on the edge of the village. He was nothing like Mother.

Eventually though, Flint realized he was the only man around. Almost overnight, he changed. All his childish quirks are overshadowed by a dark and brooding persona now, convinced he must act like an adult in order to be a man. 

I sidle into his thorned shelter, trapping him in his precious space of distraction. 

“I’m busy,” he says, expecting me to pry out the Flint I used to know. Normally, I would fire back a smart reply, but today I just watch. My silence draws his eyes upward.

“What’s that face for?” he asks.

“Ms. Ilesha fell into the spring.” 

His hands freeze in tense anticipation. “How bad?”

“Up to her knee.” 

“That’s not good.”

Of course it’s not good. None of this is good. I want to go on a rant about what we can do about it, rather than talk about how bad it all is, but that’s not why I’m here.

“Breakfast is ready,” I compose each word through gritted teeth as anger ruminates, waiting to escape. 

I step aside for Flint to leave and follow him out of the orchard. Pebble is happy to see us, her tail thumping against the gate post. Flint scoops up the basket she’s been guarding and we walk in deafening silence back to the house.

My eyes are trained on the ground as I calm myself. I want to say something, but every time I open my mouth, the words die on my tongue. 

Mother would say that now is no time for ranting. I should abide by that, but my thoughts are pounding against my skull. 

We should do something. We should help Ms. Ilesha, prevent more injuries, and find a way to make life easier. But no one in their right mind will listen to me. 

Of course the house mutt would be the first to suggest we ignore house rules. But what no one seems to understand is that, as much as I hate it here, this place is home. I nap in the oak tree near the orchard, bathe in the springs, I tend to the sheep and sleep in an earthen home just like them. But that doesn’t matter. If it were me who had fallen in the spring, the only people helping me would be Mother and Flint, and maybe Gemma.

Gemma.

As soon as her name pops into my head, my eyes adjust and I see her at the door. Her hand hovers as if about to knock. 

“Gemma!” 

I bolt past Flint toward her and she spins around at the sound of my voice. Her creamy white dress twirls with her, cinched at the waist by a burgundy corset. When I pull her aside, she comes easily. Her short black curls are pinned back, revealing eyes of liquid caramel rimmed in red. She’s been crying.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Did you see it?” Her lip wobbles and she bites to hold it down.

“I got a glimpse.” 

“I’ve never seen it worse. They say it could be fatal.”

“What?” The word grates against me and I can’t believe it’s possible. Fatal. No one’s ever died from a scald. 

Flint brushes past us heading inside, but I can see it in his eyes, too. He’s scared.

“Who’s they?” I ask.

Gemma fiddles with the saffron strings of her corset as she recounts the details, “I saw Tierra and one of the other healers trying to collect water from the creek to cool her off. They were frantic. When I asked what I could do to help, they told me to pray. ”

I look away, hiding my distaste. If praying to Persephone did anything, I wouldn’t be so cursed and unwelcome here.

“Maybe Persephone wanted this,” I mutter to myself a little too loud.

Her doe eyes blink once, then twice. 

“You can’t really believe that, right?” 

“Sorry, I just . . .” 

“There’s no way. It’s utterly backward. And you know what’s worse?” 

“What could be worse?”

“I have a feeling Berilo will be teaching in her place.”  

A whimper escapes me as the memories rush back, memories I’ve worked hard to push away. Berilo, the youngest of the three elders, is from the northern village. He hates me just as much as the rest of them. The last time he covered for Ms. Ilesha, he had everyone stand up in front of the class, one by one, to take an oral exam. When it was my turn, he cornered me with a quiz on biology. He asked me what the probability was that someone with pure earthen heritage could give birth to someone with fair hair and blue eyes. When I told him it was the same as the chances of Arani becoming an elder, he kicked me out of the class and told me not to come back until I had learned my place. 

After I left, he gave everyone a project to take home. He had them plot their family trees, going as far back as they could manage. The student who could track their lineage the furthest would have a pot of hot-spring water delivered to their home every day for a month.

My punishment for talking back to an elder was to deliver the water myself.

Gemma’s hands grab mine.

“Let’s pray right now. It can’t hurt.”

A fall breeze tugs at my skirts. Praying feels like a lost cause, but I do it for her. 

Ms. Ilesha cannot die. It would be a waste of time. So don’t take her. Not yet. Instead, show me what to do next. Give me something I can work with. I don’t want to pray; I want to take action. I want to fix this. 

Gemma pulls away and my hands feel clammy without her. 

“Do you think the merchants have anything that can help her?” I ask. It’s the only thing I can think of.

“Maybe but”–her gaze falls–“even if they had something, no one’s seen them in months.”

“Months?” I had no idea. 

Gemma nods, “There are rumors that the elders are pulping the remaining pomegranates until their return.” 

I feel a sense of hopelessness creep in and my chest tightens into a knot. My mind shifts from sadness to anger to grief and back again. We stand there, unable to form the words needed to console the other. I open my mouth to try as a wisp of an idea flutters by, but the door opens. Mother steps out.  

“Alira?” When she turns and spots us, her shoulders relax and she smiles in relief. 

“Oh, Gemma! Have you eaten? I can make a sandwich for you.” 

Gemma straightens up, wiping her eyes and smiling politely. I make no such effort.

“Thank you very much, Dhara, but I’ve already eaten. I should get going anyway; I have a lot of chores left to do before school starts.” 

She turns away and I feel like a crutch has been removed from my side. I’m forced to look helplessness in the eyes. There must be something I can do.

Mother turns her attention back on me. Her hair is pinned up now, her oval face clear enough for me to spot a hint of concern.

“Your breakfast is getting cold.” She opens the door a bit wider for me to enter, but my appetite is absent. Her eyes soften.

“I know you want to help, Alira, but Ilesha will have several people at her bedside these next couple of weeks. There isn’t much else you can do.”  

“Of course there is!” Quivering rage spills like hot melted wax. “How can you not think that? How can you be so complacent?”

She’s silent, frozen, and listening. 

“The pomegranates are dwindling, the hot spring is fatally hot, and isolation has left us convincing ourselves that this is as good as it gets. I just don’t believe it. Not anymore. Something needs to change.”

Her arms drop from the door. It clicks shut as she steps down from the stoop to stand in front of me. She places her hands on my shoulders and I can feel it; Something stirs within her, too. Her eyes are full of determination.

“If you want change, you must speak to the elders.”