After her stint in the Ice Pillory, Meya's punishment was to donate her wages from the last three months to the manor's coffers.

Since all that gold had long transformed into her flesh, Meya would have to work without pay for three months instead.

After a fierce round of yelling their heads off, Dad and Farmer Armorheim returned to the castle to settle their taxes. It fell upon Jason to make sure Meya and Deke went straight home without causing more trouble.

High noon had risen by the time they made it back to the village. The dirt road was empty save for flocks of sparrows and pigeons pecking for seeds in clumps of spiky grass along the wayside, and the occasional pile of sunbaked horse dung swarming with flies.

"Say, Jason, how come you're here today? 'Tisn't bazaar day, is it?" asked Meya as she massaged her hands—after almost freezing in the ice, they now stung and burned. Jason sighed as he handed Jezia his waterskin, looking careworn.

"The king's overseer is here. He summoned all merchants trading in Crosset to gather at the castle and discuss the coinage shortage."

"The what what?" Meya gawked, having never heard of those words in her almost seventeen years. She winced as Jezia doused her hands with water.

"We're running out of metal. That's why the treasury issued these lighter coins. Precious metals are more expensive. They're even thinking of scrapping money altogether." The merchant cocked his balding head, his voice lowered,

"They're still hushing it, but ore ships haven't returned from Everglen since last month."

"You're kidding! What happened?" Deke joined in. Jezia leaned in and whispered,

"That's the problem. Nobody knows. The king's sent several ships to investigate. They've all disappeared without a trace, too."

Meya frowned as she navigated the bumpy lane strewn with potholes. Mining had been banned in Latakia for two centuries. According to one High Priest Uriel IV, the goddess Freda suddenly realized digging too deep a hole would allow the evil she'd sealed underground, the demoness Chione, to emerge and wreak havoc upon the land. She conveyed her enlightenment to Uriel in a vision during his daily prayers.

Why the omniscient goddess hadn't divined the obvious centuries sooner wasn't a harmless sentiment to ponder aloud, as Meya discovered at the tender age of six for the price of a lump on the head. Since the Ban, Latakia had been ferrying ships across the sea to a barren land ironically called Everglen to carry ores back.

"Great. Just when Myron got his letter, too." Meya rolled her eyes and puffed a moody breath. After all the butter Myron piled on Yorfus the Blacksmith for an apprenticeship, those ore ships just had to sink. Typical Freda. "Will you two be fine? What's gunna happen if we dun have coins?"

Jezia looked to Jason. He heaved a deep sigh, looking gloomy.

"Country towns like Crosset could survive without trade, I reckon. But for the cities and merchants like us, our only hope is lifting the Ban."

"King Alden's fought to lift it since he took the throne, but the Anti-Miners on his Council are too powerful. They say Baron Hadrian's behind them. The king couldn't ever get enough votes to overturn it."

"Ain't he s'posed to be all-powerful?" Deke frowned. Jason chuckled.

"Takes more than one head to run a kingdom."

"Can't we make money out of some other stuff?" said Meya. At the sight of Jason's raised eyebrow, she added, "Say, I dunno...seashells, shiny pebbles, wooden chips...?"

Out of examples, Meya shrugged. Jason's eyes twinkled in affectionate amusement. He gestured at the pink-with-brown-patches piglet Deke was leading along on a leash.

"Say I want to buy your Hanna for fifty snail shells. Would you accept?"

Meya glanced at Hanna, puckered her lips, then shrugged again,

"Well, if everyone else was trading with snail shells and I could buy a new piglet with it, I s'pose I'd accept."

"Really? You don't seem too happy about it." Jason observed with a shrewd, glinting look. Meya blew out a breath of annoyance,

"Of course I'm not! I'm selling me pet for fifty snail shells. What am I supposed to do with them? Grind them up and mix them with flour?"

Jezia and Deke guffawed. Jason nodded,

"Exactly, Meya. Anybody can pick up a snail shell. And nobody has a use for them. It's not the same with gold, silver, or copper. Or diamonds, rubies, sapphires and emeralds. Everyone in Latakia agreed these things are rare and precious. That's how they became tradable."

Jason trailed away as Meya's house came into view. The Hild cottage did justice to its seven-generation history of poverty. Its grayish daub walls decorated with cracks like cobwebs fell away in places to reveal crisscrossing wattle. The thatched hay roof was dabbed with mildew. A crooked, soot-black metal pipe stuck out like an old feather on a straw hat—their chimney. The steady trickle of pale gray smoke meant Morel, Meya's second sister, was busy preparing dinner.

Out front, Meya's big sister Marin ambled about with a reed broom, scraping at fallen leaves glued to the ground, sodden from yesterday's drizzle. She was a willowy woman on the cusp of her twenties, with shining copper hair and bright blue eyes. What little of her skin poking from her sleeves was porcelain white, unblemished by a single freckle.

Young men peeked out of oiled parchment tacked over their windows, savoring the precious moments before the reigning May Queen was locked up for the night, like a diamond in a chest.

"Yeah, diamonds are precious. Like Marin." drawled Meya, crunching footsteps halting just beyond the distracted Marin's earshot, "As opposed to yours truly, the Queen of Swine Dung."

Jezia grimaced. Deke chuckled as he scratched his head. Jason's beady black eyes narrowed.

"Meya," He said, his voice somber. Meya turned around, eyebrows raised. "In Fyr's Lake, tis not wealth, nor beauty, nor wit, nor high blood, but your deeds that are weighed."

Meya avoided his eyes, a bitter smile on her lips.

"Freda's teachings aren't to guide the living. They're to fool the dying and forgotten." She muttered. Jason tilted his head with a smile.

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"Perhaps, and also to remind every father of a daughter." Meya blinked, puzzled. Jason grasped her shoulders, pinning her with his willful, melancholy gaze.

"Mirram cares about you, Meya. Much more than gold. Much more than your mother's Song. And he'll prove it to you when you need it most. You don't have to put yourself through this."

Jason's voice disappeared in his throat. His meaty hands cradled hers, his eyes roaming over her bruise-red, swollen, trembling fingers with genuine sorrow. Even as her heart pained, Meya huffed a breath of derision,

"He left me to rot in the Ice and I got out on me own, Jason. Either there'd never be a day I'd need him most, or no need of me would be enough for him."

"It's not the same, lass. You don't need help with the Ice. Why, you could bake bread with these scorching hands!"

Jason shook his head. Meya shrugged. Just another weird thing to add to her list, next to glowing eyes, never getting colds, and fingers growing back after being chopped off while dicing carrots. The Hilds didn't eat stew that frightful night, and Meya was never asked to help with dinner again.

For the general populace, the Ice Pillory meant black, frostbitten hands that must be axed off. For Meya, it meant the chance of swift freedom. Meya requested it, knowing that otherwise, Farmer Armorheim would bribe the warden to free her, even if Dad wouldn't bother.

"I can't bake. Heat from me hands ruins the dough."

She jested, voice as flat as her empty face. Jason shook his head,

"Someday, lass. Someday." The old merchant patted her shoulder, then gestured with his chin, "Well, hop along. We're here 'til next Monday. Don't forget to drop by."

He slung an arm around Jezia, who gave a tiny wave. Meya wondered what Dad's hand felt like on her shoulder. Well, when he wasn't crushing her collarbone in his grasp after catching wind of some wicked shenanigan.

Grinning, she raised her hand, and Deke slapped it.

"See you at work."

He left the leather ring at the end of Hanna's leash in her palm. Meya gripped it tight as she watched her friends on their way. When their retreating silhouettes had vanished behind the dip of the hill, Meya took a deep breath and ventured towards her house. Marin perked up at the sound of her footsteps.

"Meya! You're back so early!" She chirped, her face aglow with delight.

"Hope that's still legal," muttered Meya under her breath as she swept past her sister into the garden. After leaving Hanna in her pen, she pushed open their termite-infested back door.

"Is the pig well tied up?"

Mum's husky voice reached her as her big toe crossed into the house. She was bent over the hearth hole in the middle of the room, stirring the dinner stew. Morel sat beside her, chopping vegetables.

Meya breathed a sigh of relief. News hadn't reached these three yet. She closed the door and strode in, answering with all the liveliness she could muster,

"Yep, tight as the noose 'round Bailiff Johnsy's ne—oof!"

A basket flew out of nowhere and slammed into her chest, knocking the wind out of her.

"Parsnips!" Morel barked. She'd win the annual plate-throwing contest for sure, if only she'd deigned to sign up. On any fine day, Meya would've chucked the basket back and demanded she walk three steps to hand it over politely, but this was no fine day.

"Oh...right." Meya gathered herself, then headed back to the door.

"And I want it in ten minutes, so dun go chasing some shiny beetle into the woods, doofus!"

"Aye, milady," Meya grunted. She shuffled out to the vegetable patch, gathered her dress, then hunkered down to yank out some tubers, tossing them into the wicker basket. Then, she pressed the basket over a water basin to rinse the dirt.

After she'd half-thrown, half-slid the basket before Morel, earning herself a glare, Meya was about to go out and kill time with Hanna, when Mum stopped her with her hoarse, damaged voice,

"Have you seen Mistral?"

Meya swallowed the bitter lump in her throat with difficulty. Mum and Morel seldom left the house or joined the village's gossip rings. Still, Meya had hoped, after seventeen years with her, Mum would've sensed something off.

"No. Still weaving with Silma, probably. She's teaching her new patterns today."

Mum bobbed her head as she stirred,

"And Marcus and Myron? And Maro?"

"Working the fields,"...of course! Where else d'you expect they'd be? Meriton?

Meya itched to add. If only Mum's ladle didn't look so deadly swirling in the boiling stew.

"Hm-hmm. Seen your father on the way here?"

"No, sorry," Meya lied. She hadn't seen Dad on the way—she parted with him before she set off. Mum didn't seem to suspect foul play. She scooped up a ladleful of brown stew and let it plop back down, studying its texture.

"Hmm." A hum escaped her pursed lips. She turned to Morel, who was reaching for an onion, "Leave the onions for later, Morel honey. Your father would take some time."

Mum had finished her business with Meya. Meya bit back a sigh and turned to leave.

"Meya, wait."

Meya spun around. Mum had peeled her eyes from the stew to look at her. Meya was taken aback.

"I'm fine, thanks." She grinned. Mum blinked, puzzled.

"I can see that. I was going to ask if you've brought the chicken back yet."

Meya's grin froze on her face. Oh, that. Avoiding Mum's gaze, she gestured at the door.

"Ah, no. Er, I'll get to it." She whirled away, hoping to hide her burning cheeks.

"Take a copper for Old Horth." Mum pointed her chin towards the money tin on the shelf. Meya noticed a block of Morel's fruitcake sitting next to it.

"How about this instead? Jason said coins are getting short." She held it up for Mum to see.

"Really?" Mum looked up, mildly interested. She cocked her head, "Well, take the cake, then. You fine with it, Morel dear?"

Morel shrugged.

"What can I say? Shepherd Horth loves me cooking." She smirked, not one for modesty. Mum mussed up her golden hair.

"So does every shepherd in the pasture."

Morel tittered. Mum joined in. They'd forgotten Meya, so Meya quietly let her smile sag, and her shoulders hunch. Mum accepted her lies without protest, no matter how suspicious she'd strived to be. She'd always ask Meya about her siblings, and the livestock and vegetables she was in charge of. If she wouldn't ask about her to her face, Meya hoped, perhaps she'd ask the others, at least.

Meya grabbed her ragged black cloak as she retreated outside. Stowing Morel's cake in one of its pockets, she swung the gate into the garden again.

The chicken coop was empty. Every morning before heading to the fields, Meya would herd the chicken onto a wheelbarrow and trundle them to the communal pasture outside the village, where they would forage among the livestock of other villagers under the shepherds' watchful eyes.

Hanna, in her pen, had settled in for a snooze. Meya unlatched her door and bent down to muss up her head. She grunted and opened one bleary eye.

"Sorry, Hanna. Wanna go with me to the pasture?"

Both of Hanna's eyes snapped open. Oinking, wagging her tail, she scrambled up and waddled along. The round wooden nametag swung on her collar as she followed Meya down the meandering dirt lane towards the grasslands spreading beyond the rolling green wheat fields. Myron had carved letters on the tag, spelling Hanna. At least, Meya thought that was the case—she couldn't read.

Back home, in the hole in the dirt floor where Meya kept her belongings, she'd collected ten tags bearing names of piglets she'd raised since the start of spring, only to send them to the slaughterhouse by the eve of winter. All parts of the pig were useful. Their tags were the only remains she could save.

They could afford to raise one pig at a time, so Meya couldn't help treating her annual piglet like a pet, albeit one you must butcher and eat. Meya never touched their meat, though, no matter how much her stomach ached in winter.

A gust of wind blew over bleats and moos from the communal pasture, reminding Meya of creamy fresh milk and rich sheep cheese and butter. They couldn't keep flocks of sheep or cattle. Luckily, the Armorheims insisted on giving their poorer neighbors a daily pail of milk.

At the chirp of a robin streaking by overhead, Meya tilted her head back, following his journey across the sky. It was the clear, light blue of early spring, with wispy clouds that edged toward the horizon on the wings of the cool breeze.

She wondered where the little robin was going. Perhaps if he flew high enough, he could see if there was a deity, the goddess Freda, up there, like it said in the Holy Scriptures.

She wondered why Freda made her a girl. And a Greeneye, too. Meya could do much more to help her family, if she were a boy with beautiful blue or brown eyes that didn't glow like a pair of cursed fireflies from a haunted forest.

At least she wouldn't have to resort to wage fraud to earn gold for her dowry and end up losing it to a hefty fine. She could dream of becoming a merchant like Marcus. She could take up an apprenticeship like Myron. She could be useful. The way she was now, she was wasting the family's bread.

Looking at Hanna, Meya couldn't help wondering if it would be that different with her neck on the butcher's board instead of Hanna's this winter, except that Hanna's meat would probably taste better than hers.