"Go!"

I had convinced myself that all was going well. I was sure of the steps I would take, and the outcome was essentially inevitable. All that remained was for me to carry out the simple sequence of instructions. Memory, comparision, results. Normal actions on a normal day.

I heard the pounding of small feet on wood, and the scraping of metal against metal.

I knew I was going to die.

My hand throbbed, refusing to perform the tasks I had planned.

My mind jumped off track, seeing only looming failure, followed by death.

With a grinding of mental gears, I pushed my train of thought back towards the known, well-worn path.

Before I could take another step of progress, the shouted word completely derailed all my efforts, shattering my brittle concentration and scattering my best intentions.

To be fair, it was a trivial thing: just my brothers being their usual noisy selves. I should have been able to ignore the shout. Today I could not. Today, concentration required strength which I could barely muster. I had forgotten my surroundings, allowing myself to be easily startled. In the aftermath of my slip I stared down at the haphazard line of black ink which marred the thin sheet of rough brown paper. It was undeniable proof of my diminished capacity. It easily could have been much worse. If the shout had come a word or two later, my spasm would have spread the ink to the dining room table.

There was nothing I could do about it now. I had a list to complete, and a schedule to meet. I could ignore the distractions, the pain, and the ugly line on the paper. I would finish my task, continue life as normal, and everything would work out fine. The first step was to find the place where I left off and...

"Hey, that towel is mine!"

"No, yours is the blue one!"

"That was a different blue one!"

There was no way I could restart my train of thought with this inane argument in the background. Waiting for Chadwick and Chester to resolve the situation themselves would waste valuable time. Intervening would also take time, but I figured that it would be the quicker path in total. "Boys, hush. Please. The towels all work the same. It does not matter which you use," I said as gently as I could muster. I knew they had the intelligence to work that out for themselves, but rarely had the sense to use it.

The two boys resumed their chore with no further pointless bickering, and I turned my attention back to the list of winter supplies. I was able to add three more items before the calm broke again. An unreasonably loud crash sent me leaping to my feet, causing an even louder shriek as the feet of my chair skidded against the floor. "Stop that noise!"

I had not intended to yell or to stand so fast. Cold dread washed through my body as I realised that I had let myself act thoughtlessly. This was so much worse than my previous slip. I turned to my right, and looked over the wooden kitchen benchtop. Chadwick and Chester were two statues crouched on the tiled floor, surrounded by a scattering of at least half a dozen metal baking trays. There was no way to know whether their frozen silence was a reaction to their own cacophony, or mine. That was not important. What was important was that I had displayed a terrible example of behaviour to some of my younger siblings.

Even as chills seized my limbs, I felt my face flush with heat. At seventeen, I should be able to moderate my actions at all times. I knew I was capable of acting properly. Yet I had failed, allowing my impatience to build until it burst forth like steam from a ruptured boiler. Surely no one had ever had reason to feel more foolish. I could imagine hypothetical extremely humiliating situations, such as a city signalman letting loose a steam whistle in the middle of midday meditations, but not even a junior trainee would be so undisciplined.

As the seconds dragged on, I desired increasingly more to be swallowed up by the unseen caverns beneath the earth, where the rays of the sun were unknown and nothing pure ever trod. Some days I felt like I belonged there, especially since my injury. My latest failure fed that feeling until it was almost a prayer. Almost, but definitely not a true prayer.

I stared at Chadwick and Chester. They stared past me. I knew who was behind me, but I could not stand the tension of not knowing what he was doing for a second longer. Stiffly, I turned around to see.

Our father, Robert J. Wilison, stood in front of his leather armchair, facing us. The leather-bound book he had been reading rested on one arm of the chair. I had not heard him snap the book shut, and I knew I never would. Father was always gentle with his valuables.

Contrary to my intentions, I found I could not look at Father's face. I knew instinctively that his disappointment would be a mirror, reflecting my shame back doubled. My mind jumped away from the intense situation, charging down the first available track. The armchair. Father had selected and purchased the chair fourteen years ago. I had been too young to remember much of anything. But I could never forget that the chair was 'comfortable, but not too comfortable'. Father reminded his family of that fact on a regular basis. Nor could I ever forget that no one but Father was permitted to sit in the chair. Channing - one of my elder brothers - had sat in the chair, once. A long time had passed before he could bear to sit again.

I slammed the brakes on that train of thought, which had gone in precisely the worst possible direction. I struggled to breathe, my throat feeling like a kinked air hose. As my brothers and I waited in silence, Father looked back and forth, appraising the situation.

Father reached a conclusion with typical rapidity. "Boys, you are not being considerate or careful. You must be quieter and more gentle with our possessions." He removed the small black consequence book from the breast pocket of his heavy tan shirt. "That will be two black marks against each of you," he said, making the notations in indelible ink.

Chester opened his mouth to protest. He quickly shut it again, but the intent had been clear. That earned him a third black mark in the consequence book. Chadwick had already learned this lesson when he was about Chester's age. He returned to his task, carefully placing one of the offending trays on a stack beside the sink. "Sorry, Father. Sorry, Charity," he said softly.

"Better," Father said to Chadwick. He slipped the little black book back into its pocket and reached for the volume he had been reading.

Chester stood up, holding a scouring pad. "Sorry, Father and Charity."

"I am sorry I snapped at you," I replied automatically. I should have been relieved that the situation appeared to be over, but instead a feeling of unease settled in my stomach, like a spoonful of cold pea soup. How had I escaped sentencing? Father could not have forgotten me, but why would he ignore me? There had to be a consequence for my failure eventually, and that implied that Father should have written something down. There was no other logical conclusion. This left a mystery, and until it was resolved I would be completely unable to concentrate on my work. "Father?"

He looked directly into my eyes. "Yes, my daughter?" His tone was gentle, encouraging me to continue.

I struggled for the right words while Father's gaze bore into me. "You... did not mark me down for my... outburst," I said, knowing better than to directly question his decision.

An expression passed over his face, which I struggled to interpret. Was he pleased, or disappointed? Or perhaps both? I did not know how to feel, or how to react. All my joints seemed to be rusted in place, while my hands began to tremble like a warped axle. Mercifully, my hands were clasped behind my back. Father could not see and judge my anxiety, though I hardly felt any less judged.

"It is up to you to learn to better temper your actions," Father said. His words were light, clear, and strong, like a silver horn welcoming a visiting dignitary. "You know full well the importance of meekness, Charity. Punishing you with extra chores or reduced privileges would make no difference at this point. Besides, you will not be mine to discipline for very much longer. You need to be ready to embrace change. Do you understand?"

I understood well enough. Father had decided that I was either not his problem, or else a lost cause. "Yes, Father. I shall do my best. And I apologise to you for the disturbance, and to Chadwick and Chester for setting a bad example." I should have said that last part sooner.

"Now, you had better finish my supply list before I leave. I will not be late to my patrol. If you fail to have it ready in time, you will have to place the order yourself." With that said, he settled back into his chair and returned to his place in the book, which I recognised as The Farmer's Compendium.

"Yes, Father," I said. There was nothing else I could say. The matter was settled. Finishing the list on time remained as vital as ever. I forced my focus back on ensuring that my family would have all the necessary supplies for winter. I knew I had only twelve more minutes before Father left for the general store, but I still struggled to keep my thoughts firmly fixed on the present task. It was so easy to let them drift off into the uncertain future. The consequence of failure was not what occupied my mind the most. If I failed, the consequence would pass in due course. I was not concerned by the impending winter, as I had already survived seventeen winters. Winter would come and go as always, but the arrival of spring would usher me into an entirely new season of life. I could not conceive of a life beyond my home and family, but my mind kept trying, giving birth only to uncertainty.

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And behind all that lay the bigger concern. The one which might preempt all the others. The one I did not want to think about at all.

The boys soon finished their work in the kitchen, thankfully avoiding excessive noise. Their next chore sent them running out the back door, leaving the farmhouse in relative silence for several minutes. At nine and eleven they were two of the noisier siblings, outside of baby Cherish. The tinkling of glass chimes announced the top of the hour. I mostly ignored it. I also mostly ignored the soft sounds of Father rising from his chair, placing his book on a side table, and walking over to me. I was almost successful, except that I was acutely aware of everything that I tried to block out.

"Charity, is my list ready?"

"Double checking the master list," I said, not looking up from my work. I would be done in only a minute, if only I was left alone.

"It should be complete. What is the delay?"

That was one question too many. I completely lost my place in my mental list. With my progress completely halted, there was no reason not to look up. I forced myself to meet Father's eyes, and stated the unwelcome truth. "My hand. It's getting worse."

"It is getting worse," Father corrected. "Speak properly."

I silently cursed my thrice-rusted brain for allowing such a careless slip. I dreamed of some day becoming a cleric's secretary, and here I was letting myself speak like some unenlightened barbarian or a traitor to humanity. "I am sorry, Father. The cut has become possessed. Writing neatly is difficult," I said, enunciating with utmost clarity.

"The cut is on your left hand," Father said, clearly skeptical of the injury's impact on my writing.

"The pain is affecting my concentration," I said, glancing down at the bandage wrapped around the affected hand. My fingers were left uncovered and on display, which was a not insignificant blessing, and a mixed comfort.

"You have until I put on my boots and coat. If anything is missing - or illegible - you will be responsible for rectifying your shortcoming."

"I understand, Father." I resumed checking my written list against my mental list of required winter supplies, and my memory of what we had in storage. It should have been easy, but the pain turned concentration into a struggle. I refused to let such a minor thing stop me from completing such a straightforward task. But my refusal achieved nothing. The clock ticked away the seconds regardless of my efforts.

The constancy of the ticks drew my attention away from the irregular pulsing of the pain. Grasping for a solution, I anchored my thoughts to the clock, shutting out everything but the ticks and the lists. Tick, salt, tick, large cloth bags, tick, small cloth bags, tick, glass jars, tick, spare mirrors, tick...

Now dressed for the short walk into town, Father reached for his best crossbow on its hook beside the front door. I stood, holding the completed list. "All done," I said, handing it to him. My action caused some pain, which I tried to mask, but Father caught my wince.

"Since your wound is not improving, I believe I should seek clerical help," he said as he deftly affixed his quiver of bolts to his belt.

"Are you saying you might ask, Father? Tonight?" Given my repeated failings and my present razor-thin success, it was beyond reach of my hopes.

"I do not know whether I will have an opportunity, but I shall be prepared to ask. And even if a chance arises, such a boon does not come cheaply," he said slowly.

"I... understand," I said carefully. I knew he would prefer to boost my hopes higher than the clouds, but propriety forced him to speak the truth.

Father reached for the gleaming brass doorhandle, but he was looking at me as he said, "I hope the cost is one that can be paid."

I hoped so too, but it was an empty hope. I knew that a high price would serve justice more than a low one. An easy price required a great and unique need, or great favour, but neither condition...

"Stop daydreaming, girl," Father said, interrupting my musings. He opened the front door, but turned back to give one last instruction before leaving. "And tell your mother I will return for the evening meal, unless I find anything interesting on patrol."

"Yes, Father."

After relaying the message to my resting mother, I began my next scheduled task: finishing the sewing of a new set of curtains for my future home. I knew sewing as I knew my own family, but the concept of having a home of my own remained unbearably foreign. While I understood that it was the destiny of every girl to leave her childhood home behind and start a new family, I was more than a little frightened by the idea. Not only would I leave my father, mother, brothers, sisters, and Wilison Farm behind, but Forrester's Crossing too. More than that, I would leave farm life entirely. This was why the sight of the ring on my finger was a mixed comfort.

Life in the city of Deepbloom would be nothing like life on the periphery of Forrester's Crossing. I would need to learn every detail of a new house, new streets, a new schedule, a new society. Although Deepbloom had not seemed especially different the handful of times we had visited, living there would almost be like living under a different sun. Practically, it would be exactly like living under a different sun. Two rail stops to the south, the solar angles were a little different, and the sunrise and sunset times differed too. I had always known that the track of the sun was relative to the observer, but had only ever experienced dawn at Wilison Farm, and dusk in the near vicinity of Forrester's Crossing. To actually see a different sunrise would be nothing short of phenomenal... if I ever reached this future.

As alien as the concept seemed, I was actually excited at the prospect of experiencing the sun from a new perspective. I had studied the solar and lunar charts for other cities, but experiencing the difference for myself would add a whole new weight to the numbers. The numbers in the charts were right, of course. They were clerical documents. But I had not been able to resist the drive to confirm the derivation of the numbers for myself. Sneaking a look at Channing's old textbook had been very wrong, but it had been so satisfying to recreate the values in the charts by following the procedures I had hastily memorised. Now I knew for myself that the numbers were correct. Soon I would also know from experience that the numbers were true. I knew that when the clerics wrote that a claim was right, it must also be both correct and true, but there could be no wrong in desiring to experience that truth in a more personal way. To experience the sun as a deeper truth was a worthy aspiration, even for an unimportant farm girl such as me.

None of the excitement over such an opportunity made the thought of leaving my family any less daunting. I would be the sole person responsible for cooking, cleaning, and caring for children. So many decisions would be mine to make, with no mother to correct me if I made a mistake. I would miss my siblings most of all. The protectiveness of my older brothers, the care and kindness of my sisters, all of that would be out of my reach. It would be especially hard to leave the younger ones. Sometimes I almost felt like I was a second mother to them. Caring for them had been excellent practice, for which I was very thankful, but it would hurt to let them go.

But all that was for the future. For now, all I had to worry about was keeping the folds in the curtains even. Most of the work was in operating the foot treadle. Guiding the fabric through the sewing machine hardly aggravated my hand at all, compared to writing. I could almost pretend everything was normal. Life would continue to follow the expected track, from known station to known station, as mapped out centuries ago.

A small head of frizzy black hair poked into the sewing room. "Charity?"

"Yes, Chynella?" I nodded for my ten-year-old sister to enter the room while I finished sewing the current row.

"I am helping Mother finish a batch of goat soup." I didn't need to see her face to know that Chynella was pleased to be entrusted with this task.

"Oh, I thought she was still resting."

"No, she is instructing me while resting. She wants you to pick us some fresh parsley."

"She knows how important my sewing is," I said, frowning at the interruption.

Chynella picked up a spool of black thread and began fidgeting with it. "Yes, that is why Chalice and Chastity are taking turns at your job of looking after the little ones."

"Put that down! Is everyone really too busy to get parsley?" I ignored the part about our teenaged sisters, as their involvement in that role was inevitable.

Chynella put the spool back on its shelf, looking sheepish. "Do you want Chace or the twins trampling through the herbs again?"

"No, but you could..."

"Mother says the sun will be good for you."

Finally, the real reason why I was being sent outside. "Standing in the sunshine will not fix my hand."

"She said you look feverish."

"I'm not..." I realised how I was speaking, and stopped to really consider the way I felt. "Perhaps I am a little feverish. A few minutes outside cannot hurt."

"I hope it helps. The fever is making you snappish," Chynella said with her typical bluntness. I hoped she would grow out of it soon. Though she displayed more intelligence than either Chadwick or Chester, she was far more likely to say the precise things I didn't want to hear.

"No, that is not the fever. I worry about leaving you all." I stood and ruffled my sister's hair.

Chynella ducked away, as if anyone could make her hair any messier than its natural state. "Charles is married now and everything is fine."

"Charles lives a mere five minutes walk away, and we dine with his family twice each moon. I, on the other hand, will not be able to afford to visit from Deepbloom nearly so often." I said the words casually, as if I had convinced myself there was nothing to fear. As if being in another city was the most significant obstacle.

"You had better get the parsley right now, or else Mister Douglas will never take you and then you will be stuck with us forever!"

I made another playful grab for my sister's hair, but Chynella skipped away, almost knocking a stack of embroidered cotton sheets to the floor. "Be careful, Chynella. If you break something valuable I might have to steal you away to work as my housemaid." Though the rebuke was serious, the threat was not.

"Mother would never allow that, she needs me too much!" Chynella stepped into the hallway. I followed closely. Arguing further would be futile, and I certainly did not mind helping in this way. It was a minor nuisance, but family came first. Besides that, I did not wish to be responsible for delaying a meal.

"No shouting, Chynella," Mother called from her bedroom. "If you fail to learn to moderate your voice, you will be fit for nothing but herding goats."

"That is not true," I whispered. "Goats are frightened by loud noises. There must be other far more suitable callings than being a goatherd." I tried to sound certain of that, but I had my doubts. It was impossible to miss the fact that loud women were in very low demand.

"Sorry, Mother," Chynella called down the hallway, being more careful not to shout.

The conversation was clearly derailed, so I grabbed my bonnet, a pair of scissors to cut the parsley, and a small wicker basket to carry it. Since I would not be outside for long, and the evening breeze had not yet begun, I decided that I wouldn't need a jacket. After ensuring the bonnet's ribbons were securely tied, I affixed my own miniature crossbow to the sash of my dress and slipped out the back door of the off-red brick farmhouse. Though I had expected to remain indoors, this was still all quite normal.