Well, I says, you ain’t wrong.

The mill’s in a dip of a valley, on the shouty little river called the Don. The old waterwheel creaks its way around, like a crone with a bone complaint. The mill’s greenly damp an ancient. The millstone rumbles inside. A white cloud of flour billows from a window.

Jack ushers Mercy up the steep stone steps. Ages of feet have worn ’em to a friendly sag in the middle. She holds tight to the rope handrail. I follow behind an glance at the river below. It’s so clear I can see the stones of its bed. They gleam pale an round as faces. Long strands of weed stream around them like hair.

My heart slams in my chest. I grab the rail. Lean over to look. There. In the water. Lyin on the riverbed.

The current combs weed through her long wild hair.

My mother.

In the water.

Dead.

She lies, whitely dead, in her bed of pale stones.

Eyes closed.

A smile on her lips.

Like she froze while she dreamed of roses.

An I lie with her.

Me.

I’m there.

Cradled in her arms,

asleep.

Flushed with life,

a smile on my lips,

clasped in my dead mother’s arms.

I rear back. My breath chokes in my throat.

Jack’s halfways through the door. Wavin me on, wonderin why I’m laggin. C’mon, would you? He sees my face. What is it?

With a gasp, I look agin. Pale round stones pave the waterfloor. Weed strands wave an weave. She’s gone. I’m gone. Not jest gone, never there.

Are you okay? he says.

I nod.

When the dead grace my days as well as my nights, it’s a sign of my unquiet soul. But then … maybe I’m jest tired. I didn’t sleep. That’ll be it. That’s all it was.

Saba, says Jack. They’re waitin.

I straighten up. I try a smile. I’m comin, I says.

The great millstones have groaned to a halt. Their rumble still shudders in the air. Inside, a heavy mist of fine white flour drifts an sifts to the floor. As we pass through the millroom, we send it whirlin an dancin. Jack leads the way up a ladder in the corner, through a hatch to a room in the rooftop of the mill. It’s small an seems crammed full of bodies. But there’s only six of ’em. We three make it nine. The floor’s bin cross-boarded so’s the flour cain’t sift through the cracks. A breeze trickles through a open window.

There’s Vain Ed, the miller. Dusted flour-white from curls to boots. Handsome as george an none too bright. A mousy Steward couple, Manuel an Bo, with the quartered circle brands on their foreheads. Skeet, a runaway slave with a scarified face. His eyes fly to the pale skin that collars Mercy’s neck. They seek out the long double x brands on her arms. You can jest make ’em out through her threadbare sleeves. Skeet an Juneberry—JB fer short—seem to be together. I’d say they’re ages with Mercy. Skinny an tough with long hair matted into ropes, they smell of sweat an earth, of the woods they roam in secret.

From Jack, I know that JB’s one of the last resisters of the Clearance. Some fled, like the folk at the Snake River camp. Some got killed fightin fer their patch. A few, like JB, took to the forest. Treedogs, they’re called. Livin high among the branches, movin swiftly on foot to make trouble fer the Stewards who stole their land. Most of ’em’s bin caught. Like Slim’s friend, Billy Six, spiked to a post.

An there’s Cassie. I bin dreadin this. Meetin her. I should of done it ages ago. Right away after Bram got killed. Instead I shirked it like the coward I am. I don’t dare glance her way. She’s perched at a open window with her arms crossed tight. But I feel her eyes burnin holes in me.

I speak my piece. The same kinda things I said to my Free Hawks. How New Eden’s built upon fault lines. If we got them to shift, DeMalo’s whole project would come crashin down.

Kill DeMalo, his whole project crashes down, says Jack.

Jack an me disagree on this point, I says. I don’t say he ain’t right. But that way leads to bloodshed. Not jest DeMalo’s, probly all of ours an then some. Look, what I mean is … at the moment we’re actin like DeMalo’s power is somethin solid, like a mountain, to be chipped at with guns an bombs. The fact is, everybody in New Eden is the mountain. He stands on top of it.

Explain that, says Jack.

Okay, I says. What does DeMalo need to carry out his plan to heal the earth? One. He needs labour. The Stewards to work the land. The slaves to build the roads an do the work that breaks backs. Two. It’s a plan fer the generations, not jest a few years. That’ll take a steady stream of labour. So the Stewards hafta produce children an keep on producin them. Three. He needs the slaves an the Stewards to stay here an do what he decrees without question, so he needs the Tonton to enforce his will. He needs a helluva lotta people. Every single one of ’em makes up the mountain. His power depends on them completely. If they decide not to be that mountain no more, he’ll have nowhere to stand. He’ll fall. If even one bit shifts, the whole thing starts to weaken.

Jack listens. He takes it in, every word. I cain’t tell if he’s surprised that this is where my thoughts an feelins was leadin me. What fell into place as I rode alone from the bunker to Starlight Lanes. So clearly that I believe it’s bin whisperin in me fer some time, only I was too busy fightin to hear it. I cain’t tell what he thinks. It’s a far cry from a plot to kill DeMalo.

As fer the rest of ’em, they stand aginst the walls, not lookin at me even once. With closed faces an probly closed ears. They couldn’t make it more obvious. They’re only here as a favour to Jack. Their loyalty lies with Cassie. Her man, Bram—their friend an leader—is dead thanks to me.

If I don’t win her over, I got no chance with them. An I need their insider knowledge of the Stewards. But right now it don’t look good. Not at all.

Cassie stares at me with naked despisal. Unlike the rest, she ain’t took her eyes offa me. Not fer a second. She fills the air with such black hatred that I feel it closin around me. As I speak, I can feel myself gittin redder an redder in the face. I start to think how stupid I sound. How stupid I must look. My lips dry an I git more an more unsettled till I’m fumblin an mixin my words. An it ain’t jest me. They’re all shiftin, uncomfortable. Vain Ed elbows open another window.

Jack warned she’d be rough on me. I espected it. Figgered I even deserve it. But still. I ain’t never bin flayed by ill will before. An I’m shocked at the change in her. Grief’s clawed her soft round face. Gnawed the smile from her lips. Her pretty brown hair used to hang loose an wavy. Now it’s scraped back, knotted tight, like a punishment. The circle brand on her forehead stands out starkly.

You got the power, I says. He can only rule if you let him. If you do what he says. If you stay obedient. D’you see?

I stumble to a finish. To thick silence.

Cassie curls her mouth in scorn. Fault lines, she says. Mountains. The mountain crumbles, DeMalo falls, an we all join hands an dance in the sun. Who’d of thought it could be so easy?

All right, I says. Tell me this. What’s the one thing about this place that bothers the Stewards most? One of DeMalo’s rules that people don’t unnerstand or believe to be unjust. They might not say it, but they think it, feel it in their hearts to be unfair.

Silence. Mercy’s eyes go around the room. They stop on Bo, the plain-faced Steward girl. She’s lookin sidewise at her man. Manuel with the wispy beard. They bin huddled together, eyein me like I’m some creature they bin warned not to approach. I only jest now notice—Bo’s got the tiniest start of a baby belly. She looks at me.