Free All the Truth That's in Me by Julie Berry

earth; I hear the grunt as you heave the clay behind you and plunge the spade again. Hearts must wait while a grave is dug so Tobias Salt, the miller’s son, can be laid to his earthly rest.
    I would hate her for your sake, but how can I not love her now?
I would shout that Leon’s a lesser man if I could, but thank God Maria does not know it.
    XVI.
    “Miss Finch,” you say, seeing me in the street. We are back to formality. “Did you see Darrel safely home last night?”
    I swallow and nod. Yes.
“All by yourself?”
Yes.
You clap your hand on my shoulder and squeeze it, like you would do to one of your men. For they are your men, now. Then you drop your hand in some embarrassment.
    “He’s lucky to have a sister like you,” he says. “Lucky you were there to look out for him.”
I watch your back as you walk away. You know that’s not the reason I was there.
You know I brought your father to the battle and yet you say nothing about it. My fate, my reputation, are in your hands. I can trust your honor like no one else’s.
If I thought I could never love you more, I didn’t understand you well enough.
    XVII.
    The sun rises high. I can find no more excuse to linger. You’ve gone back to the gorge for more search and recovery. I heard someone say there were fears of stray homelanders who had left their ships before . . . The thought went unfinished. No one, it seems, has told the village all that happened last night.
    But you are gone, and the skeletal families who are here in town are closeted together to cry or celebrate, so I let my feet carry me home to Mother and Darrel. Halfway there, I realize I’ve forgotten the wheelbarrow. I leave it. It will give me a reason to return.
    Darrel is awake when I return. Mother sits beside him on his bed, spooning soup into his mouth. He wears the face he’s perfected through the years whenever he was ill, the mask of tragic suffering, which melts Mother like pig fat.
    But this time his injuries are real. Mother changes bandages on his red, swollen foot. The wound is ghastly, fractured bones poking out, and the angry red streaks on his skin look ready to burst.
    “Did you see any sign of Melvin Brands?” Mother asks.
    I stop to think. No, I didn’t, not this morning in town, nor yesterday, either. He’s Roswell Station’s nearest thing to a physician, so we call him “Doctor.” He’ll want to drain Darrel’s foot, I know, and bleed him, if he himself is not dead at the bottom of the river.
    “Was he there yesterday, Darrel?” Mother asks. Darrel nods his head yes.
So many injured, what if our doctor is dead? He shouldn’t have gone to battle.
“What about Horace Bron?”
Neither of us knew where the blacksmith was.
“I need to dose your brother,” Mother says. “Sit a while and feed him while I get it ready.”
So I feed my brother until the bowl is empty. He clasps my wrist with a sweaty hand. His lips mouth the words, “Not Horace Bron.”
When the village has a need for one, Horace does the amputations.
    XVIII.
    I go outside to see Phantom. I bring her a handful of apples, then take her out for some exercise. We have a fenced pasture for our cow, so I let Phantom run there. She shows me what she thinks of our fence by vaulting it easily. Her prance, her delicate steps, and the way her mane ripples down her neck enthrall me. To have such grace of movement!
    Phantom leaps back over the fence and slows to a walk, examining the grazing. I watch her for a while.
A scream rends the air. I run for the house. Mother is forcing Darrel’s foot into a saltwater bath. For a whiskeyed invalid, he’s putting up a strong fight.
“Help me,” Mother growls through gritted teeth. “Don’t touch me, Worm,” Darrel yells.
These two have made each other what they are, and it’s tempting to pull up a chair and watch the battle from a safe distance. What to do? Do I have an allegiance? Mother knows her business when it comes to wounds. If Darrel’s foot has any