Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Angelina Auburn bit back her frustration as she knelt down on the bank of a small river with an armful of empty canteens to fill. She had been hoping this could be a quick, efficient stop to refill and water the horses — she was eager to reach the next town on their route and sleep under a real roof tonight — but as the rest of the Covey poured out of the wagons and began spreading out across the clearing, that hope was crushed. 

Josie Pine, her closest friend among the Covey, was caring for the horses as they drank, cleaning their hooves and plucking ticks from their skin. She had always had a special fondness for the animals, having grown up on a ranch until she was orphaned and taken in by the Covey at age 12. She spoke to the horses as though they were old friends who could understand her words completely.

Angelina Auburn groaned as she heard the jaunty sound of the banjo plucking out the tune to “Shady Grove.” They would not be leaving anytime soon. Sometimes, she felt like this family would fall apart in a day without her taking care of the things everyone else was too carefree to bother with.

Her cousin, Katy Fern, began dancing, spinning her young daughter Jubilee Canary like they were in a line dance. The little girl’s bright yellow dress flowed outward as she twirled. Katy Fern sang along to the banjo, Jubilee Canary mumbling along, pretending to know the lyrics.

Cheeks as red as a bloomin’ rose,

Eyes of the prettiest brown,

She’s the darlin’ of my heart,

Sweetest little girl in town.

Angelina Auburn pointedly avoided looking as the rest of the band stretched their legs, exploring the new surroundings, though it scarcely looked any different from the terrain they’d been traveling for the past few weeks: the rivers cutting through mountains covered in conifers that looked fearsome dry but survived nevertheless. The air in this region had an ever-present aroma of smoke in the summer from the incessant wildfires, which, ironically, was quite a pleasant fragrance, provided you were far enough away that the fumes did not spark a coughing fit. 

Angelina Auburn had always had a fondness for the great redwoods of the Northwest. They were older than the Collapse, too old to be bothered by any drought or fire, and grew taller than any other tree in the forest. Those noble trees stood proud, and they seemed to have a wisdom that Angelina Auburn wished she could understand.

One feature of the landscape that caught everyone’s attention was the giant abandoned city, whose collapsing skyline rose even above the forest, dwarfing any city the Covey had ever visited. The metal buildings could only have been constructed before the Collapse, with their precious materials and superhuman heights. Angelina Auburn couldn’t imagine how many people had once lived there; the infrastructure seemed to stretch out in every direction, far as the eye could see. But this city, despite all its splendor, was deserted, like so many others. Whether due to wildfires, flooding, famine, or distance from fresh water, nearly every old city had been abandoned, their surviving inhabitants fleeing in search of some greener pasture that did not exist.

Angelina Auburn tore her eyes from the sight and carried the filled canteens back to their covered wagons, which were painted with a beautiful sky blue mural dotted with a flock of birds; each member of the Covey, past and present, was represented by a bird painted in their name color. The wagons now sat empty, save for some instruments, and the giant sacks of cornmeal, dried beans, and oats they had bought in the last town they visited. With 14 bellies (not to mention 5 horses) to feed, they went through it rapidly. 

As Angelina Auburn passed by, Katy Fern paused her singing to call after her, “Hold up!” Katy Fern bounded over to her, her long blonde waves bouncing as she danced to the music. She untangled her green canteen from Angelina Auburn’s collection and took a quick swig. “Thanks,” she said with her signature darling smile. 

“No problem,” Angelina Auburn grumbled, taking the canteen back from her. As she looped the canteens back on their hooks inside the wagons, she felt a tug on her multi-colored patchwork skirt. She turned to see Jubilee Canary bouncing behind her.

“Come dance with us!” she shouted, despite standing not a foot away from her. She grabbed Angelina Auburn’s hand and began pulling, attempting to drag her over to their improvised dance floor.

“Yeah, come on, Ange!” Katy Fern agreed. By the rising seas, her daughter really was a carbon copy of her. But the dimpled smile creasing Jubilee Canary’s golden brown skin was difficult to resist, and it lifted her — only slightly — from her bitter mood.

“I’ll do you one better,” Angelina Auburn said, slipping free of Jubilee Canary’s grip for a moment to reach further into the wagon and pull out her fiddle. 

“Silk and sunbeams!” the little girl said. Angelina Auburn chuckled as she lifted her fiddle, brushed her auburn hair out of the way, and began to play along to the tune. 

Soon enough, the whole crew was singing along, and Angelina Auburn felt the music cleansing her, all of her negative emotions flowing out of her as she moved the bow along the strings in time with her relatives’ singing.

Shady Grove, my little love,

Shady Grove, I know,

Shady, Shady, my little love,

I’m bound for Shady Grove.

As the song came to a close, several of the Covey began moving back toward the wagon, and Angelina Auburn had the fleeting hope that they might be on their way soon, until Jubilee Canary bounded up to Willie Sienna, Angelina Auburn’s older brother, and demanded, “Now do my name ballad!”

Willie Sienna gave a crooked smile as he leaned down toward her over his guitar — a far distance to reach at his considerable height. “How could I say no to you, sugar?” he asked, ruffling his fingers through her light brown curls. Jubilee Canary protested, swatting at his hands and running away from him, but as soon as the first note sounded, she was singing along with little doo doo doo’s. Jubilee Canary made her way back to her mother, but Katy Fern had now taken her younger child, Andrew Lilac, back from their mamaw and was breastfeeding, so Jubilee Canary looked around with a pout, seeking out a dance partner.

Eventually, her eyes landed on Josie Pine, leading the horses back from the stream. “Josie Pine!” she hollered. “Come spin me!”

Josie Pine smirked in response, letting go of the leads and prancing over to join the young girl. “Yes, ma’am,” she said, grabbing Jubilee Canary by both hands. They both began to sing, but Jubilee Canary quickly abandoned that for crazed giggles as she went airborne, whirled around in circles by Josie Pine.

It’s all out on the old railroad,

All out on the sea.

All out on the old railroad,

Far as I can see.

Swing and turn, Jubilee.

Live and learn, Jubilee.

Angelina Auburn smiled in spite of herself at the joy her young niece exuded. The midday sun filtered through the trees; everything it landed on glowed a vibrant yellow that warmed Angelina Auburn’s skin — and her spirit, just a bit.

***

They did not make it to the town that night. They pulled back onto old Highway 287 after nearly an hour of frivolity, at which point Angelina Auburn came to terms with the fact that they would be sleeping in the great outdoors tonight. At least the weather was nice enough that they could rest under the stars tonight, with the piney smell of the forest to lull them to sleep, instead of piled inside and underneath the wagon, as they frequently did.

Angelina Auburn was lying on a bed mat between Josie Pine and Willie Sienna, packed in like sardines. Her brother was tossing and turning in a most irritating fashion, as he did most nights in his attempts to fall asleep — the spot beside him on the bed mat was always the least sought-after. Angelina Auburn caught an elbow in her side and finally snapped.

“Willie Sienna!” she hissed. 

“Sorry,” he replied drowsily.

“I swear, getting a good night’s sleep next to you is about as likely as a goose laying golden eggs.”

Josie Pine giggled at that. 

“You can’t sleep either, little Miss Josie Pine?” Willie Sienna asked, apparently now fully woken. He rolled onto his side and rested his head on his hand so he could face them.

“I ain’t said all that,” she said, and Angelina Auburn could hear the smile in her voice. “Maybe I just like watching the stars on a clear summer night.”

Angelina Auburn, having lost any trace of fatigue she had left, glanced up at the sky as well, and caught a shooting star as she did. On that moonless night, she could see the whole galaxy from their little perch on this planet, peeking out through the sparse canopy. 

Willie Sienna sang lightly, practically a mumble, “Bright mooooornin’ staaaaars are riiiiisin’.” It was an old familiar tune that their mother, Isabel Bronze, sang to them when they were little, every time they saw a shooting star.

Josie Pine joined in with him, harmonizing. “Bright mooooornin’ staaaaars are riiiiisin’.”

With a reluctant smile, Angelina Auburn joined, too, and their volume grew slightly as she completed the harmony. “Bright mooooornin’ staaaaars are riiiiisin’.” Willie Sienna raised an eyebrow at her, surprised she was entertaining them, though his smile never left his face even as he sang. “Day is a-breakin’.”

“Hey, assholes,” Katy Fern shouted from across the way. “Day better not be a-breakin’ til I get a full night’s sleep. Understood?”

“Sorry, Katy Fern,” they all mumbled indistinctly and with no small tinge of embarrassment. But Josie Pine could not hold back her giggling for more than a few seconds, and soon a fit of uncontrollable laughter had taken over all three of them, until they exhausted their lungs and finally settled down enough for sleep to find them.

Chapter Text

The wagon hitched and rocked as they traveled along the bumpy old highway, its rickety wheels creaking. Nature had certainly reclaimed this section of the road, the invading tree roots creating hills and valleys all across the asphalt. It was making Angelina Auburn sick to her stomach. New roads were scarce, especially in a sparsely populated region such as this, so they stuck to the old paved roads as much as they could; they were more predictable, and thus less likely to end up detaching one of their wagons’ wheels as compared to dirt paths, which could be precarious depending on the season. 

Angelina Auburn glanced out the back of the wagon enviously from her crouched position between her uncle’s bass and her mother’s cello, toward where Josie Pine was riding her own horse, unbothered by the rough terrain, staring out with a concerned look at the smoke on the horizon. Josie Pine had taken that horse — Sunflower, she called him — from her family’s ranch after her parents’ deaths in a wildfire. He was the only trace of her home she had left, and Josie Pine treated him like kin. Angelina Auburn knew that riding a horse all day carried its own discomfort, but anything seemed better than the bile that currently threatened to rise in her throat. 

Eventually, Angelina Auburn crawled to the edge of the wagon. She did not bother to request a stop before hopping onto the rugged asphalt, struggling to keep her feet under her as she landed. She would need to hustle to keep pace with the wagons, but stretching her legs was sweet relief nonetheless. The heels of her embroidered leather boots clacked against the concrete, and her mother gave her a quizzical look from the driver’s seat, but she did not stop the horses. 

Even though they had two wagons, between the 14 Covey members and their myriad instruments, it was always a tight fit, and soon, Patrick Cardinal had followed her lead and hopped out of his wagon. 

“Nice day for a walk, huh, Ange?” Patrick Cardinal’s broad smile was charming as always, creasing his dark brown skin. The Covey had adopted Patrick Cardinal as a baby, along with his older brother John Indigo, but with his ever-joyful spirit and musical talent, you’d never guess he wasn’t a born Covey. Jackie Mulberry, his niece, hopped out of the wagon as well, but walked several feet away from them, taciturn as always.

“Yes, I just couldn’t resist a little stroll through nature.” She gestured to the gloomy forest encroaching on the paved road, the dry, dead leaves that were crumbling under their feet. There was a faint rotting smell emanating from the woods — perhaps a dead animal. Angelina Auburn had no interest in investigating.

“Y’all come to keep us company?” Josie Pine called from above them. Her two waist-length brown braids, into which she had woven an array of wildflowers, swayed with each step of her horse. Seated so high above them, the sun was able to reach her face over the shadows of the trees, shining on her light brown skin. “You know me and Sunflower get lonelier than the last of the red wolves out here.” Angelina Auburn smiled to hear the old Covey expression coming from Josie Pine’s lips; it was becoming a more and more frequent occurrence of late.

“You just consider us your rescue team, songbird,” Patrick Cardinal replied, patting the horse’s back.

Josie Pine opened her mouth to respond, but paused mid-breath and angled her head to the side, squinting her big brown eyes into slits. “Y’all see that on the side of the road?”

Angelina Auburn stepped to the right of the wagons, where a crumbling billboard revealed itself by the side of the road. Road signs rarely survived the frequent wildfires of the past century, not to mention the beastly winds this region experienced, and the Covey enjoyed making a game of their discovery.

“What do you think that is?” Patrick Cardinal asked, shaking his long kinky hair out of his face. Angelina Auburn was surprised John Indigo hadn’t yet insisted on cutting or at least braiding his brother’s unkempt hair again; he always fretted over Patrick Cardinal.

They approached the massive sign, which appeared to be the fading silhouette of a dinosaur against a sunset sky. Written in capital letters below it was a name Angelina Auburn had never heard before. 

“Wall Drug?”

“Oh, yeah…” Josie Pine said. “I seen one of these before. Though the last one was advertising hot coffee.”

“They got hot coffee and dinosaurs?” Patrick Cardinal asked. “I think we gotta pay these folks a visit.”

“Wonder what coffee tastes like,” Josie Pine mused, twirling the end of her braid.

“And you’ll keep wondering.” The dig came out a bit harsher than Angelina Auburn had intended, but after a second’s pause, all three of them burst into laughter. Joking was the only way they knew to cope with some of the less fortunate realities of the life of a starving artist — and, sure enough, it got the job done.

“Question is,” came Jackie Mulberry’s gruff voice from behind them, “what’s that back there?” Angelina Auburn followed her pointed finger toward a barely noticeable black smudge on the horizon; eagles would envy that girl’s eyes. 

“We should go investigate,” Angelina Auburn said, trying to project confidence. There were plenty of dangers the Covey encountered in their travels, and it was best to know one’s enemy. Angelina Auburn was happy to take on that responsibility for her family; she just had to convince her racing heartbeat of that. 

Jackie Mulberry hummed her agreement. Patrick Cardinal let out a sharp whistle, signaling the rest of the Covey in the wagons to stop. He went over to explain while Angelina Auburn and Jackie Mulberry began trekking up the grassy hill toward the mystery, Josie Pine riding along behind them.

The smell of burnt wood reached Angelina Auburn before she saw its source. Patrick Cardinal reached them just as they crested the hill that allowed them full view of the scene before them. 

The village had been reduced to ashes. The few houses that remained standing were husks of their former selves, a blackened foundation all that was left of them. Two ravens sat atop the crumbling wall of one house, their cawing nearly deafening in the hauntingly silent field. Josie Pine turned Sunflower without a word and raced away from the scene. Angelina Auburn knew she should go after her, but morbid curiosity pinned her feet to the ground.

“A wildfire?” she asked as she walked toward the nearest burnt house, heart in her stomach.

Jackie Mulberry shook her head. “Look at the grass, the trees. This was recent, by the smell of it. A wildfire would’ve taken out the whole area.”

“So… what does that mean? Someone burnt it down on purpose?” Angelina Auburn asked, her pitch rising more than she’d intended.

“I don’t know,” Patrick Cardinal said, eyes wide as he examined the damage. “I think we should get back to the wagons.”

“Agreed,” Angelina Auburn said. 

The three walked briskly back toward their families. When they arrived, Josie Pine was fastidiously tending to Sunflower’s mane. Her adoptive mother among the Covey, Charlotte Cornflower, was standing nearby speaking softly to her, a hand running absent-mindedly over the horse’s back. 

When they shared what they’d witnessed with the rest of the Covey, no one quite knew what to make of it. After some tense discussion, Isabel Bronze assured everyone that certainly it was just a house fire that spread before it could be extinguished, that the populace had migrated elsewhere to rebuild, and the rest of them were happy to accept that story. They continued on their way, wagons rolling down the dilapidated highway. Angelina Auburn trudged silently along behind them between Jackie Mulberry and Patrick Cardinal, shoving down her concerns over what they had seen. It was a house fire, nothing more. All the residents must have escaped — though, she realized with a sick feeling in her stomach, they had not stopped to check the burnt houses for bodies. She thought back to the ravens she had seen perched atop the burnt house and shivered. But she was being foolish. The Covey had come across countless ruins in their travels; it was nothing to fear.

Eventually, the wagons turned off the highway and began cutting through a grass field. Very few towns were built along paved roads these days; people built their homes where water was potable and soil was decent enough for farming. There were no markers that Angelina Auburn could see, but her mamaw, Cora Rose, was sitting up front directing them; she knew the Covey routes like the back of her hand. Her grandmother’s sense of direction never ceased to amaze her. But Angelina Auburn knew, at least, that it would not be long now until they reached their destination. 

Slogging through the tall, thick grass, Angelina Auburn took a running start and rushed to pull herself back onto the moving wagon. She nearly lost her grip and fell, but her father, Mateo, grabbed hold of her arm and yanked her into the cart with a chastising look. Faltering, she landed atop a sleeping Willie Sienna, who groaned dramatically upon impact, rolling onto his side and consequently shoving Angelina Auburn off of him. She landed sharply on her elbow and could instantly feel a bruise forming. (Embarrassingly, Patrick Cardinal and Jackie Mulberry had followed her into the wagon with ease.)

“Ow, what gives?” Willie Sienna grumbled, rubbing his eyes. A red line marred his warm brown skin, marking where his cheek had rested on his arm as he slept. His short crop of dark brown hair was even more mussed than usual.

“Your sister decided‌ she was an acrobat,” Mateo answered, “unfortunately for you, Sleeping Beauty.” 

“Sorry for trying to be selfless and not slow the rest of you down.”

“Yeah, real selfless of you to wake me from my nap.” Willie Sienna stretched his back and sat up. “And nearly break my spine.”

“Oh please, you’re fine.”

“I may look as dashing as ever,” he said, donning his signature felt hat, decorated with a bright blue ribbon that secured the tawny feathers of a red hawk, “but internally, I will never recover.”

“Shut up,” Angelina Auburn groaned.

“You two are far too old to be bickering like this,” their father cut in. “Both of you allow the rest of us some damned peace and quiet. Angelita, apologize to your brother.” 

“Sorry,” Angelina Auburn mumbled, hanging her head sheepishly. Her father always called her that nickname, Angelita, to soften whatever he was saying. He only knew a few words and phrases in Spanish — Angelina Auburn hardly knew anything about her Mexican ancestry, outside of the few times in her life the Covey’s paths had taken them that far south — but the name always felt special somehow.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mateo pick up her fiddle from where he had laid it on the ground beside him and begin tinkering with the chin rest using some small metal tool. Angelina Auburn had been complaining about the piece being loose, and her father had a knack for fixing things — seemingly anything, be it instruments, wagons, or whatever other broken item the Covey threw his way. As he worked, the sunlight streaming through the wagon’s opening highlighted his aquiline nose and warm brown skin, and his brow, furrowed in concentration. 

Angelina Auburn passed the time watching over Charlotte Cornflower’s shoulder as she sketched a picture of her daughter Jackie Mulberry, who sat with her legs hanging out the back of the wagon, playing “Billy in the Lowground” on her mandolin. Angelina Auburn could watch Charlotte Cornflower’s pencil streaking across that paper for hours, and she often did. Charlotte Cornflower was always drawing something or other, from landscapes to portraits of the rest of the Covey. It was mesmerizing to see how the image came together from nothing.

It was less than an hour before their destination came into sight. Charlotte Cornflower had just finished the portrait of her daughter and had moved on to sketching the outline of the town as they approached. New Wheatland was a small town of maybe 500 residents, one of many that had sprung up along the Missouri River — fishing and farming towns, mostly. Also one of many with the word “New” in its moniker, likely after the original town was burned through or flooded. 

As they neared, Willie Sienna pulled out his guitar, and Patrick Cardinal his banjo. The pair climbed to the back of the wagon, their feet hanging over the edge, and began plucking out lively tunes. Those two had been practically inseparable since infancy, and their music complemented each other quite well. Angelina Auburn’s uncle Samson Slate was diligently scribbling in his notebook, as he did in every town they entered, chronicling the Covey’s journeys in a transforming world. Once, when they were younger, she and Katy Fern had dug through his journal, hoping for something juicy, but it had read more like a history textbook than a diary, citing local populations, industries, and governmental organization.

Their wagons rolled through the narrow dirt road that made up this town’s main street. There was a decent smattering of people socializing, trading goods, or filtering in and out of the town’s one and only store, but every head turned in their direction as they passed by. New Wheatland, like most of the towns they visited, was not used to visitors. But several locals recognized them and gave welcoming smiles. 

Angelina Auburn’s mother, Isabel Bronze, pulled their horses to a halt and swung down from the wagon, her pale pink dress swishing with the motion. She approached a pair of older women on the street, pulling them from their conversation. “Hi there, ladies,” she said warmly.

“Hold on,” one of the women said excitedly, holding up a finger. “Don’t tell me.” Isabel Bronze gave her a quizzical look but remained courteously silent. After a moment, the woman snapped her fingers and pointed at Isabel Bronze with a satisfied look on her face. “The Covey!” she declared.

Isabel Bronze chuckled. “That’s right. I’m Isabel Bronze.” She stuck out a hand, which the old woman daintily shook. 

“Olivia,” she replied. Isabel Bronze shook the other woman’s hand, who introduced herself as Dianne.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Isabel Bronze said.

“So fancy!” Olivia laughed. “The pleasure is all mine, my dear.”

“We’re looking to perform tonight‌. Is that Miller fellow’s barn still the place to go?”

“In perfect shape.” Olivia nodded. 

“Wonderful. You wouldn’t mind helping us spread the word? We’ll only be in town one night.”

“Never you fear, my dear. I’m a very well-connected woman.”

Isabel Bronze grinned, her slender nose crinkling. “I’d suspected as much. We’ll see you tonight, then!” she said, climbing back onto the wagon. Angelina Auburn had always envied the skillful ease with which her mother interacted with people; she seemed able to create an immediate connection with anyone they came across, and to genuinely enjoy doing so. Angelina Auburn, more often than not, shut up like a clam when confronted by strangers.

The Covey traveled only a short distance longer before pulling their wagon over and piling out onto the dirt road, just across from the lone store. The little ones were already running around, and the rest of them began pulling their instruments out from the back. Katy Fern and Josie Pine quickly wandered down the road arm in arm, nearly skipping as they went. Those two always loved exploring and meeting new people — chattier than crows over carrion.

Angelina Auburn’s parents and her uncle Samson Slate headed off toward the barn to get their makeshift stage set up for the night. Angelina Auburn joined the remaining crew — John Indigo and his wife Charlotte Cornflower, their daughter Jackie Mulberry, Patrick Cardinal, and Willie Sienna — for a casual street performance to advertise their presence. While it was generally Katy Fern, not John Indigo, who served as their lead singer, she could never stay put for longer than the flap of a hummingbird’s wings once they entered a new town. 

“What are we thinking, folks?” Patrick Cardinal asked.

“Maybe… Samson and Delilah?” Willie Sienna proposed, already beginning to pluck out the tune on his guitar. Angelina Auburn rolled her eyes but lifted her fiddle and played along; there would be no denying her brother once he had a song in his heart. The short, quick strokes of her bow across the fiddle strings pulsed, creating a steady beat beneath the banjo’s melody. Soon, Jackie Mulberry’s mandolin and Willie Sienna’s guitar joined in.

John Indigo, leaning against the wall of the abandoned building they had parked in front of, began to sing.

If I had my way,

If I had my way,

If I had my way,

I would tear this whole building down.

Angelina Auburn had known John Indigo her whole life, but the powerful timbre of his voice never ceased to amaze her. He was always meek and quiet — his daughter Jackie Mulberry took after him in this regard — but now his voice resonated all throughout the street. The melody was beautiful and passionate, each note resonating within Angelina Auburn’s heart. John Indigo never did seem to know what to do with his hands while performing, though; currently, he had them clasped in front of his stomach and kept changing which hand lay on top.

People slowed as they passed by; several even stopped across the street to stand and watch. As the lyrics came to a close, they continued playing, and Willie Sienna crossed the dirt road toward the group, Patrick Cardinal following closely behind. 

“Come and join us tonight at Miller’s barn for an evening of music and merriment!” Patrick Cardinal announced, wandering through the small crowd they had gathered.

Willie Sienna approached a young woman who had been watching the show and began speaking to her, too low for Angelina Auburn to hear. The girl had long dark hair that fell from her bun in loose curls, and she wore what appeared to be work clothing: undyed trousers and shirt that were notably dirt-stained. She blushed and smiled shyly as Willie Sienna spoke to her, tucking a curl behind her ear, and they talked back and forth for a few minutes. 

Angelina Auburn rolled her eyes; her brother was so predictable. Ever the charmer, in practically every town they visited he would find a new young woman to flirt with and have her practically swooning over him in minutes.

Eventually, Willie Sienna paused his playing — which had grown monotonous, anyhow, what with his being distracted by the pretty girl in front of him — and reached out to press a kiss to the back of the girl’s hand, making her turn even redder.

“We’ll see you tonight,” he called back to her as he started back toward the Covey, an idiotic grin on his face. Angelina Auburn shot him a disparaging look, and he gave her shoulder a shove in response. 

“Don’t be bitter, Angelina Auburn,” he taunted. “You can’t stop young love.”

“Oh, you donkey,” she said, raising her fiddle above her head as if to bash him with it. 

“Alright, alright, mercy!” he crowed, mockingly raising his hands above his head. Angelina Auburn lowered her weapon, and as they relaxed and began to play again, Willie Sienna fixed his eyes back across the street, where the young woman still lingered. Jackie Mulberry rolled her eyes at the display, turning her focus back to her mandolin. Angelina Auburn lifted her fiddle and joined in her playing, preparing for their coming show.

Chapter Text

Katy Fern followed Josie Pine into the small store, “Lynette’s Lost and Found” painted in white on a wooden sign above the door. A few drops of paint had trickled down the sign and dried that way, leaving white streams forever trailing down from the letters. 

A hundred or more unique items packed the shelves inside the store, making it difficult to focus on any one thing. Some were tools for farming or carpentry — which would be difficult to manufacture in a town like this — some were household supplies, and several others seemed to serve no purpose beyond decoration. Many of the products looked old and worn down; some even looked like they could have been manufactured before the Collapse. A musty odor permeated the store, like moldy wood and rat droppings.

Katy Fern’s eyes wandered toward the middle-aged woman — Lynette, presumably — who sat behind a wooden counter, leaning on her elbows. She squinted at them as they entered.

“Who are you?” she barked. 

Josie Pine glanced sidelong at Katy Fern, frowning at the woman’s acerbity, so she took the lead. She stepped up to the counter and said in her signature cheery tone, “We’ve just arrived in town; we’re with the Covey. I’m Katy Fern, and this is Josie Pine.” Katy Fern extended her hand over the counter and held it there for an uncomfortable amount of time before accepting that the woman would not shake it. 

“I take barters and I take pure metal currency, and nothing else,” she said flatly. 

“Got it,” Katy Fern nodded. Josie Pine had begun to browse, filtering through a shelf of trinkets, but Katy Fern did not have an inclination to be trapped in this shop with Lynette and her wares any longer. She was about to suggest an unceremonious exit when she heard the creak of the old wooden door swinging open, and two well-dressed but dirt-stained men walked in. Katy Fern retreated back toward Josie Pine.

“It’s all a mess,” one man said as he strode straight toward the wall where an array of rusty tools hung. “Half as many traders coming through town this month. What, does half of the world just not eat anymore?”

“I hear the problem is coming from out east,” the other responded from the neighboring aisle. “The cities out there all unified, took over a ton of land — farming their own grain now. They’ve been my biggest buyers for years.”

Josie Pine’s whole body tensed up like a statue as she listened intently to the men’s conversation. They were talking about her homeland, Katy Fern realized. She took a protective step toward Josie Pine.

“Mine too.” The man sighed. “Well, let’s just hope the food lasts long enough in the silo to see that empire crumble.” He walked up to the counter and laid a long metal implement before the sour store-owner.

“I got two sacks of flour to trade you for it.”

Lynette tutted. “You know two bags ain’t gonna cut it no more.”

As the man entreated her to accept his offer, Katy Fern approached the other man, who was aimlessly waiting for his companion to check out, spinning the metal wheel he had picked up between his hands.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said, attempting her most charming smile. He turned and studied her, his eyes roaming her from head to toe in a way that made her want to crawl out of her skin. 

“What can I do for you, sweetheart?” he asked, flashing a crooked-toothed smile.

“I couldn’t help overhearing you earlier,” Katy Fern said, taking a small step toward the nearest shelf as if it would hide her. “I was wondering if you had any more information about what’s going on out east. My family’s heading that way soon.”

“Sure thing. My business has been growing rapidly, so I’ve got plenty of trading partners all across the region.” The man even puffed out his chest a little as he bragged, and Katy Fern resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “I got a friend who trades along the old railroads, mostly food for the big cities out that way. Told me about a new country forming, called Panem.” 

Katy Fern frowned. Last time they had passed through Panem, it had been operating as an independent city-state. Far wealthier than most places they visited, but otherwise no different from any other city.

“Apparently, the expansion effort has gotten pretty nasty. Lot of bodies piling up, and Panem’s got all sorts of new weapons they’ve been experimenting with.” He smiled at her once more, though Katy Fern was too overcome by fear to even attempt to reciprocate. She could feel Josie Pine listening to their conversation, and Katy Fern worried about the impact this information would have on her. 

“Be careful out there,” the man continued. “Wouldn’t want anything happening to that pretty face.”

She forced a small laugh through gritted teeth. “Thank you so much. You’ve been a huge help.” She sensed that he would try to extend the interaction, so she quickly turned and caught Josie Pine’s eye, gesturing toward the door. Josie Pine gave a small nod, and Katy Fern took her arm as they left the stuffy store. “Y’all have a nice day, now!” she called back through the closing door.

Katy Fern shot Josie Pine a worried glance as they walked away. Josie Pine had always felt like a younger sister to her, ever since she’d joined the Covey. John Indigo and Charlotte Cornflower — Katy Fern’s cousin — had taken her in and treated her like she was their own, but she would always come to Katy Fern with the fun stuff, like gossip and crushes. But right now was not a time for light-hearted conversation.

“Are you alright?” Katy Fern asked hesitantly.

Josie Pine nodded, chin held high. “Yeah. Fine.”

“I’m sure it’s not a big deal. Territory changes hands all the time out here.”

“I know. Besides, it’s not like I have anything left in Poison Creek to be concerned over.” She said it so matter-of-factly, like it was meant to be a comfort to her, but the darkness underlying the statement struck Katy Fern.

“Okay. Just, if you want to talk about it—”

“I don’t.” Her tone was not harsh, but firmer than Katy Fern had ever heard her. She immediately looked remorseful. “I’m fine. Really,” she said with a soft smile. “It’s old news. Don’t make a lick of difference to me no more. I’m one of the Covey now. We deal with things together, as a family.”

“You’re damn right.” Katy Fern squeezed her closer into her side. Though she didn’t believe the performance, she would not press the issue — for now. Let them try to enjoy their day on the town.

They slowed as they neared an older man who sat on the street whistling to himself, leaning up against an old abandoned house; there were many such dilapidated buildings everywhere the Covey went, since famine and disease had wiped out such a great portion of the population. Beside him was a large wicker basket. He smiled kindly up at them as they approached, showing off the few teeth that remained to him.

“Good afternoon!” Josie Pine greeted him, with no trace of the emotional tumult from only a few minutes ago.

The man chuckled and replied, “Well, hello there, sunshine! Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” Katy Fern took in the flowers braided into Josie Pine’s dark hair, her bright purple dress that flounced with every step she took, and couldn’t help but agree with the man’s assessment.

“Mind if we join you?” Katy Fern asked. 

The old man simply gestured with his hands to the empty space beside him. Katy Fern sat nearer to him, positioning herself between Josie Pine and the stranger; she loved meeting new people, and she believed everyone had some good in their heart, but she was also not so naive as to blindly trust the safety of a young woman among strangers. 

“I’m Josie Pine.”

“Katy Fern,” she introduced herself. “We’re Covey.” 

“Ah, so that’s the rest of your crew down there, then?” He gestured to the rather raucous street performance; their kin were now mingling among the small crowd they had gathered, playing music and encouraging people to sing along. 

“That’s us!” Josie Pine agreed, giving a tight-lipped smile.

“Well, if that’s the warmup, I look forward to seeing the real performance.” The old man laughed again, the sound like an old engine desperately trying to start up, but it was such a jovial sound that Katy Fern did not mind the shock to her ears. “I’m Johnathan.”

“We’ve got a John in our group, too: John Indigo. Right over there.” Josie Pine squinted one eye as she pointed toward where her adoptive father leaned up against a wall, singing. He wore flowing pants of his namesake color — it complemented his dark skin nicely, bringing out its warm undertones — and a striped collared shirt, whose buttons he was fiddling with as he sang. “You know the Ballad of John Henry?”

Johnathan shook his head. “Can’t say I do.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll be hearing it yet,” Josie Pine said quickly, words tumbling out of her mouth like water through a broken dam, as she often did when attempting to distract herself. The accent that she still carried from her upbringing in the Midwest resembled the dialect out here much more than the Covey’s; she sounded right at home talking with Johnathan. “We could perform that one tonight, couldn’t we, Katy Fern?” 

“Sure as a robin in spring,” she said with a single nod.

“Anyway, that’s his namesake, John Henry.”

The old man nodded, seemingly not knowing how to respond to the barrage of information. Instead, he lifted the basket from his side and placed it in front of them: it was teeming with bright red strawberries that looked as fresh as a dangling pawpaw. It was a wonder he had made it all the way from wherever he farmed these without spilling half of them.

“Please, girls, help yourselves.”

“You’re certain?” Katy Fern asked hesitantly, even as the sight set her stomach to growling.

“That’s why I came to town today. Gotta get rid of these before they spoil.”

“We’re certainly happy to help you get the job done!” Josie Pine said, grabbing a handful of berries. Katy Fern followed, trying to maintain some semblance of restraint, though she understood Josie Pine’s eagerness; fruit was sparse this early in the year, and it had been a long while since they’d tasted a fresh berry.

“Boy, I don’t think I’ve ever met a farmer who had this much food to spare,” Katy Fern said with a friendly smile. “You must have quite the green thumb.”

A sad look crossed Johnathan’s face. “Well, matter of fact, I lost my wife earlier this year. Fewer mouths to feed back home anymore.”

“I’m so sorry,” Josie Pine murmured. “How did it happen?”

“A fever that just wouldn’t pass.”

Katy Fern nodded, a familiar pain returning to her. “That’s how I lost my mother.” She could still remember that illness that had swept through their family, remember the image of her mother in her sickbed, all color drained from her face, as the Covey watched the life slowly leave her till there was nothing left. She shivered, and Josie Pine placed a hand on her arm.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Johnathan said. “Someone so young shouldn’t have to face such a thing.”

“Death don’t care how old you are,” Josie Pine said, staring down at the strawberry in her hand. “It comes for us all.” Katy Fern studied her, and she saw that far-off look that meant Josie was lost in her memories. She leaned closer to the girl on instinct, unsure of what comfort she could offer and feeling guilty for pulling out such painful memories for her for the second time that day.

“That it does,” Johnathan agreed. “But I’m sorry, girls. I seem to have put a real damper on our afternoon.”

“Not at all,” Katy Fern said, shooting the old man a sad smile. “What was your wife like?”

Johnathan gave a toothy grin that made him look much younger. “Most beautiful girl you ever seen. We met when we were… probably about as young as you are now,” he nodded to Josie Pine, “back when her family fled here from the West Coast. I nearly fell right over first time I saw her. She had eyes so dark you could hardly tell she had any pupils, and curly hair that she could never manage to tame.” Johnathan chuckled. “Always puffing out in a giant halo around her head. But it was her smile that got me. She looked over at me, this scrawny little farm boy who shouldn’t have been worth two cents to a girl like her, and she smiled so big and bright it made me feel like the sun itself had landed right in front of me.”

“She sounds lovely,” Josie Pine said, a glimmer in her eyes that matched Johnathan’s.

“She was.” He glanced down at the basket before them, running his hand around the rim. “Strawberries were her favorite. She always made strawberry cakes around this time of year, and my boys would tear through them all before they’d even had time to cool.”

“I love strawberry cakes,” Josie Pine said with a wide grin on her face.

Katy Fern smiled sadly. “My mama made the best fruitcakes. You’d’ve liked them, Jose, if you ever got to meet her. Even on the road, with nothing but an iron pan and a wood fire, she’d throw together whatever ingredients we had lying around the back of the wagon and work some kind of witchcraft.” Katy Fern sighed, lip quivering as she held back her tears. Josie Pine laid a hand on her arm and squeezed tightly. “I miss those cakes. There was nothing my mama liked better than bringing a smile to everybody’s face. That’s just who she was: selfless to her core.”

Katy Fern inhaled deeply and shook her head, regaining her composure. “But we should be getting back to our folks, yeah, Jose? Start pulling our weight.” Josie Pine gave a tentative nod, and Katy Fern pushed herself to her feet, extending a hand to Josie Pine.

“Thank you, Johnathan, for the company. And for the strawberries,” she said, though she had completely lost her appetite. “It’s been a real pleasure meeting you.” She reached out a hand, which Johnathan shook with a firm grip. Josie Pine followed suit.

“You, too,” he said, beaming. “You take care now.”

Josie Pine smiled at the old man and looped her arm through Katy Fern’s, and they walked back toward the rest of the Covey, in a far more solemn mood than they had left in. Katy Fern was torn between reliving her grief for her mother and worrying over the ominous developments the man in the store had informed her of. When little Jubilee Canary ran up to her, however, Katy Fern plastered on a smile and lifted her into the air, spinning her in a circle to the sound of delighted giggles. 

“Give me one minute, baby,” she said as she set her down, before Jubilee Canary could launch into one of her long-winded stories. “You just keep charming the locals.” She brushed the curls out of Jubilee Canary’s face before sending her on her joyful way, where she quickly approached a group of local children playing in the grass. Then she sought out Cora Rose. She would know what to do; she always did.

As she looked around for her mamaw, she heard a familiar voice calling her name.

“Hey, Katy Fern! Come join us,” Willie Sienna said with a cajoling smile. “We need you for a song.”

“Willie Sienna’s trying to impress a girl,” Patrick Cardinal teased.

“Please,” he scoffed, “I don’t need any help to do that. I just had a hankering to play ‘Silver Dagger,’ and no one else can sing that one.”

Katy Fern opened her mouth to give her polite denial, but the pair could not seem to stop talking.

“Yeah, a hankering ‘cause it’s the most impressive song you can play.” 

“I will not abide this slander, Patrick Cardinal.”

“‘Slander’ would imply that that’s not the cold hard truth, my friend, and we both know —”

“Boys!” Katy Fern said, exasperated. They both turned to her with surprise on their faces. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be short with you. I just don’t have time for this right now.”

They left her in peace at that, shrugging and returning to their music, and Katy Fern finally spotted her target sitting at the edge of a wagon, playing with Andrew Lilac. “Mamaw!” she called out. Cora Rose looked up at her with a smile that squinted her hazel eyes, crows’ feet marking her many joyful years on this Earth. Katy Fern sat beside her, picking up her young son and placing him in her lap. 

“What’s troubling you?” Cora Rose asked with an appraising look. Katy Fern didn’t bother with pleasantries; her mamaw had an uncanny ability to read emotions and a complete lack of patience.

“I need to tell you something,” Katy Fern said with a heavy exhale, gently rubbing Andrew Lilac’s back as she spoke. “Josie Pine and I were talking to a trader in the store, and he was saying that it’s getting dangerous out east right now. He said that Panem is expanding, and the war has gotten really deadly.” The words tumbled out of her mouth in a rushed jumble that she hoped Cora Rose could follow. “What should we do? Is it still safe for us to go there? Should we change our route?” 

Andrew Lilac twisted in her arms, sensing her discomfort, and she bounced him on her leg in an attempt to calm the both of them.

Cora Rose stared ahead at nothing in particular and waited what felt like eons and ages before she finally responded. “We’ll continue on our planned route,” she said assuredly. Her confidence comforted Katy Fern, though she could not comprehend where she found it. “The Covey have passed through plenty of warring territories in the past. We don’t take sides, and the governments leave us in peace. We are here on this Earth to uplift people, and people in war-torn areas often need the most uplifting.”

Katy Fern nodded, grateful to her mamaw for reminding her of their purpose. “I understand,” she said, and forced herself to breathe out her fear as she stood, placing Andrew Lilac on her hip. “I just… I worry for our family.” She glanced down at Andrew Lilac. “For my children.”

Cora Rose smiled. “I know all too well the fear that comes with motherhood. There is no such thing as perfect safety in this world; we can’t live our lives in search of it. We can only live as ourselves, and do what we can to leave this troubled world a little better for the next generation.”

“Thank you, Mamaw.”

“Anytime. Now, you go get ready for our show tonight; I know how long it’ll take you and Josie Pine to get all dolled up.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Katy Fern said, standing and returning Andrew Lilac to the wagon. That, at least, was something she could do with confidence.

***

Her father, aunt, and uncle had done a remarkable job setting up a stage for them with so little time. The rest of the Covey gathered in the barn a few hours before sunset, and there discovered the makeshift wooden platform that they had placed on top of piled hay bales. They had beautified the barn as much as they could. The place was lit up with a hundred candles, hanging from an old chandelier that was noticeably out of place in a building designed to house manure. One of the Covey quilts hung as a tapestry behind the stage, and Katy Fern wondered what it was covering. Unfortunately, nothing could get rid of the musty smell of hay and rotting wood. 

Katy Fern practiced scales with John Indigo as the rest of the band was getting warmed up: Jackie Mulberry tuning her mandolin, Patrick Cardinal repeating rounds on his banjo. Cora Rose had set up a seat for herself on the edge of the barn just before the stage, with space for Katy Fern’s little ones, too. Mamaw wasn’t much for dancing these days, and the arthritis in her fingers kept her from playing her dulcimer for more than a song or two, but she always came to hear them play, and sometimes sing along. 

Everybody had dressed in their finest, brightest performance clothes. Katy Fern herself wore her deep green crocheted skirt that brought out the green of her eyes, a flowy pink top, and a flowery corset. Angelina Auburn had donned a fiery orange wrap dress with bell sleeves so wide they nearly hid her fiddle when she played. Patrick Cardinal wore dip-dyed blue pants with puffy white clouds spotting them. Altogether, they were a veritable rainbow on the stage.

The barn doors were opened wide, and soon enough, people started streaming in. Based on the look (and smell) of them, most were coming off a hard day’s work. One farmer brought a great big pitcher of moonshine, which they passed around as they mingled. Katy Fern took one sip and knew that she could not stand a second, but she thanked the farmer anyway. Willie Sienna spent the time imbibing heavily, chatting up a blushing young woman who wore a faded pink dress; her long, curly hair looked freshly styled, though it would not stay that way for long with the way she was twirling it between her fingers as they talked.

Eventually, enough people had filtered in to fully crowd the floor of the barn, and the Covey gradually made their way up to the stage. There was no microphone here, as there was no electricity, so they had set up their simple metal amplifier front and center, which would hopefully be sufficient for her to be heard through the clamor of the instruments. 

“Evening, everybody!” Katy Fern hollered, and she was greeted with some whoops and cheers in response. As soon as Katy Fern stepped on the stage, she felt herself overtaken by a different persona. It was as if she were playing a character when she performed — a character who had no troubles, who existed solely in a world of joy, without a hardship in sight. It was a comfort, which helped her to create the most beautiful music she could, even if it felt like a lie. Nevertheless, the smile on her face was genuine as she felt the excitement of the oncoming performance. 

“We sure are glad to be here with y’all tonight,” she continued. “And how about a round of applause for Mr. Miller for so generously providing us with our venue?” The cheers and clapping resumed, and Katy Fern could identify the old farmer by the ring of people surrounding him who reached over and gave him good-natured shoves or pats on the back. “Now, in case you’ve forgotten, we’re the Covey. My name’s Katy Fern Baird,” she said, then continued to introduce everybody on stage.

“Well, formalities out of the way,” she said finally, and paused for dramatic effect, “how ‘bout a song?”

The crowd cheered in response to that, the sound echoing throughout the barn. It seemed that almost the entire town had come tonight, and their combined voices were near deafening in the tight space. 

“This first song’s an old favorite of mine, ‘bout a poor little girl named Sadie. I hope you enjoy.” 

In that silence before the first note sounded, Katy Fern felt the little flutter of butterflies in her stomach, as she always did, no matter how many times she had performed. Maybe it was nervousness, maybe excitement, but either way, she delighted in the electrifying feeling. Then Willie Sienna started them off on the guitar, and Katy Fern felt Isabel Bronze’s steady pulsing on the cello like a heartbeat as she began.

Went out last night to take a little round,

I met little Sadie, and I shot her down.

Ran back home and jumped into bed,

With a .44 smokeless under my head.

Josie Pine was in the crowd already, leading a whole group in a line dance. The movement gradually spread out from her like a ripple through water as the song continued. Jubilee Canary was enjoying the music, too; she clung to the edge of the stage just in front of Cora Rose, bouncing with the music. Katy Fern grinned at the sight, then glanced around the stage at her companions. She was encouraged to see the rest of the Covey feeling the music along with her, tapping their feet or bobbing their heads in time with the beat. She never felt more unified with this group than when all their instruments combined together to create one beautiful sound; it was an ethereal feeling that lifted her from her body for a moment.

They played several more upbeat songs, the crowd joyful and lively. Katy Fern fed on their energy, working up a sweat as she sang at the top of her lungs to be heard over the instruments. Soon, she would introduce John Indigo and give her voice a bit of a break. But before she let him take over, she had to address Jubilee Canary, who had been standing eagerly by the edge of the stage all night.

As their current song, “House of the Rising Sun,” came to a close, Katy Fern knelt down before her daughter and asked, “You ready, baby?”

At her excited nod, Katy Fern lifted her up onto the stage, and they approached the amplifier.

“We’ve got a very special treat for you now, ladies and gents: my baby girl’s gonna steal the show for a minute. Does that sound alright to you?” A cheer passed through the room as Jubilee Canary gave a little curtsy. “Well, then, without further ado, I give you: the one… the only…” Katy Fern said with as much exaggeration as she could, “Jubilee Canary Baird!” 

She lowered the amplifier as Jubilee Canary stepped up, and Willie Sienna walked up to sit beside her; she got nervous if she felt like she was alone on stage. Katy Fern hopped down off the stage so Jubilee Canary could see her watching the performance.

“What are we thinking, princess?” Willie Sienna asked her. “‘Shake Sugaree’?” It was a favorite of hers, and one of the few songs of which she could confidently sing the lyrics.

She nodded enthusiastically, and with a smile, Willie Sienna began playing the simple tune, his guitar resting on his crossed legs. Jubilee Canary took a shuddering breath as she stepped forward and began to sing.

Have a little song,

Won’t take long.

Her voice was quiet, and a little shaky. Katy Fern gave her a little nod of encouragement, beaming with pride. Jubilee Canary continued with a little more gusto.

Sing it right,

Once or twice.

Oh, Lordie me,

Didn’t I shake Sugaree?

Everything I got is done and pawned.

Everything I got is done and pawned.

Gaining confidence, Jubilee Canary looked right at home on stage, the ruffled skirt and sleeves of her sunset-colored dress swishing as she swayed along to the music. She could scarcely enunciate through her smile, and the sight warmed Katy Fern’s heart. As Jubilee Canary sang, Katy Fern felt her mother’s presence beside her. She wondered what praises her mother would have sung about her granddaughter’s performance and wished, for perhaps the thousandth time, that Irene Gold had lived to meet her grandchildren.

Katy Fern had chosen Jubilee Canary’s name because she could not think of a more joyful combination. She supposed that she could manifest a little more happiness for her daughter with a jubilant name. A truly carefree spirit — like the one Katy Fern aspired to.

The song ended, and Jubilee Canary was positively beaming as the barn erupted with cheers. She took far too many bows, leading to some chuckles from the crowd, then darted back over to Cora Rose. Katy Fern walked over to give her a kiss on the forehead before taking the stage again.

“Amazing job, Jubilee Canary!” she whispered excitedly. “You’ll be a star yet, I tell you.” 

Then she turned back to the audience. “How about that performance?” she asked, and a few more cheers emanated from the audience. “Now, it’s time for my good friend John Indigo to take over, while I go rest my voice so I’m not croaking like a frog tomorrow. And let me tell you, you are in for a real treat. Voice of an angel, this one. Take it away, John Indigo!” The crowd clapped as he stepped forward, and he gave Katy Fern a timid smile as she stepped off the stage.

Katy Fern had been gunning for a proper rest, both physical and emotional, but then she saw Josie Pine summoning her over to join her dance party as John Indigo sang “Ida Red,” the rest of the Covey harmonizing with him. There was no evading that invitation, she supposed, so she strolled over. 

Angelina Auburn’s fiddle played the lively tune, and Katy Fern’s uncle Mateo provided the beat on his washboard that she and Josie Pine stomped along to. They began with an easier version, guiding the crowd through the steps; folks caught on quick enough. As the song continued, John Indigo stepped back for an instrumental break. Josie Pine shot her a mischievous smile, and Katy Fern knew what was on her mind. She nodded, and then the pair switched to the most complicated step pattern they knew, their feet flying like the floor was on fire as they attempted to keep up with the beat. By the time the song reached its conclusion, the pair were a giggling mess. 

John Indigo ran through several more songs. Katy Fern and Josie Pine danced along, and Jubilee Canary came to join the festivities as well. Eventually, it became clear their crowd’s energy was depleting. At John Indigo’s invitation, Katy Fern and Josie Pine hopped back up on their makeshift stage to bring the night to a close. 

Josie Pine grabbed one of their wicker baskets, woven through with colorful ribbons, from the side of the stage and stepped up to the amplifier, doing her best to project her light-as-a-feather voice. “Well, my friends, it’s almost that time. Before we wrap up here, I’ll be coming through with a collection basket. Give what you can; we won’t begrudge you what you can’t.” She gave a broad, genuine smile as she added, “You’ve been a delightful audience.” 

The rest of the Covey continued playing some light background music as Josie Pine made her way through the crowd with Jubilee Canary — the young girl always drummed up the most donations with her puppy-dog eyes and adorable smile. Once they had covered most of the room, Katy Fern stepped back up to the amplifier, growing increasingly nervous for their final act.

“Alright, folks,” Katy Fern said into the amplifier, “this last song’s very near to my heart. It was my mama’s name ballad — Irene Gold, she was called — and it never fails to call her memory to mind. So please do forgive me if I get a little choked up here.” She gave a tight smile, then took a step backward, and the Covey formed a tight ring around the amplifier. Cora Rose even brought the little ones up on the stage.

Before she began, Katy Fern shot a glance at Patrick Cardinal, who gave her a solemn nod. Katy Fern was only two years older than Patrick Cardinal, and when the Covey took him in after he was orphaned, Irene Gold had been as much a mother to him as she was to Katy Fern. The two of them were raised practically as siblings, and when her mother had died eight years past, they had both been equally devastated. 

Willie Sienna began the slow strums on his guitar, and all of them sang the chorus together.

Irene, goodnight. Irene, goodnight. 

Goodnight, Irene. Goodnight, Irene.

I’ll see you in my dreams.

Already, Katy Fern felt tears pooling in her eyes. Patrick Cardinal stood beside her in a similar state, his beaded cowboy hat held in his hand. He wrapped a comforting arm around her and squeezed tightly, and she followed suit. Despite the consolation, she could not help but feel the overwhelming absence of the warm-hearted woman who had raised them.

Willie Sienna took the first solo, a verse that always used to make her mother chuckle.

Last Saturday night, I got married.

Me and my wife settled down.

Now me and my wife are parted.

I’m gonna take another stroll ‘round town.

The chorus of voices joined in once more, the surrounding sound a comfort to Katy Fern as she attempted to sing along, imagining her mother’s voice joining theirs.

Sometimes I live in the country,

Sometimes I live in town,

Sometimes I take a great notion

To jump into the river and drown.

Irene, goodnight. Irene, goodnight. 

Goodnight, Irene. Goodnight, Irene.

I’ll see you in my dreams.

When the song came to a close, she and Patrick Cardinal released each other, and Katy Fern quickly sought out her father. He wrapped her in a tight embrace, and she cried silently into his shoulder. She quickly composed herself, though, sniffling and pulling back so she could continue her duties.

As she turned back to the audience, Katy Fern saw Johnathan leaning against the far wall of the barn, looking at her with a knowing smile. She gave him a resolute nod in return before resuming her stage persona.

“Thank you all for being here with us tonight! We’ll see you next time.” With a bow, the Covey streamed off the stage and waited for the rest of the crowd to clear out so they could set up their bed mats; when they had a chance to sleep under a roof, they took it, no matter where it was. As they lay bundled up on the stage, Katy Fern heard the echoes of the music they’d performed lulling her to sleep.

Chapter Text

Great bursts of thunder shook the sky as Lewiston finally came into view. John Indigo shuddered with each boom, then immediately cursed himself for his cowardice. 

The city, even in the dark of the storm, was a sight to behold. It was packed with tall metal buildings — taller than one usually saw intact these days — and bustling with people, covering their heads from the rain as they rushed toward their destinations. Many stopped, however, to gawk at the covered wagons trotting through their cities.

Cora Rose said Lewiston had not always been like this; the first time the Covey had visited, it was mostly sprawling suburbs. Then, as more and more towns up the coastline were flooded or burned, people continued flocking to anywhere that would take them, and Lewiston was more than willing. Now, it was one of the most technologically advanced cities on the continent. On every street corner, there was a sky-high tower that filtered the air, to protect the populus from the wildfire smoke that frequently tore through the region — though that would not be an issue anytime soon, given the downpour. Large electric screens radiated a blue-white light on the town square, broadcasting things like weather advisories and regional news.

The Covey rolled down a wide street that was primarily occupied by refurbished old cars — a rare sight in most of the continent. Several of these vehicles zoomed past their wagons as the horses slowly pulled them toward the hotel where they would stay for the night. The hotels in larger cities like Lewiston were usually happy to host the Covey. There were few travelers who could afford to stay in hotels these days — few travelers in general that were not refugees — so the Covey provided a nice draw for locals to come buy food and drink.

They pulled over in front of the slightly run-down two-story building, and John Indigo eagerly descended from the wagon with the rest of the group, stretching his stiff legs. The rain pounded down on them, sticking to John Indigo’s short afro and weighing down his flannel shirt. Josie Pine stayed with the horses to ensure they didn’t get spooked — they were certainly unused to the loud sounds of engines and car horns — while the rest of them streamed into the hotel.

The lobby was lit by an electric chandelier, and behind a counter sat an old woman reading an even older book, wearing glasses that looped around like a necklace. She glanced up at the sound of their approach and smiled broadly. 

“Any rooms at the inn?” Cora Rose asked playfully, heading up the group.

The old woman stood and shuffled around the table, embracing Cora Rose. “My songbirds!” she exclaimed. 

“How are you, Janey?” Cora Rose asked as she pulled back from the hug. Her fringed burgundy shawl trailing after her arms as she retreated almost made them look like a bird’s wings.

“Same old. I see you’re all still up to your old tricks.”

“Would you have me pick up a new trade? I know I look young and spry, but I’ve got a few years under my belt.” 

The two women laughed heartily. Once Janey had recovered her breath (laughter seemed to be a struggle for her wheezy lungs), she returned their discussion to business. “We’ve only got two rooms for tonight, but some more will open up later in the week. Is that alright for you?”

“You know we can make do with whatever you’ve got to spare, my dear.” 

Cora Rose and Janey linked arms familiarly as the innkeeper led them to their rooms, which sat on opposite ends of the narrow second-floor hallway. John Indigo was impressed by the relationships Cora Rose was able to form and maintain given the Covey’s transitory nature, but it seemed in every town they visited, she had an old friend waiting for her. The two women continued chatting while John Indigo helped load their admittedly few belongings into the rooms, grateful for the distraction.

John Indigo ended up in the smaller of the two rooms, lying on a bed between his wife Charlotte Cornflower and daughter Jackie Mulberry. The Flores family — Angelina Auburn, Willie Sienna, Isabel Bronze, and Mateo — accompanied them, sprawled out across the floor. The storm had not let up, and every bolt of lightning that flashed through the window, every crack of thunder that reverberated in his chest, made him jolt, preventing him from any hope of a good night’s rest. 

He had finally found a light sleep, and when the next thunderclap sounded, he shot halfway up in bed, waking Charlotte Cornflower. She looked up at him sleepily, her golden eyes illuminated by the artificial street lights, then simply looped her fingers through his, squeezing his hand gently. The comforting act made his heartbeat calm ever so slightly, and he closed his eyes, attempting to force his breathing into a regular pattern, but it only made him overly aware of his breathing. His anxiety convinced him he could not fall asleep, for if he did, his body would forget how to breathe. Reluctantly, John Indigo rose and left the room, stepping carefully over the minefield of sleeping bodies on the floor. He took to pacing in the hallway, where he hoped he would not wake anyone.

John Indigo had hated rainstorms ever since he was 8 years old. He could recall, as vividly as if it had happened yesterday, the storm that had sparked this terror. The storm that had taken his mother from him.

Throughout his entire childhood, it had been him and his mother against the world. His father had scarcely been around, working in months-long stints in a granite mine far away from any settlements, until this work had taken him from them, only a few short months before John’s mother’s death. The job made their family good money, but they all knew the risks involved in earning one’s survival these days. Unfortunately, that didn’t stop the rest of their neighbors from viewing him as a sellout, laboring to profit the large city nearby instead of his own community.

Their family lived as outcasts of a sort from their small town in Georgia, on a little farm a few miles from the center of town. His mother was the strongest person he’d ever known, and she fiercely defended him from all the harms this world had thrown at them.

When the Covey rolled through town, his mother had been ecstatic. It had been the first time John could remember seeing the musicians, but her excitement was infectious. John was giddy the whole day leading up to their performance. They arrived in town hours early, milling about aimlessly, and had been the first to enter the venue. The band was drinking with some of the other locals, but his mother, being heavily pregnant at the time, did not partake. Even so, they chatted and laughed with the rest of the townspeople, acting as if they were proper friends.

John had been absolutely captivated by the performance, dancing along though he knew none of the proper steps, singing along though he knew none of the words, and his mother had been similarly enraptured. It was the happiest John could remember seeing his mother.

While the band was playing, a hurricane rolled in. It hadn’t seemed like anything extreme at first: some strong wind, heavy rain — nothing they hadn’t seen before. 

But by the end of the night, it became clear the storm was worsening. The raindrops pounding on the roof, in combination with the howling of the storm’s powerful wind, drowned out the music. The Covey would not be able to get back on the road anytime soon. His mother approached them after the show and insisted they come stay in their farmhouse. There was that polite back-and-forth refusal that adults always did, until his mother’s will eventually won out, and on horseback she led the Covey through the gradually flooding streets back to their home. Though the building was in some level of disrepair, it was large enough to reasonably fit all of them. 

The storm only worsened. A week had gone by, and yet still every night they heard the wind whistling, rain dripping through leaks in their roof, debris pelting the side of the house. The Covey were excellent houseguests, though. They were intent on contributing to the household chores, even cooking dinner for John and his mother, and they always entertained them with working songs as they did so.

It was on a stormy night like this, as the Covey played music to themselves, John and his mother sitting back and enjoying, that his mother had suddenly let out a pained sound, which caused John’s head to snap over to her. She was wincing, a hand resting on her round stomach.

The Covey halted their playing abruptly. The then-middle-aged woman he now knew as Cora Rose took his mother into their bedroom, and John followed anxiously as several of them crowded around her. There was talk about running to get the doctor, but it was deemed far too dangerous to be traveling miles out in the storm.

John stood wide-eyed at his mother’s bedside for hours as she labored. Sometimes, she was well enough to talk to him, though breathless, but the more time that passed, she began to look increasingly sickly. The warmth drained from her dark skin, and she had an ever-present sheen of sweat on her forehead that Irene Gold — the mother of Katy Fern, who was then barely a toddler — was continually dabbing at. 

The adults talked in hushed tones, first to each other, and then to his mother. Whatever they were saying left her with a sorrowful expression on her face, sadder than John had ever seen her. But soon the sadness was replaced by a look of excruciating pain. She closed her eyes and began to scream, causing John to jump backward.

Cora Rose stood at the foot of the bed. It took several minutes of screaming and sobbing, which John watched in terrified silence, until Cora Rose brought forth his little brother. His mother reached out weakly, and Cora Rose placed the baby in her arms. He was still covered in blood, but his mother did not seem to mind the stain to her dress as she hugged her baby close to her. As John watched the baby crying at his mother’s chest, he saw from the corner of his eye Cora Rose replacing a towel that was drenched in blood. John thought it looked like far too much blood for one person to lose.

Eventually, his mother turned her head to face him. She looked weaker than he had ever seen her, as the life slowly drained from her. His mother, with the fiery heart and indomitable spirit, could barely speak louder than a whisper.

“Listen to me now, baby,” she rasped, and she took John’s hand in her own. He squeezed it so tightly his knuckles turned white. “I’m not long for this world now.” John didn’t really understand what she was saying, but she just kept talking, her tone urgent. “This is your little brother. He’s gonna be your responsibility now. You’re to look after him, you understand?” Her eyes bored into him, even as she struggled to keep them open. “You protect your kin.” 

John did not really understand, but he knew it was important to his mother in this moment that he agreed, so he nodded his head. His mother was crying now, struggling to speak through her sobs. “I love you like all-fire,” she whispered. It was an expression they had made up, a reference to the wildfires that were so all-consuming they became known as all-fires. His mother loved him with the strength of the fiercest fire that ever was, but now her fire was dwindling.

John began to cry now, as understanding finally dawned on him. “I love you like all-fire.” He sniffled, fighting to speak through his tears. “Mama,” he said meekly, his voice rising like it was a question, “don’t leave me.”

She motioned with her arm to the space next to her. “Come here, baby.” John crawled into the bed and curled up in the space next to his mother, sobbing into her shoulder. She rubbed his back gently, until eventually her hand stopped moving.

His little brother began wailing, but John stayed clinging to his mother’s side. Irene Gold came and took the baby from his mother’s chest, feeding him at her own breast. John saw the gray light begin to stream through the window as the sun rose behind the storm clouds. He felt his mother’s skin growing colder with each passing hour, but he could not bring himself to extricate himself from her side.

Cora Rose tried to coax him out, but he did not even hear the words she said, did not feel her hand on his shoulder. Eventually, she came back and forced him to drink some water.

They let him stay there for most of the day, until water started pooling on the floor of the house. Then they lifted him from the bed and carried him to the back of their wagon, where he sat curled in the corner, eventually falling asleep.

His memories of his first few weeks with the Covey are blurry. They evacuated the flooding town, and the Covey continued on their way. John stayed with them largely because he had nowhere else to go, and no kin to speak of aside from the squalling baby that had taken his mother from him. The Covey continued as they had, performing in every town they passed through, but one of them always stayed back in the wagon with him and his little brother, whom they had named Patrick Cardinal. They had asked him his opinion on the name, and he’d simply nodded, barely even hearing it. It had taken him a long while to forgive that baby for killing his mother. He’d never quite managed to forgive the storm.

The first memory he had after that fog of grief was Cora Rose telling him the story of a great man, a hero, who shared his name. This John Henry was a railroad man, and he was so strong that he could hammer through a mountain faster than a machine. She sang him John Henry’s ballad, and that was the day John Indigo had adopted that as his name ballad — the day he had truly become one of the Covey.

He decided that day that he would be strong, too, like John Henry had been. Like his mother had been.

***

The following evening they performed in what appeared to be some sort of city hall. It was higher-tech than John Indigo was used to, having not been through this area for a few years now. The walls of the building seemed to glow uniformly, providing a warm, soft light across the whole room. When Katy Fern called him forward and he stepped up to the microphone, he was startled by the sound of his own voice shouting back at him from every angle.

“Evening, everybody,” he said, his voice low. “My name’s John Indigo Williams.” His hands always trembled when he was about to perform, and he struggled to maintain a steady grip on the microphone. Katy Fern sensed his nervousness and took over again, allowing him to ease in. 

“Next up is a little duet,” she announced from beside him, her arm looped around his. “Old song called ‘Pretty Polly.’ Sing along if you know the words.” 

Patrick Cardinal started on the banjo, and John Indigo closed his eyes as he began to sing.

Oh, Polly, Pretty Polly, would you take me unkind?

Polly, Pretty Polly, would you take me unkind?

Let me sit beside you and tell you my mind. 

He continued until it was Katy Fern’s turn to respond. She held out the long, sustained notes with a masterful vibrato.

He led her over mountains and valleys so deep.

He led her over mountains and valleys so deep.

Polly mistrusted and then began to weep.

John Indigo always found these sorts of songs chilling — murder ballads that sounded almost cheerful to the ear. Some people even continued dancing, oblivious to the dark lyrics.

He stabbed through her breast, and her heart’s blood did flow.

He stabbed through her breast, and her heart’s blood did flow.

And into the grave pretty Polly did go.

People cheered as the song ended, and Katy Fern took a little bow, nudging him to do the same. Then she snuck off stage to take her break and grab some water, and John Indigo was left alone in the center of the stage. 

Quite the performer he was, to still have stage fright after nearly 30 years with the Covey. But once he began singing, he got lost in the music. He imagined his mother watching their performances with the same enthusiasm with which she had taken in the Covey’s music when he was a child. John Indigo knew she would be glad to see her children dedicating their lives to spreading music and joy to people who had so few other sources of it, like his mother.

“This next song’s called ‘Star of the County Down,’” he announced, fiddling with the fringe of his red button-down with black and gold embroidery. He kept his interludes brief; that was where he struggled the most, anyway. He knew he was a gifted singer, but he was not quite so talented a talker. 

Angelina Auburn picked up the tune on her fiddle, and Samson Slate began plucking at his bass. He found himself unwittingly bobbing his head along, moving his body without coordination in a motion that may have qualified as dancing, if one was generous. He glanced over at his wife Charlotte Cornflower, who was smirking at him through her tin whistle, and quickly stiffened, feeling his cheeks heat. When they were younger, Charlotte Cornflower had tried to teach him to dance, so he might look a little more natural up on stage, but after the first lesson had ended disastrously in all senses except for kicking off a budding romance between the two, they determined he was better off standing still.

 As John Indigo sang, he watched Josie Pine take over the dance floor with a grace he could only dream of, leading everybody in a line dance she’d picked up from some town or other down south; she had really flourished there. That girl clung to joy like a drowning man to a life preserver. It was her way of coping with all that she had been through.

Tonight she wore her jingle dress, a flowery yellow piece with rows of red fringe, strings bouncing limply where bells had once hung. He smiled as he watched her dance, remembering when Josie Pine had first joined the Covey. 

They’d stumbled across her as they were making camp one night, off of one of their dirt paths through the country. She had been hiding in the woods, camped out with a small flickering fire, her head resting against the horse that lay on the ground behind her. Her clothes and skin were smeared with gray ash, small flakes still littering her unkempt hair.

The girl had grabbed a large stick from the ground and held it in front of her at the sound of their approach, looking more spooked than a rabbit that caught sight of a fox. 

They offered ‌for her to partake in their modest dinner. For such a young girl, she had more pride than expected, but it was clear she had not eaten properly in days, and she eventually caved and crept cautiously up to their fire. Her eyes darted warily between all of them as she ate the corn mush and beans, shoveling it into her mouth faster than she could swallow. 

Charlotte Cornflower was the one who eventually coaxed the story out of her. Josie’s family’s ranch house had been caught in a wildfire. She’d been out in the field and managed to escape; her parents, however, had been trapped inside. 

When they’d found her, she had been wearing that yellow dress, though it was nearly unrecognizable from all the ash and dirt that marred it. She had taken no supplies with her, having fled for her life, so she had been sleeping on the ground with no blanket to protect her from the chilly night air. She initially agreed to travel with them until they reached New Redmount, the next town on their route, then go on her way. Of course, that departure — thankfully — never came to fruition.

John Indigo barely heard the girl speak for the first several weeks she was with them. Each time he looked at her, though, he felt as if he were looking back at his own childhood self. The haunted, empty look in her eyes as she stared blankly at the walls of their covered wagon for the duration of their journey pulled memories from him he would have happily forgotten. She tried to act mature, like she was fully grown at 12 years old, but in those moments, it was plain that she was just a little girl who needed her parents.

The first time Josie had spoken to John Indigo, she had been scolding him. He was reorganizing the group’s belongings, packing them up into the wagon. When he pulled that yellow dress from the laundry — apparently too haphazardly — she had bolted toward him from where she was standing across the meadow.

“Be careful with that!” she shouted. 

John Indigo had frozen in place, startled, as Josie yanked the dress from his hands, shaking it out and smoothing it.

“Sorry,” John Indigo had said. “I didn’t know.” He didn’t know what he didn’t know, exactly, but he knew he had struck some sort of nerve. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, barely a whisper, as she gently folded the dress, running her hand over the short red fringe. “It was my nana’s dress.”

“It’s beautiful,” John Indigo said gently. “I’ve never seen a design like that before.”

“It’s a jingle dress,” Josie explained, smiling up at him. 

“What’s that?”

“My nana was a jingle dancer. She would wear this to dance.” The girl’s eyes got a faraway look as she spoke. “It used to have little bells on every string, a thousand of them that would ring with every step she took. But when I was little, the army from Fort Butte got into another war with New Redmount, and they came through every town and shook us down for all we had. They took all the metal we had in the house. Including the bells. Melted down into weapons to kill people.” She wore a bitter scowl as she said the last part. 

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” John Indigo said, at a loss for words. “The world has a way of corrupting beautiful things. That’s what us Covey are trying to preserve: a little bit of beauty in a cruel world.”

She looked up at him pensively and slowly nodded, placing the folded dress in the chest with the rest of their clothes. 

Later that week, as the group had taken a lazy afternoon to rest from the trials of the long desolate road, Josie had been dancing in her dress to the sound of Angelina Auburn’s fiddle and Willie Sienna’s guitar. John Indigo saw the fringe of that dress flouncing as she jumped, and in a moment of inspiration, he took out their tambourine and played in time to Josie’s footsteps. She had looked over at him with a look of such shock and delight, then began dancing with even more passion.

That was the day John Indigo had known he would look after young Josie. The girl had taken to nightmares — particularly after the first time they saw the smoke of another wildfire far off on the horizon. She was trembling, shivering as if she were hypothermic, even with the heat of that summer night. Despite her fears, she still insisted on sleeping apart from the group, on her own little blanket curled up next to her horse, Sunflower. 

John Indigo walked over and sat cross-legged beside her. Her eyes were squeezed closed, but she shifted in response to his presence. He reached out to comfort her, perhaps run a hand over her hair, but he pulled back, not sure if that was what she would want. Instead, he fell upon a lullaby that his mother had sometimes sung when he was little.

Little girl, little girl, don’t lie to me,

Tell me where did you sleep last night.

In the pines, in the pines, where the sun never shines.

I shivered the long night through.

My daddy was a railroad man,

Killed a mile and a half from here.

His head was found ‘neath a driving wheel,

His body has never been found.

In the pines, in the pines, where the sun never shines.

We’ll shiver the long night through.

Little girl, little girl, where’d you sleep last night?

Not even your mother knows.

In the pines, in the pines, where the sun never shines.

I shivered where the cold wind blows.

As he sang, the aptness of the song surprised him, though perhaps that was what had called it to mind. When he was done, he realized Josie was weeping quietly, sniffling. Fearing he had only made things worse, John Indigo was about to stand and walk back to his bed, but then Josie rolled over to her other side and laid her head in his lap. He gently ran his fingers through her long wavy hair until she fell asleep. He ended up staying there all night, barely getting a wink of sleep himself.

He sang “In the Pines” to Josie so much that they decided that would become her name ballad, in an untraditional sense. None of the Covey could think of any songs about a “Josie,” so they settled for her name color, Pine, to represent her ballad.

As John Indigo watched Josie Pine dance in that hall in Lewiston, he struggled to reconcile the image of this cheerful girl, dancing like she’s the star of the show, with that of the trembling little girl they had found in the pines. John Indigo’s heart swelled with pride that he and the Covey had been able to provide an environment where this little girl could recover from the greatest tragedy — just as he had.

***

The Covey had rushed back to their hotel rooms as soon as their performance was over. These big city folk stayed out far later than those in the small towns, and they had played later into the night than they were prepared to, acquiescing to continuous requests for encores. All except for Patrick Cardinal and Willie Sienna — those two loved nothing more than partying with the locals until dawn, at which point they would come stumbling back home and sleep through the whole day’s journey in the wagon. They would also often splay themselves out on the floor, making themselves quite a nuisance for everyone else who was cramped inside.

John Indigo had tried to sleep, had focused on the steady sounds of his sleeping family’s breathing as if it could somehow lull him to join them, but the sound of wind and rain blocked out all else. Eventually he gave up, climbing out of bed and throwing on acceptable clothing for the bar downstairs. A drink was usually the only thing that could cure his troubles when they came over him.

As he dressed, Jackie Mulberry groaned and rolled over in bed, rubbing at her eye. She squinted at his faint silhouette. “Papa?”

“It’s alright, Jack,” he reassured her, walking over to place a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I’m just going down to the lobby.” 

Her dark almond eyes looked up at him through her short crop of curls, brow furrowed. “Is it the storm?”

John Indigo felt the instinctive shame of showing weakness in front of his child, but he knew the foolishness of that pretense. He nodded. “But don’t you trouble yourself over me,” he insisted, his hand rubbing absent-mindedly up and down her back. “You just get some rest.”

“You’re sure?” Jackie Mulberry asked, one eyebrow raised skeptically. 

John Indigo nodded once more, then pressed a kiss to Jackie Mulberry’s forehead. “It’s better that I’m alone. I’ll be back soon.”

“Okay,” she whispered, then said earnestly, “I love you like all-fire.”

John Indigo felt tears prick at his eyes as he replied, “Love you like all-fire, sweetheart,” before retreating from the room.

The hotel lobby was mostly empty, and only a few people still lingered in the restaurant booths. Based on the way they slouched over their tables, they were presumably reaching the end of their night out. 

John Indigo slid into a seat at the bar, and the bartender, a man who looked a few years younger than himself, approached him, polishing a glass in his hand as he spoke.

“What can I get for you?”

“Y’all get moonshine out here?” 

The bartender gave him a knowing smile and reached to the shelves behind him, retrieving a clear glass jug. He poured generously and slid a full glass over to John Indigo. 

He dug into his pocket, fishing for some of the thick bronze coins they had been tipped that evening, but the bartender held up his hand. “Free of charge.”

“Oh, no, I—”

“I insist.” His voice was firm, in contrast with the smile on his face. “You’re that singer man, aren’t you?”

He nodded and stuck out his hand. “John Indigo.”

The bartender shook eagerly. “I’m Alex.”

“Nice to meet you, Alex.” He took a sip of his moonshine; it was smoother than any he’d tasted before, and far more potable. “You grow up in Lewiston?” 

“Nah, a little east of here. Town called Cottonwood. Though now they call it New Lignite.” 

“Oh, that’s on our route,” John Indigo exclaimed. “Should be there in a few weeks. Anybody you want us to try to pass a message to?”

Alex frowned, leaning up against the bar. “No,” he said sourly, “not exactly anyone I’d fancy seeing again out there.”

“Oh?” John Indigo said in surprise, though it came out as more of a question.

“Things have gone to hell out there. In Panem.” He practically spat the word. “Soon as our town ‘agreed’ to join the empire, the Peacekeepers came in to keep an eye on us. Make sure we were sufficiently subservient.” Alex looked back at John Indigo and shook his head, seemingly exiting his daze. “I’m sorry. You’re a customer; I shouldn’t be bothering you with my issues.”

“No, I want to hear,” John Indigo insisted. “It’ll be important for us to know what we’re getting into.”

Alex hesitated. “Just… be careful out there. That government has destroyed whole towns that won’t conform to its will. Nothing but ash in the wind now.” John Indigo’s mind returned to the incinerated village they had passed on their travels, and he wondered just how far this war stretched.

“And they are not keen on dissent of any kind,” he added contemptuously. “My uncle, he gave a speech in the town square — hardly anything to look twice at. He had to flee from the Peacekeepers. We had to flee from the Peacekeepers. They don’t exactly discriminate between dissidents and their kin.” 

“I’m so sorry,” John Indigo said, feeling appalled. If what this bartender was saying was true, this would be the worst conflict the Covey had passed through in John Indigo’s memory. Skirmishes these days were usually between small city states, over the drawing of borders or access to resources. Few cities had enough power and access to get into empire-building.

“Yeah,” Alex agreed. “Things are better for our family out here, though. Safe, comfortable. We could do far worse.”

“Seems that way,” John Indigo agreed. Alex busied himself with cleaning behind the bar, and John Indigo nursed his drink, trying to relax his mind, but he could not stop worrying about their coming travels. He only prayed that the Covey knew what they were getting into, and that they were prepared for the peril that may lie ahead.

Chapter Text

The Covey spent a few more days in Lewiston, performing in different spots around the town, before they made their departure. Angelina Auburn was sad to see it go. That city was the largest they had seen in years, and it seemed full of possibility that the Covey had only gotten a small taste of.

The city they headed for now was part of the territory acquired by Panem a few years ago, and there was a general sense of anxiety weighing down the atmosphere of their wagon. Nobody knew what to expect from this new world they were entering, and based on what they had heard from the neighboring towns, there was cause for concern. But no one seemed to want to address the elephant in the room, so they carried on as if it were any other day on the road.

Angelina Auburn was now reading aloud from the old book they had taken from the hotel’s modest collection — To Kill a Mockingbird — grateful for the distraction. They frequently exchanged books in the various towns they stayed in. Several of the older Covey had read this one already, but it seemed the best option their hotel had to offer. 

“I returned to school and hated Calpurnia steadily until a sudden shriek shattered my resentments. I looked up to see Miss Caroline standing in the middle of the room, sheer horror flooding her face.” She tried to read expressively, but the whole endeavor made her feel as uncomfortable as a dog with boots on. The story was intriguing so far, though, and the setting seemed enough like any of the small towns they rolled through to feel familiar. It made her wonder what it would have been like to attend a real schoolhouse: seeing the same bunch of kids every day, learning from somebody you had no relation to. But she had been reading for a while now, and she was beginning to feel that telltale churning in her stomach.

“Alright, I’ve chopped my firewood,” she announced, closing the book partway and passing it over to Katy Fern, who shifted Andrew Lilac to sit on her other leg so she could reach it. “Your turn.”

“Gladly,” her cousin said, snatching the book from her hand and resuming where Angelina Auburn had left off. Katy Fern always became very invested in her reading, treating it as a miniature performance — and Katy Fern loved a performance. She gave every character a unique, over-the-top voice, and her pitch and volume varied wildly for dramatic effect. 

“‘It’s alive!’ she screamed.” And of course, Katy Fern screamed this line loud enough to wake the bats in China, startling Angelina Auburn. Even Josie Pine tilted her head from where she was riding behind them, peering into the opening of the wagon with a furrowed brow. Angelina Auburn waved her off, gesturing toward Katy Fern and rolling her eyes, which pulled a smirk from Josie Pine.

“Little Chuck grinned broadly,” Katy Fern continued, returning to a normal human volume. “‘There ain’t no need to fear a cootie, ma’am.’” That line pulled a giggle from Jubilee Canary, and Katy Fern paused her reading to meet her daughter’s eyes, giving her a silly smile that scrunched up her face, causing Jubilee Canary to laugh even more. “‘Ain’t you ever seen one? Now don’t you be afraid, you just go back to your desk and teach us some more.’

“Little Chuck Little was another member of the population who didn’t know where his next meal was coming from, but he was a born gentleman.”

“Damn straight,” Willie Sienna agreed, interrupting her reading. “It’s these rich folks we’re ‘bout to visit that’s forgotten their morals.”

“Don’t be so pessimistic, Willie Sienna,” their mother, Isabel Bronze, chided from the front seat of their wagon. “There’s some good in everyone’s heart. Sometimes you just gotta dig a little to find it.” She said the last sentence under her breath, and Willie Sienna gave a light chuckle, seemingly setting aside his counterargument and allowing Katy Fern to continue reading.

They continued on that way, packed in the back of the wagon and lazing in the afternoon heat, until the small city came into view. 

Beulah was more luxurious than most they had come across, certainly more so than the last time they had passed through here. The town was unrecognizable. Even from this distance, Angelina Auburn could see marble statues lining the street corners, shiny cars that appeared to be newly manufactured zipping down wide roads, and, hanging from nearly every building, a massive crimson flag with a golden bird at its center. Angelina Auburn could only assume this was the flag the new empire of Panem had adopted.

She reached for her fiddle and slid over to sit at the back of the wagon, her feet dangling over the edge. A few others began playing as well, Willie Sienna and Patrick Cardinal squeezing in next to her, holding their instruments at strange angles to fit in the space. From the other wagon, she could hear Jackie Mulberry playing her mandolin, but she did not move from her position within. 

As they entered the heart of town, Angelina Auburn was perfectly poised to see the people on the street stopping to gawk as they slowly passed by. This was a typical reaction in the towns they visited — people staring in intrigue or excitement at the traveling band — but on these faces Angelina Auburn saw a kind of disgust. They crinkled their noses and turned their heads as they caught sight of the Covey. She was damn proud to be a member of the Covey — she had no doubt of that — but still, the negative attention made her cheeks heat, and she averted her eyes from the onlookers. 

Unfortunately, an averted gaze did not prevent her from hearing the nasty remarks of two teenage girls who stood on the sidewalk gawking at them.

“Looks like the freak show’s come to town,” one said in a nasal voice.

The other girl snorted like a pig, then added, “Maybe we should buy a ticket. Just not seats so close that we can smell them.”

Angelina Auburn shied away from them, but Willie Sienna leaned further out of the wagon and hollered back at them, “I’ve got two free tickets for you to kiss my ass right here.” He held up the middle fingers of both his hands.

The girls’ mouths dropped wide open, and they stared at Willie Sienna with no snarky retort. Angelina Auburn grinned up at her brother, who was clearly pleased with himself. But Angelina Auburn could tolerate his arrogance for the moment.

Unfortunately, these reactions persisted as they continued down the street. And as she faced more and more scorn, Angelina Auburn found herself focusing on anything else to distract herself. She landed on analyzing the locals’ clothing, which was admittedly hard to ignore. Now, the Covey were all for bright colors, but the style here was just… garish. The colors were unnaturally vibrant, and the fabrics had a thousand gaudy ruffles and poofs that made it impossible to walk properly. People were shuffling around in their impractical dresses and suits, waddling like stuffed geese. And the hair — half of them wore puffy wigs that were, again, dyed in ridiculous and unnatural colors. (And yes, Angelina Auburn dyed her own hair a reddish brown, but this was just obscene.) The women’s makeup, too, made their skin a ghostly grayish white, and the contrast of the bright lipsticks they wore only made them look more sickly. 

This whole city was a celebration of excess and extravagance. The design of the buildings was completely witless. Angelina Auburn saw more than one that had entire walls made of glass windows — how did they possibly keep that place warm in the winter? Others were constructed into impossible shapes, seeming as if they might tip over on a whim of the wind, yet somehow they stood. 

The wagons slowed down, and Isabel Bronze brushed the dust from her clothes before leaning out from the driver’s seat and calling out to a young woman, perhaps a few years older than Angelina Auburn, who had stopped to stare at their wagon. This woman was dressed entirely in lavender, wearing a dress with ruffles that extended out in every direction, high enough that they nearly stood above her head. Her hair — also painted lavender — seemed to be unnaturally frozen in place, looped above her head to form what looked to Angelina Auburn like large mouse ears. Atop this pile of hair sat a vast golden hairpin that swirled around in every direction. Her lips were a pale periwinkle, and her eyes were surrounded with bright pink eye shadow, extending up past her nearly invisible eyebrows and outward to her hairline. Golden bangles traveled up her arms, to match the color of the strappy high-heeled shoes she currently teetered on. 

“Excuse me, miss,” Isabel Bronze called out to her. The woman looked up at Angelina Auburn’s mother, mouth agape, and after a moment of anticipatory silence, Isabel Bronze continued, “Do you know where we could find a hotel?”

“A hotel…” the woman echoed, glancing back and forth between Isabel Bronze and the horses that stood before her, which she was either fascinated by or petrified of, but she finally snapped out of her stupor. “Yeah, there’s one, um… right down that way. Follow this road until you reach the statue of the warrior with the rifle, then turn right.”

“Thank you very much,” her mother called, tugging on the reins of the horses, who began pulling them forward once more. 

Her mother was always the picture of a proper lady, polite as a pampered princess, but it was clear as the walls of the towers in this city that she was eager to exit that conversation. She led the horses a little faster toward the hotel, though they were still getting passed by dozens of cars, zipping by them and producing a wind that shook their wagon. One particularly large car produced a gale that nearly tipped them over; the wagon managed to remain upright, though the same could not be said of the wagon’s occupants.

The hotel was massive, ten stories high at least. The exterior was all pristine white and adorned with tall pillars that supported a vast, flat roof in front of the entryway. Above that, there were balconies on every floor. Angelina Auburn gaped at the sight, along with the rest of the Covey. 

“Is this a castle?” Jubilee Canary asked in awe, head tilted all the way back so she could take in the building.

Samson Slate chuckled. “Not quite, songbird.”

“May as well be,” Katy Fern added under her breath. “Certainly built for people who think they’re royalty.” Willie Sienna hummed his agreement. The Covey all stood gawking for a moment longer until Cora Rose took charge and pushed through the broad glass doors.

Her mamaw’s cane clacked with each step she took on the polished stone floor, echoing around the vast lobby. There was a middle-aged man behind the wide, empty counter, dressed in a suit jacket, shirt, and tie that were all made from the same glossy floral pattern. His sapphire hair was deliberately curled around his face, each lock crusted in place, so that when he looked up, his hair did not shift one millimeter. 

When he saw the Covey, he frowned, looking down at them like they were lower than a snake’s belly. As they approached, he sniffed as if he expected them to carry some pungent odor with them. Angelina Auburn looked down at her ankle-length pink and yellow flowery dress self-consciously. Sure, her clothes and skin were a bit stained with the dust from the dirt paths they sometimes traveled, but she was certain she and the rest of the Covey looked, and smelled, perfectly presentable. Angelina Auburn loathed this pompous man already.

“How can I help you?” the man said in a high-pitched voice, his teeth gritted. 

“Pleasure to meet you, sir. We’re called the Covey,” Isabel Bronze introduced them. “We’re traveling musicians.”

“I see…” He had a tone that said, Get on with it and stop wasting my time. Isabel Bronze complied.

“We typically make arrangements with hotels like yours,” she explained. “We perform, draw in customers for the hotel, and in exchange they give us a place to lay our heads.” The man behind the counter’s eyebrows were raised so high they almost reached his coiffed hairline, but her mother continued nonetheless. “Would your hotel be amenable to such an arrangement?” Angelina Auburn did not miss how her mother fancied up her speech to try to garner this despicable man’s respect.

The bug-eyed man stared at Isabel Bronze in silence for a long moment before responding. “No…” he drew out the word, “we can’t accept music as payment.” He said it as if they were idiots for making such a request.

“Very well,” Isabel Bronze sighed. “We can pay. Mateo, dear, the purse.” Angelina Auburn’s father brought over the bag that contained all their valuables, and Isabel Bronze began sifting through it, eventually pulling out a few gold coins and laying them on the counter. “Would this be enough for three beds?”

The man behind the desk let out a little titter. “No,” he said, “not even close. And we can’t accept these, anyway. We only take Panem currency.” 

Isabel Bronze let out another heavy sigh. “Very well. We’ll look for another establishment.” She turned to leave but was interrupted.

“Ma’am, there’s not a hotel in this city that would buy what you’re trying to sell.” He sounded like he was holding back laughter as he spoke.

“Thank you for your advice,” Katy Fern snapped before storming out. Angelina Auburn was quick to follow, hoping some fresh air would alleviate the bitter taste that interaction had left.

***

That repulsive man had been right; they’d tried two other hotels and received similar looks of incredulity from each employee. So they decided they would simply sleep with their wagons, as they did on the road. 

Late in the afternoon, they split off into groups to look for places to perform. Angelina Auburn ended up with Jackie Mulberry. It was a challenging duo; Angelina Auburn was fairly shy around strangers, but Jackie Mulberry was quiet as a church mouse. She enjoyed solitude, and she did not get much of it traveling with the Covey. So chatting up a bunch of strangers, especially strangers who they knew already despised them, was going to be difficult.

They stepped into a bar first, a smaller establishment. From the layout, it might appear to be just like any other bar in the country, except that there was not a shred of wood in the place. Everything, from the furniture to the walls themselves, was stone and metal. It made sense to avoid building with wood, Angelina Auburn knew — forest fires were only growing more and more ubiquitous these days. It was just that most cities couldn’t afford to ship in all those heavy, expensive materials that Beulah chose to build with.

Behind the giant granite block that served as a bar was a young man dressed in clothing that could almost be considered normal, if a bit mournful: a black button-down and black tie to match.

“What can I get you ladies?” the bartender said with an amiable smile.

“Oh, we’re not customers,” Angelina Auburn began, at the same time that Jackie Mulberry said, “Whiskey, on the rocks.” Angelina Auburn shot her an expression that she hoped properly conveyed her shock. Jackie Mulberry simply shrugged her shoulders.

“What? We wouldn’t want to be rude. Plus, I’ve always wanted to try one. They have ice cubes here, Ange.” 

Angelina Auburn had always thought that Jackie Mulberry was the spitting image of her parents — reserved, thoughtful, responsible — but perhaps she took after her uncle Patrick Cardinal more than Angelina Auburn had imagined.

“Anyway…” she said, turning back to the bartender, “I’m Angelina Auburn. This here is my… spontaneous friend Jackie Mulberry.”

“Nice to meet you,” the bartender said, withdrawing a glass from a cabinet under the bar. His brow furrowed ever so slightly at them, but he was careful not to drop his friendly customer-service facade despite their odd behavior. “My name’s Emerald.”

A fitting name, Angelina Auburn thought, given his piercing green eyes that drew her attention away for a moment. She snapped back to the task at hand. “Right, so, uh… we have a bit of a business proposition for you.”

Emerald’s eyebrows shot up. “What sort of proposition might that be?” he asked, preparing Jackie Mulberry’s drink.

Angelina Auburn was encouraged by the fact that although Emerald seemed to think them strange, he maintained his manners. “We’re traveling musicians,” she explained. “Part of a group called the Covey. We’re looking for places to perform for the next few nights. We wouldn’t need any payment from you, of course, just a place to operate.”

Emerald placed the glass on the counter in front of them; it had already gathered condensation from how cold the beverage within was. As Jackie Mulberry passed him a small silver coin, he asked, “If you don’t take any payment, how do you possibly earn a living?”

“We have a collection basket,” Jackie Mulberry said before taking a sip of the brown drink before her. She winced as she forced it down but continued, “We take contributions from our audiences.”

Emerald chuckled at Jackie Mulberry’s reaction. “I see.”

Angelina Auburn looked at him expectantly. “So… would we be able to perform here?”

“Oh, right, sorry. I’ll have to ask my boss, but I don’t see any reason why not.”

“Great,” Angelina Auburn said with a relieved smile. “Is your boss here now?” 

“Sure is! I’ll go get him.”

Jackie Mulberry had already sat herself down at the bar, playing this part that she had for some reason adopted. Angelina Auburn slid into the adjacent seat and raised an eyebrow at her. “Are we gonna talk about why you’re drinking hard liquor before the sun’s even set?”

Jackie Mulberry took another sip then set down her glass. “Makes talking to a bunch of strangers more tolerable.”

Angelina Auburn shrugged. “Fair enough. But one is plenty. After that I’m cutting you off.”

Jackie Mulberry laughed through her nose, eyes fixed downward as she swirled around the ice in her drink. “Yes, sir.” She gave a tiny salute.

Angelina Auburn grumbled — it wasn’t like she relished having to be the responsible one any more than Jackie Mulberry relished being babysat — but before she could respond, Emerald popped out from whatever back room he’d disappeared to.

“Good news!” he proclaimed as he approached, drumming lightly on the bar. “You’re all set for tonight.”

“Great!” she replied, rising from her seat and nudging her companion to do the same. “We’ll see you later, then.”

“I look forward to hearing you play,” Emerald said with a half-smile. 

Jackie Mulberry quickly downed the rest of the drink, then exhaled as if she were a dragon breathing fire, before trailing after Angelina Auburn back to the street.

***

They left their performance feeling dissatisfied; it had been a low-energy affair. They essentially played background music for the fancy folk to listen to while they dined and drank. Angelina Auburn had no problem with slow songs, but there had truly been no revelry in that performance. Even Katy Fern and Josie Pine had struggled to maintain their cheerful facades. The only benefit was the food; Emerald had slipped them some of the leftovers their audience had left on their plates — steaks and soups and sauces with flavors Angelina Auburn couldn’t have imagined. The Covey didn’t have access to many spices on the road, and she feared her body would go into shock from the abundance of flavor. She couldn’t fathom that those people would just leave their food uneaten, let alone food so delicious, but she was grateful they did. 

When the bar closed, they returned to the street where they had parked their wagons and fell asleep on their bedmats, one laid inside each wagon, another underneath. Angelina Auburn wound up below, cramped in the space with three others. She did eventually find sleep, despite her antsiness following an underwhelming performance and her eagerness to get the hell out of this town. 

A loud banging sound startled her awake, several sharp raps one after the other. Angelina Auburn shimmied out from under the wagon to see a man dressed in a pale gray armored suit and helmet, beating the wooden edge of their wagon with a baton. She quickly rose to her feet, not liking the feeling of gazing up at this officer from the ground.

“What’s going on?” she asked, her voice raspy upon waking. Gradually, more of the Covey stepped out from the wagon. 

“You can’t sleep here,” the man said in a deep, flat voice, as if it was obvious that this completely empty street was unavailable for the evening. “And you can’t have horses on city streets, either. They leave a mess.”

The Covey all stared at this man, sleep-addled, as they processed his words. 

“Where can we sleep, then?” Katy Fern asked, arms crossed, leaning up against the painted side of the wagon.

“In a hotel,” the man said, speaking like his audience was slow-minded. “Or a house.” 

“The hotels wouldn’t have us,” Willie Sienna said, rubbing at his eyes.

“Well, you’ll have to find someplace else to go then.”

“We—” Katy Fern began, but the man cut her off, any pretense of friendliness gone.

“Let me be clearer: you all are currently trespassing on government property. If you do not leave, I will be forced to arrest you.”

Angelina Auburn’s eyebrows shot up at that. “Arrested for sleeping?” She had not meant to say it, and she immediately felt embarrassment heating her cheeks as she clamped her mouth shut.

“Go. Now.” The officer stood taller in an attempt to make himself seem more intimidating, even though Angelina Auburn was near his height, and Willie Sienna was towering over him. 

Cora Rose held up a hand to keep anyone else from saying something unwise. “We’ll be on our way, sir,” came her gravelly voice in response. The officer left them alone at that, but he stood watch just at the end of the street, so that he could monitor them until he was sure the streetrats were out of his precious city for good.

Angelina Auburn helped pull the bed mats out and shoved them back in the wagons, and then they all began piling back inside, dejected. She peered out the back of the wagon as they began rolling down the street, watching that officer recede into the distance. Peacekeepers, they called themselves, according to John Indigo. Real peaceful, dragging a sleeping family out of their beds. Most of the people Angelina Auburn had met were wary of the Covey’s nomadic ways, associating them with the many desperate refugees created by natural disasters and famines, but at least they had the freedom to leave a hostile place on their own terms.

As she watched the city lights slowly fading from view, replaced by the light of the moon, Angelina Auburn realized she had no clue where they were going, but anywhere must be better than this damnable city.

Chapter Text

Willie Sienna hummed to himself as he meandered around the perimeter of the cobbler’s shop that reeked of leather, where Jackie Mulberry was currently being fitted for a new pair of boots. She had long outgrown her old leather work boots, now sitting on the ground beside her — though of course she would never complain. In comparison to the rows of pristine, hand-crafted shoes, they were in a sorry state: the soles were half peeled off, the leather was scratched and torn, and they were so dirt-stained their original color was lost to time. Thankfully, though, the young salesman had not judged upon seeing them; he had simply shown Jackie Mulberry to a seat and gotten right to work.

“Do you have a color preference?” he asked after the third style he’d had her try on.

Jackie Mulberry looked up at Josie Pine blankly. “Do I have a color preference?” 

“Certainly,” she said, and began sifting through the different options. “I think this light brown would suit you best. Willie Sienna?”

He ambled back over to them, whistling as he went. “What’s that?”

“This color? Do you agree?”

“Oh, yeah. Perfect choice, Jose.” 

Josie Pine held the boots up next to Jackie Mulberry and squinted, ignoring Willie Sienna’s meaningless approval. She had insisted on joining her adoptive sister on this outing for fashion input, and she took her duties seriously. Willie Sienna, well… he’d simply had nothing else to do on their second afternoon in New Lignite.

“Great!” the salesman said. “I’ll go grab those in your size.” 

He perused the rows of boots before him. Before he could present Jackie Mulberry with her new shoes, though, his attention snapped over to the door as the little bell announced a new customer. Willie Sienna followed his gaze to the middle-aged couple who had entered: the man was dressed in a jet black suit and silk tie that probably cost more than the Covey scraped up in a year, and the woman in a poofy gold dress with hair to match. The salesman immediately rushed over to help them, leaving the Covey in the dust. Willie Sienna scowled after him.

“How may I be of service?” the salesman asked obsequiously, his voice rising half an octave.

“My husband needs new dress shoes,” she said flatly, inspecting her long glittery nails. “These ones are scuffed.”

Willie Sienna glanced down at the polished black loafers and blurted, “Hell, we’ll take them if you don’t want them.”

The couple glanced over at him with disdain, noses crinkling in disgust. Willie Sienna stood a little taller in defiance.

“Willie Sienna,” Josie Pine hissed. 

“What? It’s us or the dumpster. One man’s trash and all that.”

Willie Sienna was enjoying the rise he was clearly getting out of these snobs, but when the salesman shot him a nervous look, he backed down, turning back to Jackie Mulberry and Josie Pine, whose wide eyes and tight lips showed how mortified they were by his behavior.

“Sorry,” he said, looking down at his own disheveled boots.

He was forced to sit in the awkward silence he had created as the wealthy woman painstakingly made the salesman fetch a dozen different styles for her husband to try on. The pervasive scent of leather in the store began to give him a headache. Finally, after what must have been a half hour spent twiddling his thumbs, the couple settled on a pair that looked identical to all the rest. The man plopped a gold coin in the salesman’s hand and left the shop, collecting neither their change nor the shoes he had come in with. 

The salesman approached them once more. “I’m so sorry about that. There are some customers that demand immediate attention, or there’s hell to pay.”

“We understand,” Josie Pine said sweetly. “Don’t sweat a drop over it.”

At length, they checked out, dropping about half the money they had been allotted on Jackie Mulberry’s new boots. As they continued exploring town, Josie Pine insisted they buy some makeup, too — a rarity these days — and was so excited about her purchase that she walked out of the store with glitter on her eyelids and rouge on her cheeks. Jackie Mulberry patiently sat through the whole beautifying endeavor despite her complete and utter lack of interest in anything the salon had to offer, while Willie Sienna spent the time chatting with the young woman behind the counter.

As they continued on their path, the buildings on either side of them grew sparser, and they increasingly had to sidestep giant piles of rubble on the side of the road. Willie Sienna had initially assumed that these mountains of bricks were just to fuel the construction industry in this growing city, but the crumbling old buildings scattered throughout the city revealed their true origin.

Samson Slate had explained that Panem was the only power in the region — and, as far as they knew, the whole continent — that had the technological capabilities to build bombs. And if New Lignite was any indication, they were not shy in using that ability. It was baffling, though; this was clearly a large town that housed several thousand people, and yet half the buildings — prime real estate — were in shambles, bricks and stones lying scattered all about them. Willie Sienna wondered if they were left intentionally, as a reminder of the cost of opposing Panem: destruction.

Eventually, they exited the residential part of town and came upon an area that was nothing but coal-stained ruins and dry grassland — not an intact house in sight. In the distance, Willie Sienna could see a group of Peacekeepers huddled around some sort of wooden structure; their pale uniforms stood out against the blackened landscape.

“What is that?” Josie Pine asked, squinting.

Neither Willie Sienna nor Jackie Mulberry could answer that question, so they continued walking cautiously toward the site. They were none too eager to come face-to-face with a Peacekeeper again after their ousting from Beulah, but neither could they resist their curiosity. Willie Sienna’s eyes darted around nervously as they approached. As the oldest of the group, he felt responsible for Jackie Mulberry and Josie Pine, and he didn’t want to do anything that could endanger them.

Upon their approach, they could see gaunt, grimy people carting wheelbarrows in and out of a small hill with a squat, square entrance in its side that immediately descended into darkness. They wore beige clothing that was almost entirely stained black and bast shoes that did not seem nearly sufficient protection for their labor. Willie Sienna turned his attention back to the Peacekeepers, who he could now see were standing guard over a shack teeming with large burlap sacks, most labeled “FLOUR,” though some “CORN” and “BEANS” as well.

Willie Sienna watched as one gaunt, gray-haired miner pushed his wheelbarrow toward the Peacekeepers and dumped the coal onto a hanging scale. One Peacekeeper peered at the scale and said nonchalantly, “Still short.”

The miner deflated, and he hesitated for a moment in front of the Peacekeepers, gazing down at his insufficient bounty, then at the sacks of food that stood just out of his reach.

“What, are you dense?” the Peacekeeper snapped, his demeanor transforming from relaxed to enraged in a heartbeat. “Get back down there and earn your keep, you worthless scum! Not one of you is getting your rations until we reach the quota.”

The man rushed away from the Peacekeeper, across the field toward the shadowy entrance of the mine. 

“That’s horrible,” Josie Pine murmured. Jackie Mulberry hummed her agreement. As the miner walked past, Josie Pine began digging through her bag. She took a step toward him, and Willie Sienna grabbed her by the arm.

“What are you doing?” he whispered.

“We can’t just do nothing,” Josie Pine said. “Look at them; they’re practically starving. It’s inhumane.”

Willie Sienna hesitated. Normally, he would be leading the charge on a good-hearted misadventure such as this, but he had to be the grown-up right now. Josie Pine made the decision before he could, though; she shook free of his grasp and strode right up to the hobbling miner, her powder blue dress and matching hair ribbons flapping in the wind. Willie Sienna reluctantly followed behind with Jackie Mulberry as she pulled the loaf of bread they had bought earlier that day from her bag.

“Hey,” she said gently, just loud enough to catch the old miner’s attention. “Here. Take this.” Josie Pine extended the bread to him. 

The emaciated man shook his head fervently, eyes wide. 

“It’s alright. We don’t need it. We have more to eat back home. Take it.”

“You should go,” the miner said firmly, glancing with a panicked look back toward where the Peacekeepers stood laughing at some jape. “Don’t interfere; you’ll only get yourself in trouble.”

He rushed back toward the mine’s entrance, and Josie Pine stared after him with wide, disillusioned eyes. She looked over at Jackie Mulberry and Willie Sienna. “I just wanted to help.”

“Let’s go back to the wagons,” Jackie Mulberry said gently. “I’m sure they’re expecting us.”

Reluctantly, Josie Pine trudged back home beside them. “It was a good thing you did,” Willie Sienna said as they walked. “Even if it didn’t work. People need to be shown some humanity.”

“People need to eat, too.” Josie Pine got a far-off look in her eyes, twisting the end of her braid in her fingers as she often did when lost in her memories. 

Willie Sienna knew Josie Pine was right, even if he didn’t want to admit it. He tried to remain optimistic in life, but the more he got to know this area, the more difficult that optimism was to find. Things had to change here, but he couldn’t imagine how that change could possibly be made.

***

Willie Sienna lay on his back on the stage of the restaurant they’d be performing in that night, his head hanging off the side so he could watch the street through the window as he strummed aimlessly on his guitar. The rest of the Covey were slightly more intentional in their warmups, but Willie Sienna had never really felt the need for it. He played his guitar so frequently he never “cooled down,” so why bother warming up?

Willie Sienna noticed in his people-watching that the locals had all started moving in the same direction, and they grew increasingly more rushed to get to their mystery destination as time went on. He shot up and hopped off the stage, setting down his guitar. 

“Guys,” he announced, “something’s going on out there.”

“What is it?” Josie Pine asked, setting down the decorations she had been affixing to the stage that subtly covered the crimson flag of Panem hanging above them. She tilted her head to get a better view of the window, squinting her big round eyes. 

“I don’t know. Let’s go check it out! Maybe something worth doing this afternoon after all.” Willie Sienna reached the door and, feeling that he was not being followed, called back over his shoulder, “Come on!”

Patrick Cardinal was the first to acquiesce; he removed his banjo strap and strode after Willie Sienna. The others were quick to follow.

They trailed the crowd down the main street. The lines of manicured trees blocked half the sidewalk, forcing them to squeeze in on each other every 50 feet, then spread back out again. Willie Sienna tried to approach a stranger to ask where they were going, but nobody spared even a momentary glance in the Covey’s direction. 

They turned a corner, and his question was swiftly answered. 

A massive crowd had gathered in front of a raised platform. At one end of the platform, there was a large wall constructed haphazardly of untreated wood, which was stained with overlapping rust-colored splotches. The source of these stains became clear to Willie Sienna as Peacekeepers dragged two prisoners up onto the platform and bound them to poles in front of the wooden wall. A sick roiling took over Willie Sienna’s stomach as he realized what was unfolding.

Several more officers stepped up onto the platform. They wore that same light gray uniform as the officer who had booted them from Beulah — all except one, who wore a decorated crimson military suit and a peaked cap where the others wore helmets. It was this man who addressed the crowd.

“Citizens of Panem,” his voice boomed through an electric speaker, and all the whispered conversation among the crowd silenced. Willie Sienna shared a look of dread with Patrick Cardinal, who was chewing his lip so aggressively it had begun to bleed. “This great nation — our foundation, our values — serves as a beacon of hope, not just to our own citizens, but all across this continent. In order to preserve the glorious ideals Panem represents, we must one and all defend our country, from threats within and without.”

Anticipatory whispers spread throughout the crowd, but Willie Sienna was focused solely on the prisoners, bound and gagged. One of them was younger than him, still a teenager judging by his boyish face, the other middle-aged. They looked similar enough to be a father and son; perhaps they were. 

Willie Sienna turned away from the stage momentarily at the sound of quarreling voices behind him and saw Katy Fern carrying Andrew Lilac, and her father Samson Slate picking up a recalcitrant Jubilee Canary. The pair rushed off with the little ones, back in the direction they’d come from. John Indigo was trying to coax Jackie Mulberry and Josie Pine back to the venue as well; he placed a firm hand on Jackie Mulberry’s shoulder and turned her to face him, but she shoved him off, turning back to the platform.

“Treason,” the commander continued in his booming voice, “is the most vile of crimes. It is a disease, and any remaining treacherous sentiments threaten to spread. There can be no place for it in Panem. It must be ripped out, root and stem.” Several in the crowd voiced their agreement with this statement. “These men,” he held his arm out in the direction of the prisoners, “are guilty of conspiracy against the Capitol.” He paused to look over the crowd, as if he were making eye contact with every single one of them, before continuing, “The punishment is death!”

To Willie Sienna’s shock and revulsion, he heard cheers emanating from all around him, shouts of agreement being called out.

“Die, traitors!”

“Filthy animals!”

“Long live Panem!”

Only a handful of locals — those in coal-stained rags, gathered just in front of the stage — remained silent, solemn. Willie Sienna stared in horror along with them as the pack of officers lined up across from the prisoners and trained their guns on them. The son looked at his father with terror in his eyes, and even from this distance Willie Sienna could see the tears streaming down the father’s face, glinting in the light of the setting sun. He did not notice when, but Angelina Auburn was now standing beside him, and she looked up at him fearfully. He took a protective step closer to her, their shoulders pressed together, and together they watched the unfolding atrocity.

The commander raised his hand, held it there for an unbearably long moment, then swung it down quickly. The moment he did, the deafening boom of a dozen rifles firing at once momentarily took away Willie Sienna’s hearing. He heard a high-pitched ringing in his ears as he watched the prisoners’ bodies jolt with the impact of several bullets striking them all at once. Their blood splattered on the wall behind them, joining the countless others who had been murdered in their very spots, and they slumped down lifelessly where they stood.

As his hearing returned to him, Willie Sienna was accosted by the cheering of the locals. These monsters surrounding him were whooping, some even shouting obscenities at the dead bodies on the stage. But Willie Sienna was almost more appalled by the fancy folk at the edges of the crowd, dressed in their finery and clapping lightly, as if they were watching a show at the theater and not a gruesome murder.

“We gotta get out of here,” Patrick Cardinal said lifelessly, the comment directed to none of them in particular. There was an unspoken sense of agreement, and soon the Covey were rushing back the way they’d come, shoving carelessly through the exultant crowd. 

Soon they were racing back to the venue, all but Isabel Bronze and Mateo, who stayed back to walk with Cora Rose. The beautiful pinks and oranges of the sunset sky taunted Willie Sienna as he ran, starkly contrasting with the image of bloodied bodies flashing through his mind. 

He burst through the door of their venue, resting his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. Once his heart rate had slowed, he leaned his back up against the painted red wall of the restaurant and slumped down to the ground, laying his head in his hands. 

There was a heavy silence as everyone reentered, sitting with what they had just witnessed. Katy Fern and Samson Slate crept out from backstage. Even Jubilee Canary seemed to sense the solemnity of the moment and remained uncharacteristically silent. 

“We…” Isabel Bronze doubted herself a moment, daintily wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead before continuing, “We should leave this place.” 

Angelina Auburn nodded in agreement, as did several others, but it was, surprisingly, Jackie Mulberry who voiced her dissent. 

“No,” she declared, jutting out her square chin. Her short curly hair fell to cover her forehead, and she hastily brushed it back. “I think these people need to hear our music. Get some enlightenment. It’s like you always say, Mamaw,” she turned to Cora Rose, “the darkest times are when people need music the most. I’m sure not everyone in this city agrees with what is happening, and those people need some encouragement.”

Cora Rose gave Jackie Mulberry an appraising look. She did not voice agreement or disagreement, but there was pride in her eyes as she looked at young Jackie Mulberry.

“You’re right,” Katy Fern agreed. “I’ve got some things I’d like to say to the people of this town.”

“Katy Fern,” Samson Slate said sternly, “we need to tread carefully here. We know what these people are capable of.”

“I will, Papa,” she insisted. “I swear it on my strings.”

“It’s settled, then?” Patrick Cardinal asked tentatively. There were some hesitant nods. Angelina Auburn voiced her assent despite looking like she was about to hurl. Willie Sienna was similarly terrified to stay in this town a second longer, but he shoved that fear down and replaced it with anger — with righteous indignation. Katy Fern was right; there were some things the people of Panem needed to hear. And the Covey were no cowards.

***

It was a somber performance that night. The crowd didn’t seem to mind, or even notice, that their set comprised such mournful pieces as “Streets of Laredo” and “Undone in Sorrow.” When Katy Fern began singing “The Gallows Pole,” however, some heads did turn.

Hangman, hangman, slack your rope,

Slack it for a while.

I think I see my father coming,

Riding many a mile.

Papa, did you bring me silver?

Did you bring me gold?

Or did you come to see me

Hanging by the gallows pole?

I didn’t bring no silver.

Didn’t bring no gold.

I’ve only come to see you

Hanging by the gallows pole.

Willie Sienna played the sorrowful, bluesy notes on his guitar. Josie Pine, who normally preferred to be up and dancing in the center of the crowd, was instead sitting on the stage playing the dulcimer, for this crowd was completely stationary; they probably viewed dancing as beneath them. They sat drinking their wine and watching with suspicion as the song continued. 

While this song had many versions, most ended with the narrator being heroically rescued from their hanging. But Katy Fern chose the more somber version. It was strange seeing such darkness from her, dressed as she was like a shining sun: champagne-colored frilly blouse, black velvet vest embroidered with glittering gold beads, face highlighted with the shimmery makeup Josie Pine had bought earlier, and, tying her hair back, a gold hair stick that extended from the crown of her head like sunrays.

Hangman, hangman, slack your rope,

Upon your face a smile.

Pray tell me I’m free to ride

Ride for many a mile.

Yes, your brother brought me silver.

Your sister warmed my soul.

But now I laugh and pull so hard,

See you swinging from the gallows pole.

Swinging from the gallows pole.

As the song was concluding, Willie Sienna heard the door to the restaurant open. Two young men in blue jumpsuits entered. Willie Sienna recognized them immediately as executioners from the firing squad. And he saw from the glower on her face that Katy Fern recognized them, too. Rage filled Willie Sienna as he watched them sit down, laughing and joking with one another as if they had not murdered a family mere hours ago.

Katy Fern held the mic with a white-knuckled grip as she introduced their next song. “Now, this song was written not too long ago, back when this land was still called America, and it’s been on my mind a lot these days.” She laid on her typical on-stage sweetness, but Willie Sienna could hear the thinly-veiled contempt beneath. “It was written about a different war, but I think the message still applies.” She smirked at the crowd and added, “I hope you’ll agree.”

Then she turned back to Willie Sienna and whispered, “Masters of War.” Willie Sienna hesitated for a moment, and Samson Slate took a step forward, saying in a low, warning voice, “Katy Fern, no. You’re taking this too far.”

 But Katy Fern looked at them with such iron fury on her face that Willie Sienna knew he could not cower in this moment; her courage was contagious. He began to play.

Come, you masters of war,

You that build the big guns,

You that build the death planes,

You that build all the bombs,

You that hide behind walls,

You that hide behind desks,

I just want you to know I can see through your masks.

The rage was plain in Katy Fern’s voice as she sang through gritted teeth. A handful of the Covey joined in on the song; others stood on stage nervously, watching Katy Fern’s impassioned performance. As muscle memory propelled his fingers through the tune, Willie Sienna’s gaze was focused solely on the two off-duty peacekeepers, who were having a whispered conversation, glancing to and from the stage. Eventually, one of them stood and hurriedly exited the restaurant. 

That could not mean anything good.

As the song progressed, more and more people in the crowd paused their table conversations and turned their narrowed eyes on the Covey.

How much do I know,

To talk out of turn?

You might say that I'm young,

You might say I'm unlearned,

But there's one thing I know,

Though I'm younger than you,

That even Jesus would never forgive what you do.

Let me ask you one question:

Is your money that good?

Will it buy you forgiveness?

Do you think that it could?

I think you will find,

When your death takes its toll,

All the money you made will never buy back your soul.

They were not booed off the stage nor pelted with rotten tomatoes — for which Willie Sienna was grateful — but he could see in the scowls and glares of the audience that the people of Panem had understood their message, and they did not appreciate it.

It was during the last verse of the song that Peacekeepers began to stream into the building.

And I hope that you die,

And your death will come soon.

I'll follow your casket

On a pale afternoon.

I'll watch as you're lowered

Down to your deathbed,

And I'll stand over your grave 'til I'm sure that you're dead.

Before the music had ceased, the Peacekeepers were filtering through the crowd and making their way onto the stage. Willie Sienna halted mid-strum and set down his guitar. Without uttering a word, two of the peacekeepers roughly seized Katy Fern.

“Hey!” Willie Sienna shouted. “You get your hands off her!” He stepped up to one of the officers and grabbed him by the shoulder. The man elbowed him in the temple without hesitation of even a backward glance, and Willie Sienna dropped to the ground, a powerful throbbing immediately taking over his senses, impeding his ability to think. 

That was when the Covey began shouting. He heard Jubilee Canary crying out for her mama from the crowd, Isabel Bronze nervously calling his name, Samson Slate trying to give directions to the Covey that were lost in the mayhem. As Katy Fern was dragged away, she mouthed something to their mamaw, who took Jubilee Canary and Andrew Lilac in her arms and rushed out the side door of the building.

Willie Sienna struggled back to his feet, the pounding in his head worsening as he stood. 

It was bedlam on the stage. Patrick Cardinal had tried to flee, but one of the Peacekeepers had knocked him to the ground with his baton, and now knelt on his back as he bound his hands. Josie Pine was trying and failing to wriggle free of the grasp a Peacekeeper had on her arms, panic in her eyes. Jackie Mulberry successfully landed an elbow to an encroaching soldier’s jaw, but two more swiftly surrounded her before she could even think of escaping. The soldier she had elbowed struck her across the face in retaliation before she too was hauled out the door, her face remaining stony through the whole encounter. Samson Slate and Isabel Bronze were trying to negotiate with the Peacekeepers as they were escorted away, but their pleas fell on deaf ears.

There were dozens of officers on the stage. They had no chance. Resigned, Willie Sienna let the Peacekeepers grab him, as the older Covey had done, and lead him off the stage without further conflict, hands bound behind his back.

When he stepped outside, he saw that several of his relatives had already been loaded into the back of an armored truck. Josie Pine was weeping and rocking back and forth; John Indigo sat beside her, though he was unable to embrace her with his hands bound behind his back. Samson Slate was staring blankly at the metal wall of the truck, a resigned, world-weary look on his face. Angelina Auburn was watching the Peacekeeper dragging Willie Sienna like a hawk, terror and rage in her eyes.

The officer shoved him in the general direction of the doors, making him lose his balance. Without his hands to break his fall, Willie Sienna landed painfully, his shoulder making contact with the sharp edge of the truck. With a cruel laugh, the Peacekeeper grabbed him by the back of his shirt and hauled him up into the truck. As he settled into a sitting position, Willie Sienna met the Peacekeeper’s eyes, and it was clear from the disdainful way he looked at him, at all the Covey, that he did not view them as human. To this officer, he was simply rounding up cattle for the slaughter.

With the cargo all loaded into the truck, the metal doors slammed loudly behind them, and the truck lurched as it began driving them to their destination, wherever that may be.

Chapter Text

Angelina Auburn was shoved unceremoniously into a cell with the rest of the Covey, and the metal bars slammed shut behind them. All 11 of them were crammed into one holding cell together, which, in contrast with the splendor of the rest of this city, seemed to be in a state of disrepair. Perhaps the poor condition was a purposeful design choice or merely a product of underutilization, but the prison was a small, cramped building only one story tall, half underground, and its walls were unadorned concrete, inside and out. Vines and bushes grew up along the outer wall and crept in through the few barred windows. A drip fell from the ceiling, creating a dubiously translucent puddle on the floor before her, and the whole place had a moldy smell that was making her nauseous.

Angelina Auburn had not truly understood the finality of their situation until she heard the sound of that door slamming into place echoing down the hallway, the clinking of the lock soon to follow. She had no idea what Panem’s laws were; they could be imprisoned for years, or maybe even executed as traitors, just like those poor men they’d witnessed today. She looked around the room at the other terrified faces. John Indigo and Patrick Cardinal sat beside each other, the brothers looking more grim-faced than she had ever seen them. Samson Slate was furiously scrawling in his notebook, taking fastidious notes on the prison and the events of the night so that he wouldn’t be forced to ponder their new reality. Angelina Auburn and Willie Sienna — who was developing quite the shiner, his eye swollen and slowly turning purple — sat beside their parents, Mateo and Isabel Bronze, who both had mournful looks on their faces.

But Angelina Auburn was not feeling mournful — not yet, anyway. She was filled with a seething rage. She glanced around the silent jail cell, waiting for someone else to address the elephant in the room. No one did.

“Fine, I’ll say it,” Angelina Auburn announced. “Katy Fern, if we ever get out of here, I’m going to beat the stuffing out of you.”

“You’re mad at me?” The genuine look of surprise on her cousin’s face only increased her rage.

“YES!” Angelina Auburn yelled across the cell. “Of course we’re mad at you. You got us all arrested!” 

“Angelita,” her father said softly, “Basta. It’s not the time to argue.”

“I know I’m not the only one.” She looked around at the rest of the Covey for support, not that she really expected any; everyone always went so easy on Katy Fern. She would just put on her puppy-dog eyes, and whatever wrongs she had committed were forgotten. But Angelina Auburn would not let that happen this time.

“It’s these people you should be angry with, instead of turning against your own!” Katy Fern shot back, waving her arm in the general direction where the guards had gone. “The murderers. The colonizers. The people who would arrest an entire family over a song.”

Angelina Auburn groaned. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Oh, quit acting so holier-than-thou over there, like you’ve never made a mistake in your life.”

“All I’ve ever done is try to hold this family together, keep us functioning, while you’re off shopping, or partying, or gallivanting around with whatever man you fancy this week.” Katy Fern’s eyes filled with fire at that, and Angelina Auburn knew she had crossed a line. Beside her, Willie Sienna whispered her name reproachfully, but she pressed on. “Well, I guess I should thank you. We sure are together, locked in this jail cell!” She slammed her fist against the concrete wall.

“How dare you?” Katy Fern said through gritted teeth. “I’m sorry you don’t have the courage God gave to a mouse, but some of us are—”

Samson Slate interrupted his daughter’s tirade. “Katy Fern,” he said in his measured voice, setting down his notebook to look his daughter in the eye, “what you did was irresponsible and reckless. You put our entire family, our entire culture, at risk because of your own short temper.”

Katy Fern looked at her father, eyes glinting with tears, and all the fight went out of her in an instant. She slumped against the wall of the cell. She was still wearing her bright stage clothes and glittery gold makeup, which seemed terribly out of place under the eerie fluorescent light and the gray monotone of their surroundings. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I was just trying to help these people.”

But Samson Slate was done discussing it; he ran a hand through his short salt-and-pepper hair and stared down at the floor somberly.

Isabel Bronze replied in his stead. “Sometimes, you need to know when something’s out of your power. We can’t fight every battle.”

Katy Fern nodded, staring at her fidgeting hands. Isabel Bronze turned her attention to Angelina Auburn next, shooting her a disappointed look. Angelina Auburn felt the sharp sting of embarrassment, knowing her mother would never have lost her composure like she just had. But she still couldn’t help feeling bitter. Their mamaw would say that holding onto your anger just consumed you from the inside out like rot to a tree, that any family that holds grudges won’t stay a family for very long. The Covey way required forgiveness. But the Covey way might go extinct thanks to her cousin’s actions. Angelina Auburn had never felt so hopeless.

She sat there for eons and ages, stewing in her fear and depression — and shame at the things she had said to her cousin. She listened to the sound of water droplets plunking into the murky puddle at regular intervals, avoiding eye contact with everyone, until Willie Sienna’s voice interrupted her spiral. “You can’t take my past.” Angelina Auburn lifted her head and looked over at her brother, who, despite everything that had happened, had the hint of a grin on his bruised face.

Jackie Mulberry joined him. “You can’t take my history.” Josie Pine was curled up in the corner beside her, and Jackie Mulberry, in a rare show of physical affection, wrapped her arm around Josie Pine and pulled her closer to her side. Josie Pine gave a small smile up at her adoptive sister and sang tentatively along with her, “You could take my pa, but his name’s a mystery.” 

Angelina Auburn joined them, and soon enough the whole jail cell was singing. “Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keeping.” 

Angelina Auburn faintly heard heavy footsteps coming toward them, but she carried on without a care, feeling strengthened by the song and the voices of all her loved ones behind her. They sang louder and louder with each line.

You can’t take my charm.

You can’t take my humor.

You can’t take my wealth,

‘Cause it’s just a rumor.

Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keeping.

The guard came and banged on the bars of their cage, yelling at them to “BE QUIET!”, but the songbirds were undeterred.

Thinking you’re so fine.

Thinking you can have mine.

Thinking you’re in control.

Thinking you’ll change me,

Maybe rearrange me,

Think again if that’s your goal.

Willie Sienna leaned toward the bars so he could taunt the Peacekeeper to his face, and Patrick Cardinal and Katy Fern followed suit. Several of the Covey were standing up now and staring their captors down defiantly.

You can’t take my sass.

You can’t take my talking.

You can kiss my ass,

Then keep on walking.

Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keeping.

Mateo was stomping on the ground with his steel-toe boots and slapping his hand against the prison wall to create a beat for them, and even the Peacekeeper’s baton banging on the bars and his whistling for his comrades to join him became a part of their music.

No, sir!

Nothing you can take from me is worth dirt.

Take it ‘cause I’d give it free. It won’t hurt.

Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keeping!

The Covey all burst into laughter even as more guards accumulated by their door. They were trying to yell something at them, but Angelina Auburn could not hear it — or chose not to, anyway. 

Until, that is, one of the guards unlocked their door and stepped inside. The Covey instantly fell silent, their high spirits vanishing. Angelina Auburn froze where she stood, heart in her stomach as she sized up the Peacekeeper who was now only a foot away from her, with no barrier in between them. 

The guard was still in his teenage years, by the look of the sparse little mustache he was trying to grow. His hair fell to an awkward length, not quite long enough to tie back, but long enough to get in his face when he moved his head.

“You pull that shit again, and you won’t be getting any meals for a week,” he said, pointing his baton at all of them one by one.

“You didn’t like our song, officer?” Katy Fern asked sweetly. 

The Peacekeeper scowled, but did not utter a word in retort. Instead, he simply raised his nightstick and clubbed Katy Fern in the side of the torso. She let out a groan and doubled over, clutching her ribcage. Samson Slate rushed over to her side.

“That’s your final warning,” the boy said, trying to sound menacing as he exited and locked the door behind him.

Katy Fern sank to the ground silently, and Samson Slate had a hand on her shoulder as he glared seethingly at the retreating Peacekeeper.

“Are you alright?” Angelina Auburn asked quietly.

Katy Fern looked up and unfolded herself, regaining some composure as she moved to sit cross-legged, though she still kept one hand clutched to her side. “Suppose that’s my penance, huh?”

Angelina Auburn laughed lightly, and in that moment, she let go of her anger — and hoped her cousin could do the same. Katy Fern might be headstrong, but they were Covey, and they were kin. Nothing would change that.

***

Angelina Auburn was roused by the sound of footsteps. She shot upright but calmed when she realized it was only the changing of the guard. After their stunt earlier that evening, there had been a Peacekeeper stationed outside their door at all times. She took a glance around the room; all of the Covey were sleeping, except for Katy Fern, who was sitting with her legs tucked into her chest, staring down at the floor with wide eyes. She had been gradually withdrawing all night, though Angelina Auburn was not sure whether it was fear or guilt that was haunting her.

Their old guard strolled down the hallway toward the sounds of several other Peacekeepers’ drinking and carousing. From the simultaneous cheers and groans, Angelina Auburn guessed they were gambling. She glanced back at their cell door and saw that their new sentry was looking at her with what, in the darkness, appeared to be a smile. It was an eerie sight coming from a Peacekeeper, and she feared what was going through the young man’s mind. When he caught Angelina Auburn’s gaze, he said sheepishly, “That was a nice song you guys sang earlier.”

Angelina Auburn glanced around her out of instinct, confirming that he was in fact talking to her and not one of her sleeping and/or catatonic relatives. “Thanks,” she replied tentatively. 

“Where’s that from? I never heard anything like it before.” He sounded earnest, but Angelina Auburn mistrusted; maybe the other officers had sent him in as a spy, to get to know the Covey’s secrets. Though even as she thought it, the ridiculousness of that plot struck her: what secrets could the Covey possibly have that would merit undercover detective work?

“It was written by one of us.”

“Us?” He took a step closer to the cell, and the moonlight streaming through the thin metal bars of their window fell on his face. He had dark, round eyes, a broad nose, and his eyebrows were raised in what looked like genuine curiosity.

Angelina Auburn hesitated to elaborate, but she figured it was all public information. Plus, what could the Peacekeepers do to her long-dead ancestors? “The Covey. We’ve been traveling these lands performing for over a century.” Remembering her current situation, she added glumly, “Though I guess that’s over now.” 

The Peacekeeper frowned, but he did not respond to her doom-and-gloom comment. Instead, he simply said, “My name’s Geordie.”

She gave him a slight nod. “Angelina Auburn.”

“That’s an unusual name,” Geordie replied, voice rising at the end in question.

“That’s how all Covey names are. First name from a ballad, second a color.”

“A ballad?”

“An old song. One that tells a story.”

“So… what ballad is ‘Angelina’ from?”

Angelina Auburn rambled on about her name ballad and the Covey traditions, Geordie listening intently, and as they conversed, she found herself growing unwittingly comfortable around Geordie. He told her what life was like in New Lignite, and about how much he missed his family. Angelina Auburn couldn't imagine being separated from her own family for a day, let alone weeks at a time. They talked for nearly an hour — she wound up sitting up against the bars so their conversation wouldn’t wake her family as Geordie told her more about his family and what life was like in New Lignite — before Angelina Auburn asked the question that had been scratching at her this whole time.

“Why are you a Peacekeeper?” she blurted. “I mean, you just seem… very different from the others we’ve had the distinct pleasure of meeting.”

Geordie laughed. “It’s true; they are an agreeable bunch.” But his voice lost its levity as he continued. “Honestly? For the money. This is one of the only steady jobs somebody like me could get in a town like this.”

“Somebody like you?” 

Geordie sighed, leaning against the wall opposite their cell. “My daddy raised me and my siblings on a farm a few miles outside of town. Decent living, growing grain for the city’s population, but it felt like every other year some catastrophe would hit us: a drought, a fire, even a tornado once. In those years, ‌the hunger was a constant ache. It killed one of my brothers before he could even walk. I just couldn’t keep living a life where I never knew if I would survive the winter. So, here I am. Peacekeepers are about the lowest on the food chain in a fancy town like this, so they don’t mind taking in some poor farm boy, as long as we look presentable in front of the higher-ups.”

Angelina Auburn understood his reasoning; the Covey had known desperate hunger a few times that she could remember, and it could drive a person to madness. Still, she could not imagine living a life that required taking orders all day, having no freedom to do what she knew was right. “How do you stand it?”

Geordie shrugged. “I help where I can. For instance,” he leaned in close to the cell, glancing around nervously and lowering his voice to a whisper. Angelina Auburn moved closer too, unsure where he was going with this. “Say you’re on guard duty for a perfectly nice family of very talented musicians.” Angelina Auburn chuckled, but Geordie was not done. “Say this jail you’re working in was an old school building, back before Panem took over this place, and the windows in the laundry room down that hallway,” he gestured with his head as he spoke, “haven’t been barred yet. Say the next guard on shift is a fan of the corn liquor and tends to nod off when he’s hungover. Say you just happen to stumble upon an extra key to the cell.” As he spoke, he removed a silver key from the crowded ring at his belt, slipped it through the bars, and placed it on the ground. Angelina Auburn cautiously reached out and slid the key toward her, leaving it under her skirt, out of Geordie’s reach but not quite in her possession yet. “Well, what that family decides to do with that information is really out of your hands, now, isn’t it?”

Angelina Auburn’s mouth dropped open, and she stared at Geordie for a long time before she whispered, “You’re serious?” He nodded once. “But what happens if we get caught?”

Geordie’s face twisted at that. “Honestly, I don’t know. Best case, you get moved to a higher-security facility. Worst case… I don’t know. There aren’t a lot of consistent rules here; hell, I don’t even know how long they’re planning on locking you up as is. I’m just giving you the information. What you do with it is up to you. Just… if you do, make sure you scratch up the lock so it looks like you guys picked it; that way they won’t be suspicious of my involvement.”

Angelina Auburn reached through the bars and laid a hand on Geordie’s arm. “Thank you, Geordie. Truly, thank you.” It felt insufficient, but she didn’t know what else she could say or do that could even approach what Geordie had done for the Covey. “Just… give me a minute to talk to the higher-ups.” He nodded, glancing down at her hand with an inscrutable look. Angelina Auburn quickly withdrew, but she did pocket the key before heading farther back into the cell.

She hurried over to her mother’s side and shook her awake. As always, her mother looked refined and composed as she calmly rose to a sitting position, as if she had expected to be woken at this precise moment in the middle of the night. 

“What’s going on?” she asked, running her fingers through her ever-so-slightly knotted light brown hair.

“Mama,” she whispered, “I was talking to that guard,” she nodded toward Geordie, who smiled awkwardly at her mother, “and he said he knows a way we can escape.” Isabel Bronze raised her eyebrows skeptically, and Angelina Auburn explained the scheme to her. She stared at the ground pensively, eyes darting back and forth as if she were reading an invisible book. Then she woke the rest of the adults, and they had a hushed debate that Angelina Auburn could hardly make out. It seemed that Samson Slate thought the escapade was too risky, but Mateo was firm that it was their only way out of this mess. Angelina Auburn glanced back at Geordie, who was staring up at the ceiling, pretending not to listen.

Finally, the huddle broke, and Isabel Bronze beckoned to Geordie, who glanced down the hallway before approaching. “You’re certain about this?”

“As certain as I can be,” he replied in a low voice. “I know the guard whose shift is after mine; he’s a deep sleeper and always hungover at the start of his shift, and the other guards won’t bother checking unless they hear something. Plus, you may find other friends along the way.” This last statement was accompanied by the slightest raise of his eyebrows.

Isabel Bronze nodded once, thanked Geordie, then set about rousing the others. The possibility of escape lifted even Katy Fern from her doldrums, though it did set about a fresh anxiety of its own.

It all happened how Geordie had described. At dawn, he was replaced by a middle-aged man with dark purple bags under his eyes. He was asleep within an hour, and Angelina Auburn glanced back hesitantly at her parents before withdrawing the key. But, remembering Geordie’s request, she first pulled the gold clip from her hair, decorated with the silhouette of a dove in flight, and stuck her hand through the bars, using the sharp end to scratch at the lock. When it looked sufficiently damaged, she returned the clip to her hair and ever so cautiously slid the key into the lock and twisted. 

Angelina Auburn cringed at the faint metal clink that seemed to reverberate down the hallway. She glanced up at the guard, but his snoring was uninterrupted. Slowly, she pushed the cell door open and tiptoed down the hall toward the back of the building, where Geordie had directed them, glancing over her shoulder constantly to ensure the guards had not spotted them. She heard the shuffling of her family following along behind her, and immediately hated that she had placed herself at the head of the column. 

They passed a dozen empty cells, Angelina Auburn’s heart pounding so quickly she was short of breath, before reaching the end of the hallway. She grabbed the handle of the only wooden door she saw and pulled gently, heart beating so intently that she felt her pulse in her hand pounding against the cold metal, but the door eased open to reveal a small room cramped with rumbling washers and dryers. The group quickly began to enter the room, the tension slightly reduced for a moment, with the steady thrum of the machinery providing a comforting cover for any noise the Covey might make. 

As she led the Covey inside, Angelina Auburn ran her eyes around the room to find a means of escape. Though their situation was better than being in a locked cell, their escape was far from complete; they needed to get out of sight now. With every second that passed, Angelina Auburn was more certain that a Peacekeeper would enter the hallway and their escape would be foiled. Her eyes landed on a solitary glass window that stood above the washers; through the glass, she saw grass growing only a few inches below.

As the last of her family piled into the laundry room, Angelina Auburn hauled herself up on top of one of the trembling machines and examined the window. She lifted the rusty metal latch on its side and began to wrestle with the heavy window that had slumped into its frame, when she noticed with a start another set of hands on the outside, lifting the window with her.

Angelina Auburn stumbled backward in shock, nearly losing her footing and falling off the shaking machine before righting herself. She looked out again, expecting to see the pale gray of a Peacekeeper uniform, but instead saw only a middle-aged woman in a faded cotton dress and worn-down leather boots, giving her a quizzical look through the glass. This must be the friend Geordie had mentioned, she realized, cheeks heating. Returning to the window, she heaved upward again, alongside this woman, until the old wooden paneling finally gave with a creaking groan.

Without hesitation, Angelina Auburn squeezed herself through the window and soon found herself standing on the grass outside, alone with this stranger. Neither said a word, and both women immediately took to helping pull her relatives through the small opening. Once all the Covey had escaped and the window was closed behind them again, this woman silently directed them to follow her.

She led them down the street and around to the other side of a neighboring brick building, where a fire escape ran the length of the building, from the second floor all the way up to the roof, but accessible only via a long ladder that hung from the side of the metal structure. The ladder had been lowered so that it reached all the way to the street level, and without question, Angelina Auburn hopped up to grab hold of the first rung and began climbing, not once glancing down at the receding ground.

She clambered all four stories up the rickety structure and pulled herself onto the roof, which was surrounded by a comforting three-foot tall brick wall. Once all the Covey had joined her, fanning out to sit in a circle around the edge of the roof, Angelina Auburn took the time to study this stranger, who had followed the Covey at the rear after raising the access ladder back into its regular storage position. She held a level of calm that was completely unwarranted given the circumstances, and it set Angelina Auburn on edge.

“Who are you?” Katy Fern asked.

“My name is Abigail,” the woman said, voice low. “I’m a friend of Cora Rose. I’m here to take you all to her. And, hopefully, avoid getting arrested in the process. For now, we all have to lay low right and not attract attention.” 

At that, Abigail glanced cautiously over the edge of the roof toward the streets below. Angelina Auburn did not dare to do the same, having the sinking feeling that as soon as did, she would make direct eye contact with a Peacekeeper and be dragged right back to jail. She found herself instead analyzing this woman who was supposedly her mamaw’s friend. How did they know each other? She knew her mamaw was well-connected and made friends easily, but they had not been to this region in 5 years. Angelina Auburn could not imagine a friend she had met so infrequently putting their life on the line to save her family. 

A few minutes later, a cacophony of shouting and heavy boots pounding on the pavement reached her ears: undoubtedly the sounds of the Peacekeepers realizing they had escaped and beginning their search. Angelina Auburn hunched down further and covered her ears, uttering a silent prayer for Geordie that his involvement would not be discovered.

“So, what’s the plan?” Samson Slate asked in a low whisper.

“Wait for the Peacekeepers to clear the area,” Abigail said, turning back to face the Covey. “Then, it’s not too far from here to the city limits, where your wagon is waiting. There shouldn’t be any trouble moving through town if we wait til dusk, though you are a rather… conspicuous group.” She glanced at the Covey’s colorful stage clothes, and Angelina Auburn couldn’t help but agree. That would be an added challenge.

They were all still shaking like a tambourine as they began their long wait, both from eagerness to reunite with their family and fear of being hunted down by the Peacekeepers. But the immediate excitement waned as the morning wore on into the afternoon, and especially as hunger set in. Angelina Auburn slept through most of the day in fits, having stayed up all night, but it still felt like an unbearably long time sitting in anxious silence. 

The sharp sound of a birdcall coming from nearby startled her awake. The sun had just begun to set, and heavy clouds sat low on the horizon. She looked around in confusion until she saw Abigail cup her hands to her mouth and return the call, four short falling whistles. Just how well connected was Cora Rose? Was there a whole army of rebels waiting to assist them on their path? 

Abigail and this mystery bird had one more back-and-forth exchange before she turned back to the Covey and said, “The path is clear for now. Let’s get going.”

Without hesitation, they made their way as silently as possible down the metal fire escape and followed Abigail. Angelina Auburn walked in the back of the group, glancing over her shoulder every five seconds, expecting the cavalry to arrive the second she turned her back. Their heeled stage shoes clacked on the paved sidewalks as Abigail led them through the empty streets, and Angelina Auburn winced, fearful the noise would draw attention to them.

In the distance, the line where asphalt turned to dirt path appeared, and Angelina Auburn could see the faint trails their wagons’ wheels had left in the dust. Her feet sped of their own accord, heart racing with the hope of freedom, of being reunited with her family and —

“Freeze!” The booming voice came from behind them, and Angelina Auburn whirled around to see a Peacekeeper fast approaching.

Angelina Auburn was a statue, utterly powerless to move, to fight or flee, as this soldier strode straight toward her. The officer paused before the Covey, eyes darting among them as he reached for his radio. 

“Wait!” Isabel Bronze cried desperately. If he called for backup, then they were truly and irrevocably doomed.

The officer’s face almost seemed amused as he turned to the source of the pathetic, futile plea. The distraction gave Patrick Cardinal the perfect opportunity to attack.

Angelina Auburn had not seen him creeping through the shadows of the darkening street, and clearly the Peacekeeper had not either. In a swift maneuver she had no idea Patrick Cardinal was capable of, he pulled the pistol from its holster at the Peacekeeper’s belt and aimed it directly at his head.

“Don’t move,” Patrick Cardinal said through gritted teeth, slowly backing away from the officer. The waver in his voice belied his menacing exterior.

“Now, son,” the Peacekeeper said, his eyes trained on the barrel of his own gun, “think this through. You kill me, and they will never stop hunting you down.”

“Yeah, and if you call for backup, then we’re as good as dead now, anyway.”

Angelina Auburn shared panicked glances with the rest of the Covey, but Patrick Cardinal’s wide eyes never left his target. The gun wavered in his trembling hands.

“Patrick Cardinal…” John Indigo said warningly. “Don’t do anything rash.”

“Well, what would you have me do?” he snapped at his brother. 

John Indigo stammered, and Angelina Auburn knew in that moment, seeing the measured, prudent John Indigo at a loss, that not one of the Covey had any idea what the right next move was. Except, apparently, for her brother.

“Enough of this,” Willie Sienna said, seeming more exasperated than scared as he strolled up to the Peacekeeper. The man eyed him warily but did not have time to react to his sudden approach — or perhaps thought better of it, what with the gun aimed at his head. In a single motion, Willie Sienna pulled the baton from his belt, raised it over his head in a two-handed grip, and brought it down forcefully on the Peacekeeper’s temple. The man crumpled to the ground. Angelina Auburn’s jaw dropped, and she stared at her brother in shock. He stood over the Peacekeeper still, weapon at the ready should he regain consciousness; his face was stony, but Angelina Auburn saw a twinge of panic in his twitching eye.

A clatter pulled her attention away. Patrick Cardinal had flung the pistol away from himself, his hands still shaking. It landed far too close to her for comfort, and she backed away from the gun, from Patrick Cardinal, from her brother, from the whole gruesome scene. A heavy silence hung in the air.

“I…” Patrick Cardinal started, staring at the gun on the ground. “I don’t…”

“Just… thank God you didn’t have to use that thing,” Josie Pine said in a soft voice. Patrick Cardinal nodded stiffly.

“Would you have?” Angelina Auburn asked hesitantly, looking over at him. It was the closest she had ever seen any of the Covey come to real violence — with the shocking addition of Willie Sienna bashing that Peacekeeper over the head — and the ease with which he’d picked up that gun unnerved her.

Patrick Cardinal looked conflicted as he met her eyes, but Abigail interrupted before he could.

“This is touching stuff, but we need to go!”

Snapped out of their stupor, the Covey bolted, leaving the collapsed Peacekeeper in the street. Angelina Auburn felt her heart pounding in her chest, threatening to escape her ribcage, as she ran, continually glancing back to ensure they were not being followed. Patrick Cardinal was chewing his lip, reopening the cut he had created earlier that day. 

Angelina Auburn did not know how long they ran, first through paved streets, then onto the dirt paths that extended from the city toward the prairie beyond. She only knew that she was too out of shape for this. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the trails their wagons had left in the dust, and she hurried toward their salvation with renewed energy. At last, the wagons came into view, framed by a setting sun. Standing in front of them were Cora Rose, Jubilee Canary, and Andrew Lilac. 

Katy Fern broke into a full sprint, and when her kids spotted her they did the same, crying out, “Mama!” She and Jubilee Canary collided at an alarming rate, and she immediately scooped the young girl up and began planting kisses all over her face. She followed suit once Andrew Lilac had tottered over. 

Angelina Auburn and the rest of the Covey, meanwhile, went to greet Cora Rose. As Angelina Auburn felt her mamaw’s familiar embrace, she finally began to cry with the weight of the past day’s events, the adrenaline that had carried her to this point vanishing in an instant. 

“Oh, my sweet girl,” Mamaw whispered as she rubbed her hand up and down her back. “You’re safe now. It’s all over.” Angelina Auburn reluctantly pulled herself from the embrace after a moment, allowing Cora Rose to continue her rounds. Before she moved on, though, Cora Rose grabbed her shoulders and said, “Remember, you are strong. Stronger than your fear. Stronger than them.” She nodded toward the city they had fled. Angelina Auburn sniffled and nodded, willing herself to believe her grandmother’s words.

Cora Rose then moved on to Abigail, shaking the woman’s hand firmly. “I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for me and my family. The Covey are forever in your debt.”

Abigail grinned, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead. “Anything for an old friend. I’ll see you next time you're in town. For now, take care, and do try to avoid the Peacekeepers. They’re not very friendly to our kind.” Angelina Auburn stared blankly between Abigail and Cora Rose, trying to comprehend this side of her mamaw she had never seen before.

Cora Rose nodded, a sly smile on her face, and Abigail took off down the dirt path back to the city. The family reunion continued as if nothing abnormal had transpired, Cora Rose greeting each of them individually. When she reached Katy Fern, she hugged her, but quickly pulled back to slap her on the side of the head.

“Ow,” she complained. “Mamaw, I’m not a little kid anymore.”

“Then stop acting like one. You have a brain; try using it. You are never to put this family at risk again. Do you understand?”

“Understood,” Katy Fern said, seeming thoroughly cowed. 

“I didn’t know what I was going to do: go to the mayor and plead your case? Try to storm the jail myself?” Her voice lowered as she added, “Run away with your children to protect them from the Peacekeepers that might be chasing us, and risk never seeing the rest of my family again?”

Katy Fern’s lower lip quivered, and she nodded solemnly. “I’m sorry,” she said, voice breaking.

“I should hope so. Now, let’s get the hell away from this place.”

Reminded of the urgency of their situation, the Covey piled into the wagons and sped the horses as fast as they could run. Angelina Auburn glanced nervously out the back of the wagon every few minutes, expecting to see one of those shiny white armored vans zipping toward them to lock them all up again. The Covey passed the rest of the evening collectively in tense silence, gradually shaking off their terror the further they got from New Lignite.

Chapter Text

Jackie Mulberry walked wordlessly beside Angelina Auburn as they followed her father John Indigo on the well-worn game trail, breathing in the seemingly ever-present smell of wood smoke on the horizon. The three of them were among the only members of the Covey that preferred a quiet, uneventful day, and Jackie Mulberry felt a calm contentment as they continued to track down their prey, which, based on the droppings they’d found, they determined was either a deer, elk, or moose (the last had been her uncle’s suggestion; Patrick Cardinal had always wanted to see one of the creatures, ever since Cora Rose had told him the riveting and only slightly exaggerated tale of her encounter with one decades ago). 

They were not the most practiced hunters, but they were the most skilled among the Covey (though Jackie Mulberry really just excelled at rigging traps), so when one of their wagons had broken down, they decided to set out in search of a meal while the others worked to fix it. Mateo was always their go-to when a wagon faltered, but only the birds in the heavens knew how long it would take for him to repair in the middle of nowhere with minimal supplies. They could be stuck there for days, and the Covey all had a hankering for meat, which they hadn’t tasted in a good while — fewer farmers reared animals these days given the cost of feed and the complications of storage and transport —  so there was a lot of pressure for them to provide.

Jackie Mulberry would have been happy simply strolling through the plains with her family, enjoying the views of the rolling hills and the red grass swaying in the wind, but of course, Patrick Cardinal and Willie Sienna trailed behind them, talking boisterously. The rest of the Covey were still shaken from their encounter with the Peacekeepers, the energy of the group tense and despondent; Patrick Cardinal and Willie Sienna had bounced back immediately, though — or so they would have everyone believe.

Jackie Mulberry shared an annoyed look with Angelina Auburn, whose mouth was down-turned in a frown as she rolled her eyes, before turning her eyes ahead, where John Indigo had paused, a raised hand his signal for them to halt.

The pair slowed, and John Indigo retrieved the bow from his back. As she crept forward, Jackie Mulberry caught sight of the animal that trailed across the grassy plain. 

The elk was majestic. Jackie Mulberry had never been this close to one before. It was massive, far larger than a deer, with antlers that rose high above its head. As her father withdrew an arrow, Jackie Mulberry felt a pang of regret at the creature’s impending death. She understood now Josie Pine’s refusal to join them on the hunt; perhaps Jackie Mulberry, too, did not have the stomach for these things.

John Indigo held the bow and arrow out to Jackie Mulberry. She reluctantly took it in her hand and nocked the arrow, regretting her prior request that her father teach her to shoot. 

Just as she took aim at what she hoped was the elk’s eye, the oblivious Willie Sienna and Patrick Cardinal caught up to them, singing “Adam Was a Poacher” without a care in the world. Angelina Auburn whirled around to shush them, but the damage was already done. The elk’s head snapped in their direction, and Jackie Mulberry felt its wide, round eyes meet hers for the briefest of moments before it let out an eerie shriek and sprinted down the hill away from them, with a speed Jackie Mulberry had not expected from such a large creature. The elk’s high-pitched scream echoed across the plains as Jackie Mulberry watched the animal disappear into a pine copse.

“Damn it!” John Indigo said under his breath, at the same time that Angelina Auburn thwacked Willie Sienna in the side of the head.

“Ow!” he complained. “What was that for?”

“Are you serious?” Angelina Auburn asked. “Because you two were singing louder than a cock at dawn, and you scared away our game!”

“Oh…” the two boys seemed to say in unison. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, well, you can make it up to us by giving us your portion of our vegetarian dinner tonight,” Angelina Auburn said, arms crossed, trying to pose assertively at her brother despite his taller stature. Diametrically opposed as their personalities often were, the siblings bore a striking physical resemblance: their hooded brown eyes, long eyebrows with a pointed arch, and sharply angled chins displayed a combination of traits from their father and mother both.

“There’s no need for that,” John Indigo said, ever the peacemaker. “We know what direction it went. We’ll just track it.”

He marched out across the field, and the rest trailed behind, Jackie Mulberry awkwardly carrying the bow at her side. She seriously doubted their ability to track this elk down again — the first time already seemed like a miracle — but she followed along regardless. She trusted her father, and, after their scare in New Lignite, they would stick together no matter what. Nothing would tear the Covey apart again.

They trudged along for hours, doubling back and wandering in circles as they chased imagined trails. The plains landscape proved to be more challenging than it initially presented, with hidden pits threatening to break an ankle and rattlesnakes slithering across their path. Angelina Auburn at one point had to grab an inattentive Willie Sienna by the collar so that he would not step directly on a snake; he reacted with equal parts annoyance and embarrassment and trudged ahead alone.

The mood of the group worsened with each passing hour. The blistering sun beat down on them, and the dry brush scratched at Jackie Mulberry’s ankles, exposed by her too-short trousers, turning her brown skin red and flaky. Though she didn’t suffer nearly as much as Angelina Auburn in her threadbare lavender skirt, which was clearly not designed for a hunt. The Covey had a good array of stage attire, but outside of that, it was slim pickings.

Jackie Mulberry might have said her tendency toward masculinity was prophesied by her name ballad “Jack Monroe,” about a woman who disguised herself as a man, but with the number of murder ballads that made the ranks of Covey name songs, they knew better than to take one’s name ballad as fate.

Jackie Mulberry took in the landscape as they walked, the hills and valleys that had been charming at first, but now seemed to taunt her as she struggled to catch her breath. The one undeniable beauty of this land, though, was the sky; the great blue tapestry seemed infinite out here, and the clouds close enough that you could reach out and touch them. 

Jackie Mulberry made sure to always keep her father in her line of sight as they continued their fruitless trek; she didn’t know what was out there in these lands, and he was the only one she trusted to protect them. Partly because he carried the only weapon among them, but also out of a childish instinct to hide under her parents’ wings.

She heard the crunching of footsteps in the brittle grass only an instant before a voice yelled, “Stop right there!”

Jackie Mulberry’s heart rate skyrocketed. She was certain that the Peacekeepers from New Lignite had been hunting them all this time and had finally tracked them down, prepared to drag them back to prison or perhaps execute them outright. She met her father’s eyes with terror before turning ever so slowly toward the source of the voice.

The woman stood uphill from them, with a rifle trained on them. She was perhaps the most beautiful person Jackie Mulberry had ever seen. Her features looked like they were chiseled from marble, her expression stony and unmoving. Her black hair fell in loose curls down her back, half of it pulled into a haphazard bun. She dressed in men’s array, and her beige tank top allowed a full view of her muscled dark brown arms.

In her admiration, Jackie Mulberry nearly forgot their peril. She snapped back to attention.

“What are you doing here?” the woman called out to them in a deep, angry voice.

John Indigo raised his hands and spoke, while the rest of the group remained frozen. “We don’t mean no harm,” he said, gently but loud enough for her to hear. “We’re just looking to feed our folks.”

“This is private land. You’re not welcome here.” She stared them down with a fierce gaze that could set fire to a swamp.

Jackie Mulberry glanced back at her family. Willie Sienna had his usual cool bravado about him. Angelina Auburn was slowly creeping away from the woman; Jackie Mulberry was not even sure she was aware of her movement. And Patrick Cardinal’s wide-eyed gaze was fixed directly on the woman’s rifle. Jackie Mulberry could not help but relive, along with her uncle, the time when their roles were reversed. When it had been Patrick Cardinal pointing a gun at a person who was likely as terrified as they were now.

“You have our sincerest apologies,” John Indigo replied deferentially. “We’re happy to be on our way. It’s just… we don’t exactly know where that is. Where are the boundaries?”

The woman sighed as if he had asked her the color of the sky. “A mile south of here.”

John Indigo nodded once and signaled for the group to turn around. Willie Sienna called gaily over his shoulder, “Thank you!”

As they walked back the way they came, Willie Sienna turned his head with an amused smile to look back at the woman who still had her rifle trained on them. “Badass,” he whispered in awe as she finally turned and marched away from them, back up the hill she had descended from. Jackie Mulberry couldn’t help but agree with his assessment.

***

They never managed to track down the elk. They settled on a turkey as a consolation prize. At least they could use the feathers to refresh their pillows, which had been growing very flat.

Willie Sienna was resting after their long day of hiking, playing with Jubilee Canary and Andrew Lilac. Angelina Auburn, on the other hand, was plucking the turkey alongside their mother, Isabel Bronze. Where she got the energy to do all that labor for the group, Willie Sienna would never understand.

It’s not that he didn’t want to help out around camp; it just seemed that whenever he tried to, his presence was superfluous. They had a routine, and he was not a part of it. Plus, he contributed to the group in other ways. Like… entertainment. He always brought a lot of joy to the family. Like a damn court jester. Surely he made other contributions, too; he just… couldn’t think of any at the moment.

Willie Sienna chuckled to himself as his relatives began butchering the turkey and Josie Pine darted away at the sight, looking nauseated. The girl grew up on a ranch, but apparently they had never had enough cows for slaughtering, so she remained inexperienced and squeamish.

A small leather-bound ball struck his chest and fell to the ground before him.

“Willie Sienna!” Jubilee Canary chastised. “Pay attention!”

“Sorry, songbird,” he said, picking up the ball and tossing it back her way. It hit her outstretched arms and then fell right through them. Willie Sienna suppressed a laugh. “My thoughts were carrying me downstream.”

“This is boring anyway.” Jubilee Canary kicked the ball away from her. It flew dangerously close to where Andrew Lilac was crawling around beside them, but luckily he remained unscathed. He felt Katy Fern’s watchful eyes on them as she assisted with dinner; she had not let her children out of her sight since their arrest.

Willie Sienna felt that not enough of the family’s anger over the performance that got them arrested had been directed at him. It was belittling; they viewed him as an irresponsible child who couldn’t be expected to stay in line, whereas Katy Fern, on behalf of her being a few years older with a few children of her own, was expected to take all the responsibility.

Had his family confronted him, he would have defended their actions. Despite the consequences that had followed, Willie Sienna was proud of that performance. It felt like the only important thing he had ever done. 

He turned his attention back to Jubilee Canary, who was looking at him expectantly, hands on her hips. “And what would you rather do, princess?”

“I don’t know.” The young girl flopped dramatically onto the ground, arms outstretched beside her. Willie Sienna plopped himself down beside her with an “oof” that made her giggle.

“How ‘bout we read that book you like?”

Jubilee Canary nodded excitedly. 

“Go grab it.” She hopped up and raced to find the one children’s book in the Covey’s possession. “Andrew Lilac!” The little boy turned his head in Willie Sienna’s direction. “Come on over. Your sister’s gonna read to us.”

The boy tottered over, plopping down beside Willie Sienna just as Jubilee Canary returned. She read haltingly from the worn-out old book; Willie Sienna prompted her on some of the harder words. She pointed at the pictures to show Andrew Lilac as she read. It was an amusing book, about a family of beavers who run out of wood, so they have to travel deep into the woods and befriend a black bear to help them carry it all back. Jubilee Canary now liked to emulate them, building little huts from whatever sticks she found on the ground.

Eventually, their reading was interrupted by Isabel Bronze calling out from the campfire, “Dinner!”

Jubilee Canary leapt to her feet, tossed the book aside, and raced over there as fast as her little legs could carry her. Willie Sienna chuckled, picking up Andrew Lilac in one arm and the book in the other, and strolled over to join the rest of the Covey.

It was an undignified affair. Most of them ate with their hands, not a napkin or utensil in sight. The smell was enticing, and as soon as Willie Sienna was given his portion, he greedily sunk his teeth into the juicy meat.

“Oh my God, this is incredible,” Patrick Cardinal said as he tore into a drumstick. 

“Amen,” Josie Pine agreed through a mouth full of food. “It’s been too long.”

“Here’s to our hunters!” Cora Rose said, raising her turkey like it was a fine glass of wine.

“Hear, hear!” Willie Sienna said, and several others raised their dinners up in response before quickly returning to scarfing them down.

The group dispersed soon after they had finished eating, several preparing for bed. Willie Sienna found Patrick Cardinal, and with a single glance, he knew they both had only one thing on their minds. They turned to find their transportation for the night.

“Oh, sweet Josie Pine,” Patrick Cardinal called out to the girl, where she was busy grooming the horses. “Might we borrow Sunflower this evening?” He was the only horse large enough to carry the two of them.

Josie Pine raised an eyebrow at them. “Another night on the town, is it?”

“Gee, Patrick Cardinal, are we that predictable?”

“I think you know the answer to that,” he responded with a smirk.

“Fair enough,” Willie Sienna agreed, then looked back at Josie Pine, who had busied herself once more brushing Sunflower’s mane. After a moment of them staring at her, she turned back to face them.

“Oh, you’re done?”

“There’s that quick wit of yours, Josie Pine,” Willie Sienna said. “You always have been incredibly bright. Not to mention kind, generous, beautiful—”

“All true,” she agreed, absent-mindedly running a hand up and down Sunflower’s neck.

The two stared at her expectantly. She kept her gaze diverted, an amused smile on her face; she was enjoying toying with them. 

“So? Our chariot?” Patrick Cardinal asked.

Josie Pine sighed. “Fine. You take good care of him. And don’t keep him out too late — he needs to rest, too, y’know.” Her voice was reminiscent of a chastising mother. “Clear?”

“As Glacier Lake,” the pair said in unison.

Reluctantly, Josie Pine saddled him back up and stepped aside. Patrick Cardinal hopped up first, Willie Sienna following behind him. 

“Thanks, darling!” Willie Sienna called back to her as Patrick Cardinal turned Sunflower around and began leading him to the trail. It was only a couple of miles to reach the town, and the pair whiled away the time with a variety of songs and word games.

They hadn’t yet visited this town, given their troubles on the road. As Patrick Cardinal tied Sunflower up on a pillar outside the bar, Willie Sienna took a look around the street — as much as he could given the absence of street lamps. The main road was lined with wooden buildings, most of which appeared to be rather new and in good condition; Willie Sienna thought he could smell the aroma of freshly sawed wood. The structures were simple and uniform, as if they had all been designed by the same lazy architect, or maybe this town’s wooden beams only came in one size.

The pair pushed through the door of the bar, easily picked out as the only building that still had lit torches glowing through the window. Some heads turned in their direction, eyes narrowed in suspicion at the newcomers, but most continued with their conversations unbothered. Willie Sienna donned his most disarming smile and strode up to the bar.

The overlapping conversations led to an almost unmanageable din in the room as Patrick Cardinal tried to order their drinks, but it was nothing the boys weren’t used to. They reveled in the lively energy of a packed bar. Willie Sienna’s eyes roamed around the room, scanning the sea of faces as he so often did to find those that would be most amenable to making a new acquaintance. And then his eye caught on a most unexpected sight. 

At the edge of the bar sat a woman nursing a large mug of beer. Though she wore slightly different clothing, he instantly recognized her as that heavenly woman who had threatened to shoot him and his family mere hours ago. Willie Sienna nudged Patrick Cardinal, who followed his eyes and spotted her as well. As soon as their drinks were in their hands, Willie Sienna went striding over to her.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he said, sliding into the empty chair beside her.

The woman looked just as intimidating in this position as she had when she was pointing a gun at him, but Willie Sienna had a feeling she was all bark and no bite.

“We didn’t get a chance to introduce ourselves properly when we were fleeing for our lives.” She laughed under her breath at that, and he grinned. “I’m Willie Sienna.” He stuck out his right hand to shake hers. She looked at it pointedly and then used her own right hand to pick up her beer once more.

“Patrick Cardinal,” his friend said from beside him, not bothering to offer his own hand. She stared straight ahead, but after they looked at her unblinkingly for several more seconds, she finally relented.

“Amber,” she said.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Amber,” Willie Sienna said. “Maybe we could buy you another drink, to make up for our earlier trespassing?”

“I didn’t know poachers had enough money to be offering strangers drinks,” she said with a smirk.

“We’re not strangers no more, remember?” Patrick Cardinal said.

Amber drummed her fingers on the bar top. “I suppose I could be convinced to accept a free drink.”

“And how generous of you. Barkeep!” Patrick Cardinal called, and began ordering their second round; the first had vanished rapidly.

Willie Sienna realized after a moment that he was smiling dumbly at Amber as they waited for their beverages. He quickly glanced downward when her eyes met his, and his gaze fell on the pistol that was holstered on her hip.

“Thinking you’ll run into some more poachers here in the bar?” he asked.

Amber shrugged. “A woman can’t be too careful in this world.” 

Willie Sienna barked out a laugh. “I pity the man who thinks you’re easy prey.” 

She smiled into her glass. “On that we can agree.”

The bartender set their beers down in front of them, and Willie Sienna began fishing in his pockets for the coins they had earned in Beulah. In the flap of a hummingbird’s wings, he had downed the cheap, watery beer and ordered another.

“So, Amber,” Patrick Cardinal yelled across Willie Sienna, “what do you do with all that land you got back there?”

“Why? You doing some recon so you can come back and steal some more tomorrow?”

“Alright, Patrick Cardinal, seems she doesn’t feel like sharing. Guess we’ll just have to regale you with tales from our fascinating and adventurous lives.”

“Wonderful,” she replied sardonically, though a grin snuck through her harsh demeanor.

“Don’t you wanna know the littlest bit about these strange foreigners who popped up on your ranch one day?”

“I don’t typically take an interest in criminals and vagabonds, but I’ll bite: what exactly do you believe makes your lives so… what was it? Fascinating and adventurous?”

“We’re musicians,” Willie Sienna said, beaming both from the company and the warm feeling in his chest as he sipped on his second drink. “We travel across the whole continent performing.”

“Don’t think I ever met a musician before. Least not one that thought that constituted a profession.”

“Well, now you’ve met two,” Patrick Cardinal replied.

“Matter of fact,” Willie Sienna added, “we’re performing here tomorrow night. You should come pay us a visit.”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s a long trek into town. Can’t be wasting my time every night.”

Willie Sienna pressed a hand to his chest and gasped dramatically. “Wasting your time? Music is never a waste of time. Especially not when performed by the Covey.”

“Seems to me you’re all talk. Why don’t you perform for us right now?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” Patrick Cardinal said. “We don’t have our instruments, and neither of us are really singers—”

“Patrick Cardinal,” Willie Sienna admonished, “the lady asked for a song. We must oblige.”

Patrick Cardinal shrugged, but quickly a self-satisfied smile took over his face. “Let your quacks and newspapers be cutting their capers and curing the vapors, the scratch, and the gout.”

Willie Sienna grinned at his choice of song and joined in. “With their medical potions, their pills, and their lotions, upholding their notions, they’re mighty put out.”

He could feel several heads in the bar turning toward them, conversations quieting as he and Patrick Cardinal made a spectacle of themselves. But the amused smile on Amber’s face egged him on. Plus, he had far too much experience making a fool of himself in a bar to feel self-conscious anymore. 

Willie Sienna tilted his head back and sang even louder. “So stick to the cratur’, the best thing in nature for drowning your sorrows and raising your joys.” He turned to Patrick Cardinal, and they shared a look of camaraderie before continuing, “Oh, what moderation gives hope to the nation, or can give consolation like whiskey, me boys.”

“The Humors of Whiskey” was Willie Sienna and Patrick Cardinal favorite drinking song, and they would frequently take over a bar with their rendition, as they did now — though, frankly, they were usually far more inebriated before the singing portion of the night began.

Come guess me this riddle: what beats pipe and fiddle?

What's hotter than peppers and smoother than cream?

What best wets your whistle? What's clearer than crystal,

Sweeter than honey, and stronger than steam?

What will make the dumb talk? What will make the lame walk?

What’s the elixir of life and philosopher's stone?

And what helped Mr. Brunel to dig the Thames Tunnel?

Sure, wasn't it whiskey from old Inishowen?

So stick to the cratur’, the best thing in nature,

For drowning your sorrows and raising your joys.

Oh, Lord, I’d not wonder if lightning and thunder 

Was made from the plunder of whiskey, me boys.

A handful of the other patrons cheered or banged their mugs against the bar top as they concluded their song. When Willie Sienna looked over, he saw Amber clapping slowly, a smirk tugging at her features. He smiled at her and took another celebratory drink of his whiskey.

“I’m a rancher,” Amber said abruptly, foregoing commenting on their performance. “Me and my father. Beef, mostly. Our cows don’t do so well on the dairy front.”

Willie Sienna grinned at her. “So, what would we have to barter to score some fresh steaks from you?”

“I can’t imagine you have anything worth trading. And I’ve just been serenaded for free, so you’ve lost some bargaining power there; why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?” Patrick Cardinal snorted, nearly choking on his drink. Amber gave a self-satisfied smile.

While Willie Sienna had perhaps started the evening with romantic intentions toward Amber, it rapidly became clear that what she was looking for was not a lover, but rather some drinking buddies — and Willie Sienna and Patrick Cardinal were more than happy to oblige. Throughout the night, the three of them entered into an array of increasingly ridiculous competitions: who could out-drink the others, who could win at darts (once they had traced a board into the wooden wall and found some toothpicks to use as projectiles, much to the bartender’s chagrin), who could make it across the whole bar balancing a glass on their head. No one made it more than four steps before a glass shattered at their feet. It was at that point that they were kicked out of the establishment.

As Willie Sienna and Patrick Cardinal stumbled out of the bar alongside Amber, they could not seem to stop themselves from giggling. The three hesitated as they reached their horses. 

“Parting is such sweet sorrow,” Willie Sienna said.

“I will admit it’s been an… unexpected pleasure meeting you two.”

“The pleasure was ours,” Patrick Cardinal said as he mounted Sunflower. “Thanks for putting up with us.”

“‘Til next time, then,” she said. She deftly pulled herself up onto her horse’s back, her muscular arms grabbing the reins and directing her horse onward.

Willie Sienna glanced over his shoulder several times as they started home. Patrick Cardinal began the first lines “Humors of Whiskey”, and, as they rode off in opposite directions, Willie Sienna heard the faint echo of Amber’s voice singing along. 

Chapter Text

Josie Pine had been as relieved as anyone to get far away from that despicable city Beulah, but the direction they were heading — aiming to exit the territory Panem had conquered — would take them right through Poison Creek. The town where she had been raised. The town where her parents still lay.

As its name would suggest, the town had never been a hospitable place. Her family had been a hardscrabble people; they’d lived on that ranch for as long as anyone could remember, and nothing would scare them off. Not even the weapons factory that bled toxic chemicals into the only source of running water could oust the Moore family. 

And Josie Pine was the first one to break that streak. 

The closer they got to her home, the harder it was to hold back her anger at herself for abandoning her family. Even though she had found such a wonderful home with the Covey, that guilt at ending her family tradition was hard to let go of.

Josie Pine had completely lost her appetite, barely eating anything for the past few days. In the dry summer heat, she felt herself growing lightheaded as she rode on Sunflower’s back. She normally rode right behind the wagons, so she could still take some part in their conversations, but today she stayed a healthy distance ahead. She was in no mood for talking; she preferred to let her anxieties and self-doubt consume her.

That evening, as Angelina Auburn and Isabel Bronze prepared their dinner, Josie Pine stood with an idle hand running over Sunflower’s back, staring out aimlessly into the woods. Cora Rose broke her from her stupor, approaching her and placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“I think it’s time for another dulcimer lesson. What do you say?” 

“I don’t know, Mamaw. I don’t think I feel up for it.”

“Come on, now,” she insisted, guiding her over to the edge of the wagon. “I heard your playing the other night — you’re rusty.” There was a mischievous smile on her face as she sat down and motioned for Josie Pine to do the same. Josie Pine sighed and sat; no one defied the will of Cora Rose.

Cora Rose led her through a few of their old favorite songs; Josie Pine had always loved to play “Old Joe Clark” when she was first learning to play, so of course that was what Cora Rose had demanded first. Eventually, the familiar movement comforted Josie Pine, the noter and quill fitting comfortably in her hands as they slid up and down the strings. She knew Cora Rose was being sly, trying to cheer her up, and it annoyed her that the manipulation was working.

A different song came to mind next, though, one that did nothing to alleviate her anxiety. Josie Pine found herself singing along as she strummed the deceptively cheerful notes on the dulcimer.

It’s been ten long years since I left my home,

In the holler where I was born,

Where the cool fall nights make the wood smoke rise,

And the foxhunter blows his horn.

I fell in love with a girl from town.

I thought that she would be true.

I ran away to Charlottesville,

And worked in a sawmill or two.

What have they done to the old home place?

Why did they tear it down?

And why did I leave the plow in the field, 

And look for a job in town?

Cora Rose sat silently while she played the song. When she’d finished, Josie Pine stared down at her hands resting on the dulcimer until Cora Rose placed a hand on her shoulder. Josie Pine closed her eyes, remaining motionless as she battled the tears that threatened to break through her defenses.

The dinner call sounded, marking the end of their now-silent music lesson, and without words they rose to join the group. She poked at her corn mush and beans with her spoon, unable to stomach much. Her melancholy threatened to drown her, pulling her down into the depths of memories she would sooner forget. She feared she had a sleepless night ahead of her.

*** 

They arrived in Poison Creek at midday. Josie Pine had known they were nearing based on the familiar landscape: the rolling hills and pine copses scattered about the grassy plains. But when they entered the town itself, it was hardly recognizable. 

When Josie Pine was a child, the town center had comprised a single road with a handful of shops, the great factory looming in the distance. Now, the first thing she noticed was the giant railroad that was under construction, heading right toward the town from the southeast. Dozens of men toiled away on it, the monotonous metal clanging sounds creating a distressing cacophony that was near deafening despite the distance. 

The shops had been refurbished and renovated, much larger and more numerous than they once had been. As they passed by, Josie Pine saw through the glass windows items that previously never would have been sold here: shiny metal tools, bottled medicines, even jewelry. She did notice, however, that the only people frequenting these shops seemed to be outsiders; she did not see any of the farmers and ranchers she’d grown up around entering these fine establishments.

But what stood out to her the most were the Peacekeepers. They lined every block, some standing guard, others marching down the streets, all dressed in those immaculately clean pale gray uniforms. Nobody who lived in Poison Creek was able to keep the dust from their clothes for more than a second after washing, yet somehow these men did. She noticed the locals pointedly avoiding the officers, their heads ducked as they darted around like mice trying to evade the attention of a cat.

The Peacekeepers’ presence sickened her. After what the Covey had seen in Beulah, now that she knew what they were capable of, Josie Pine wondered how many of the people she had grown up with had been shot dead for speaking their minds. Her head moved on a swivel, seeking out familiar faces. 

Her eye caught on the distant valley where that old farmer and his wife had lived — Joe and Anna Philipps, those were their names. There was no trace of their little farmhouse, or the neat rows of sugar beets that had once provided their livelihood. Josie Pine smiled at the memory of running through the field toward that farmhouse as soon as she finished her chores. She and the handful of other neighbor kids would often come begging at the Philipps’ door, and Joe would enlist them to help in some of the manual labor he struggled with in his old age. In exchange, Anna always gave them a few of her homemade caramels, which tasted like heaven itself had come down to Earth and landed right on your tongue. 

Josie Pine wiped a tear from her cheek. She had been preparing herself for the return to her family ranch, but every step of this journey was proving agonizing. The phantom taste of those caramels turned bitter in her mouth as she stared at the desolate valley.

She noticed that the Covey wagons had slowed down and pulled to the side of the road. Josie Pine followed suit, dismounting Sunflower and walking over to join them. 

“You guys can shop around if you need to,” she said as she approached the group, putting on a brave face. “I’m gonna go see the ranch.”

Angelina Auburn shook her head. “No way. We’re one flock. We’re staying with you, every step of the way.”

Josie Pine fought the urge to tear up once again at her loyalty. John Indigo stepped up beside her, a hand around her shoulders, and asked softly, “You sure you’re ready?”

She leaned into his embrace. Josie Pine knew John Indigo was the only one of the group who understood the specific pain she was experiencing, and she would rely on his presence now more than ever. Pulling back, she nodded, even though she was far from certain. She had put this off for five years; she wouldn’t delay any longer. It was time to face her past. 

The winding dirt path to her home filled her heart with nostalgia and her eyes and nose with dust. Sunflower quickly returned to his old habits, slowing to chew on the young sunflower shoots that grew along the path. That made Josie Pine laugh nearly to the point of crying. That habit had always driven her parents crazy. They liked to use the sunflower seeds for oil, but the flowers could never reach maturity with Sunflower plucking them from the ground before they were half a foot tall. 

There was no trace on the ranch of the fire that had devastated the land only a few short years ago, other than the absence of a handful of short trees that had once been scattered throughout the fields. It was so strange, that the land could recover so quickly after burning and dying, yet a person could live their whole life unhealed.

Then she came upon the meadow where she used to practice her dancing: the place she had been when the fire tore through their home. She grabbed the fringe of the jingle dress she wore, rubbing it between her thumb and fingers as she recalled how freely she had danced back then. Now, when she danced in her dress, there was joy, certainly, but never a release from the desperate longing to connect with the life she had once had — the people she had left behind.

Finally, the house came into view: a blackened, crumbling husk of the home it had once been.

The fire had torn through their land with such speed, such ferocity, that Josie had not had time to go look for her parents. She had simply fled, hopping on Sunflower’s back and riding and riding until she could no longer feel the heat of the flames chasing her. She had ridden around for days before the Covey found her, desperately searching for her family, for any trace that they might have survived, have fled somewhere, and were looking for her as she looked for them. But she could never bring herself to go back to the house and look for confirmation. Some stupid part of her could still believe that her parents had, through some miracle, survived, and she could not abandon that hope.

Until now.

Josie Pine swung down from her horse and let him continue tearing through the sunflowers that no longer had anyone to harvest their seeds. She could hear the soft crunch of John Indigo’s cautious footsteps in the dry grass behind her, but he said nothing. Josie Pine stepped through the barren  doorway of the place that had once been her home. 

Everything was all wrong. Of course, everything was charred black, the ceilings collapsed in, crumbling wood beams scattered across the room. But what was missing most was the smell: the aroma of burning sage and steaming soup that signaled to Josie more than anything else that she was home, safe and loved. 

Josie Pine wandered in a daze through the kitchen, and when she entered the living room, she almost stumbled over them. 

She froze at the sight of her parents’ lifeless bodies. They were entirely unrecognizable: their features all melted to nothing, skin blackened, limbs curled in on themselves like old tree roots. Her father’s body was pinned beneath a section of fallen roofing, and her mother had fallen not a foot away from him. Knowing her mother, she had fought till the bitter end to save her father — and it had cost her her life. Josie stood staring for a moment, feeling her breathing growing more and more erratic, the tears streaming down her face, until she could not stand to look anymore. 

She bolted, as she had so many years before, shoving past John Indigo to get to the doorway on instinct, even though the walls were so full of holes she could have exited anywhere. 

When Josie stopped running, she found herself inside the barn. Clutching a wooden beam, she tried to catch her breath, but the world swam around her, pulling her into a memory she had not expected.

***

The soldiers came late in the afternoon, their pounding on the door startling the Moores from the dinner table. It always took them the longest to reach their ranch, which was more remote than most around Poison Creek. 

It never meant anything good when the soldiers came to visit. Fort Butte was the closest city-state to their ranch, and it claimed dominion over them. The city was constantly at war with their neighbors in New Redmount, and any time their supplies ran low, they came to shake down the outlying citizenry.

Usually the soldiers just came to collect the grain tax, but sometimes they came for more. Like when they had stolen all of the metal from the Moore’s house — including the bells of her grandmother’s jingle dress.

Josie was young then, still small enough to have to crane her neck all the way back to look at the soldiers as they spoke to her parents, completely ignoring her presence. Then they were moving outside, and her parents were arguing with the soldiers, pleading with them, and Josie was trailing along behind them.

All three of their horses were keeping themselves warm in the barn. The soldiers stepped through the door, and one of them grabbed Morning by her reins. 

“Please,” Josie’s father was saying, “Just take one. We won’t be able to grow nearly as much corn with just one horse — corn that feeds your army.”

“Government orders.” The soldier shrugged callously, grabbing Thunder and leading both horses back toward their cart. “Guess our men need horses more than they need corn right now.”

“Mama,” Josie whispered, tugging on her mother’s arm, “where are they taking them?” Her mother did not respond, but as Josie noticed the slight tremor in her mother’s jaw, the fear on her face, she understood the soldiers’ intent. Josie turned her attention to the soldiers, who had tied Morning and Thunder to the back of their wagon.

She darted ahead to stand in front of their cart, blocking their path. “No!” she yelled as loud as she could. “You can’t take her!” Morning was only a few years younger than Josie. She could remember when Morning was first born, such a little thing with wobbly legs that could barely hold her upright. They were a perfect match, growing together as Josie first learned to ride. These soldiers didn’t know her or care about her; they would take her to some far-off city with no grass for her to eat, and they wouldn’t brush her or talk to her, and Josie would never get to see her again.

The soldiers had simply laughed and swerved around her, pulling Morning and Thunder behind them as they went. Josie had simply stood there staring dumbly after them. Her mom came to gather her and led her back into the house.

Josie slept in her parents’ bed that night, curled up between them, quietly weeping into her father’s shoulder. She could feel the tension, the fear, in the room as her parents lay stone-still beside her. 

Then her mother rolled over to face her, taking Josie’s small hand between her own and grasping it tightly. “You listen to me, Josie Moore,” she said, and she was talking in that voice that meant she was serious as the plague. “We are strong. You are strong. Stronger than anything they can try to throw at you, to take away from you. Never forget that.” 

Josie nodded and tucked herself into her mother’s side. She wrapped her long, willowy arm around Josie, her embrace eventually lulling her to sleep. 

***

Josie Pine knelt in the tall dry grass in front of the barn, stickers pricking her exposed skin. But she couldn’t feel anything in that moment. She gripped a handful of the blades between her fingers, as if that action could keep her tethered to the present. 

John Indigo and Charlotte Cornflower had joined her; she did not know when. She felt a strange guilt seeing her parental figures among the Covey here, as if she had tried to replace her own parents, who would lay twisted forever in their family home, while she moved on. But Josie Pine knew in her heart that her parents would want her to move on, to find a way to be strong in their absence. To carry on their family legacy, even when everything she’d known had been destroyed.

She had let the open question of her parents’ fate linger for five years; now, she finally had closure. She wiped away her tears and lay down in the familiar meadow, between John Indigo and Charlotte Cornflower, gazing up at the familiar low-lying clouds as they danced on the wind.

***

Josie Pine remained, for the hours after — or days, she couldn’t be sure — in something of a trance. She was not depressed, not even sad, really — perhaps mournful, but truly she just needed time to process, to sit with the new information and allow it to become reality. Much of her time was spent staring off into the distance, occasionally strumming on the dulcimer absent-mindedly. She was barely cognizant of the Covey all around her, keeping their distance yet ever nearby, like a sheepdog watching over its flock.

She was vaguely aware of the goings-on, like Jubilee Canary running laps around Andrew Lilac, or John Indigo taking one of the horses to ride into town. But she kept to her solitude.

It was evening when she felt a familiar gentle touch on her shoulder. She turned slowly to see John Indigo. He held something behind his back in his other hand. Josie Pine’s brow furrowed at the strange look on his face. She could not tell whether it was fear or excitement.

“I have something for you,” he said.

Josie Pine’s eyebrows raised in anticipation, but she said nothing. John Indigo waited a suspenseful moment before removing that familiar yellow item from behind him.

She heard the difference before she saw it. At the end of each piece of red fringe hanging from her yellow dress was affixed a small silver cone. 

“Shut your mouth,” she whispered, eyes widening. She heard the bells jingle as she reverently took it from his hands. She lifted one cone, twisted it between her fingers as if to confirm that it was real. She could not remember a time when this dress had been whole.

She turned her attention back to John Indigo. “How?” she asked. “How did you do this?”

“Went to the local metalsmith,” he said, a smile creeping across his face. “Used some of the money we made in Lewiston.”

A sense of guilt settled in Josie Pine’s stomach. “It must have cost a fortune. Are you sure we can afford this?” 

“Don’t you worry yourself about the cost,” he said firmly, his hand returning to her shoulder. “We all talked it over and agreed there was no better use of our money.”

She placed the dress down ever so carefully before wrapping John Indigo in a sudden bear hug, weeping into his shoulder.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she whispered over and over again, finding no words that could sufficiently express the depth of her gratitude. 

“Well?” he asked, pulling back. “Aren’t you going to try it on?”

Josie Pine smiled broadly enough to make her cheeks sore, quickly turning around to change dresses. 

The dress sounded proudly as she picked it up; as she brought it down over her shoulders; as it settled into place, enveloping her in a blanket of her forebears. The first step she took in the dress made her heart stutter. 

The movements came to her by instinct, passed down through the generations, as she began to dance once more. She knew John Indigo was watching her, that everyone was watching her, but her eyes were closed to the world. The only thing that existed was the sound of the jingles echoing across the vast plains as she created her own music with each bounding step.

And in her dancing, Josie Pine felt her heart slowly stitching itself back together.

Chapter Text

Angelina Auburn had been shooting worried glances at Josie Pine ever since they’d arrived in Poison Creek. After she had discovered her parents, the Covey had watched nervously from a distance as she broke down, and John Indigo and Charlotte Cornflower attempted to pick up the pieces. With that trauma plus the fear that now lived in all their hearts following their arrest, Angelina Auburn couldn’t imagine how anyone could cope.

But the very next day, Josie Pine seemed completely back to her old self: dancing, laughing, and making jokes. Angelina Auburn wanted to believe that Josie Pine truly had reached some sort of closure following her collapse, but she couldn’t trust it. If any of them could put on a show for the sake of others, it was Josie Pine.

Which was why Angelina Auburn had asked Josie Pine to accompany her on a walk through the rolling hills, asking her to show her around a bit. She hoped that in true privacy, she might get Josie Pine to open up a bit more. After all, they had grown inextricably close over the years since they had met, sharing practically everything with each other. 

Josie Pine had happily accepted, and they had started off, Josie Pine excitedly pointing out all the different features of the familiar woods. 

“Pine needle tea is real handy for staving off a cold in the winter. Especially if you have a little sugar to add to it,” she said with a far-off smile. “Oh, and the chokecherries down by—” She abruptly gripped Angelina Auburn’s arm, stopping her in her tracks.

Angelina Auburn followed her pointed finger toward where a strange creature was slowly crawling straight up a tree trunk.

“Shhhh…” Josie Pine cautioned. “They spook easy.”

“What is that?” Angelina Auburn narrowed her eyes to get a better look at the gray animal, which resembled a puffball. Or maybe someone with a really bad hair day. 

“It’s a porcupine,” she whispered. “It’s got quills that’ll stab anything that tries to eat it.” She smiled. “So electric. Plus, you can use the quills for all sorts of stuff.”

“How do you get the quills if it’s trying to stab you with them?”

Josie Pine shrugged. “Dunno. Think my nana knew how to do it though, ‘cause she decorated all sorts of stuff with them.”

Angelina Auburn nodded, observing the lumbering porcupine until Josie Pine determined she had seen enough and walked ahead. As their conversation lulled, and Josie Pine began softly humming “Oh, Susanna” in time with her bouncing footsteps.

“So, um… Josie Pine,” Angelina Auburn began. Lord help her, this girl was her closest friend in the world, practically a sister at this point, and she had no idea how to broach the subject of her wellbeing.

“Hmmm?” She turned over her shoulder, wincing from the chokecherry she had popped in her mouth.

“I just, um… Well, I wanted to check in on you, to see how you’re — you know — how you’re feeling. I’m sure it’s a lot for you to relive. I can’t even imagine, I—” Angelina Auburn paused as Josie Pine’s brow furrowed, fearing she had stepped over some line she shouldn’t have.

But Josie Pine’s narrowed eyes quickly transformed into an excited smile, and Angelina Auburn realized her eyes were not directed at her, but at some point just over her shoulder. “It’s sumac!”

Then Josie Pine was darting through the woods, dodging between the closely packed trees until she reached her apparent destination beside a small stream. Angelina Auburn followed confusedly after her, trying to finish the conversation she’d started.

“Josie Pine,” she called hesitantly as she caught up, “I think it’s important that we talk about this. I’m worried about you, and I need to know if you’re doing okay, or if you’re on the verge of a manic breakdown.” She tried to make it sound sarcastic, but she was certain the genuineness behind the inquiry came through. Or would have, anyway, if Josie Pine had been listening. But she just kept on rambling.

“This is so perfect, Ange! We can bring these back to redye your hair — I think we both know it’s been a bit too long,” she said out of the corner of her mouth.

“Sure, but can we just—”

Josie Pine was now entangled in a copse of shrubs, reaching on her tiptoes to snap off their fuzzy red berry clusters. “Come help me gather these. I need your height.”

“Josie Pine! We have to talk about this!” she finally snapped. “You can’t just bottle it up inside you for the rest of your life. We’re a family. We talk about things.”

“I’m not bottling anything up,” Josie Pine said indignantly, shoving through the leaves so she could see Angelina Auburn. “I just don’t feel the need to talk this out with everyone. I’ve figured things out on my own. And yes, we’re a family, and we live together, and we share practically everything with each other, but this is my life. And I’m old enough to decide how I want to deal with the things in my life.”

“You’re only 17, Jose,” Angelina Auburn murmured.

“Maybe I am,” she said obstinately. “But for the first time in as long as I can remember, I’m not running away anymore.” She sighed heavily. “I just… I love the Covey so much — you know that. You guys took me in when I was at my lowest, on death’s doorstep, but— I have an identity outside of you, too. And I don’t want to share everything about my parents, because once I do, it… it becomes part of the Covey story. I need to keep some things for me. For my story.” She stood tall, chin raised despite the tear trailing down her cheek. “The story of Josie Pine Moore.”

Angelina Auburn was speechless, staring at her closest friend who somehow remained an enigma to her. She could never understand what Josie Pine had been through. Yet still, she could not shut her trap. “I- I’m so sorry, Josie Pine. I just assumed, and—”

Josie Pine waved her off, casually wiping her eyes. “Enough of that. Now come on, admit it.” She leveled a pointed finger at Angelina Auburn. “Your hair is looking sorrier than a pair of decade-old boots. It has been for months. We’re all too kind to say anything, but by God, Angelina Auburn, it’s time.”

Angelina Auburn could not hold back the startled laugh that bubbled over. It was a long moment before she was able to muster words. Once she regained her composure, she took a lock of her hair in her hands, analyzing the ends — once dyed a deep burgundy, but since faded, distinct from her natural dark brown only in its pallor. 

“I suppose you’re right,” she said with a smile.

“Then get your lazy ass over here and start helping me.”

Angelina Auburn acquiesced, but not before pulling Josie Pine into a tight hug as she tried to begin working. After an initial moment of freezing in surprise, Josie Pine returned the embrace in her signature style, squeezing so hard that it constricted Angelina Auburn’s breathing. As she pulled back and regained access to oxygen, she said, “You never cease to amaze me. You really are as strong as an oak.”

Josie Pine shrugged off the compliment, but she looked pensive as she said, “I guess a tree is only as strong as the storms it’s had to weather.”

***

Angelina Auburn leaned backward at a precarious angle, putting all of her trust in Josie Pine as the girl dipped her hair in the warm blood-red water. Angelina Auburn closed her eyes, enjoying the pampered feeling of the steam warming her scalp. It was difficult for her to let her guard down these days. Nowhere felt safe, with the possibility that the Peacekeepers could track them down anytime, anywhere. She shook off the thought, focusing on her spa day.

Isabel Bronze was loading their instruments back into the wagons with the care one would give to a newborn babe; they were, after all, the Covey’s most cherished (and expensive) possessions. Mateo came to gather Angelina Auburn’s fiddle and paused in his tracks as he did.

Her father sighed dramatically. “Mija, why do you do this to the beautiful hair I gave you? Your dark hair suited you so well.”

She opened her eyes halfway to look at him. “You shouldn’t have named me Angelina Auburn if you didn’t want me to dye my hair auburn, then.”

“And I’ve regretted it ever since,” he said, shaking his head.

“Leave her alone, goose,” Isabel Bronze called from in front of the cart. “I think she looks perfect.” 

Angelina Auburn smiled cheesily at her. “Thanks, Mama.”

“Do whatever you want to your hair,” Willie Sienna piped up from where he stood beside Patrick Cardinal, playing their instruments casually. He smiled conspiratorially. “Nothing’s gonna change that ugly face!”

Angelina Auburn shot up, splashing red water everywhere, and darted toward him. Josie Pine yelled after her, but Angelina Auburn was focused on Willie Sienna, who had laid down his guitar and bolted, knees rising high as he ran through the tall grass.

“Patrick Cardinal, help!” Willie Sienna shouted through his laughter.

“I’m staying all the way out of that one, man,” he said. “You kick the dog, it bites back.”

“You calling me a dog?”

“Uh oh, Patrick Cardinal,” Willie Sienna said. “Looks like you’re getting bit next.”

Eventually, Angelina Auburn caught up to Willie Sienna — he’d made the mistake of letting himself be cornered by a thicket — and latched onto him, dragging him to the ground. She pressed his face into the dirt, and he winced, coughing as his laughter made him inhale dust. 

“Take it back!” she yelled, barely able to contain her laughter.

“Fine, fine, I yield!” He raised his hands up, though the smile did not leave his face. “You’re the star of the County Down.”

“You’re damn right I am,” Angelina Auburn declared, finally releasing him. As she brushed the dirt from her knees, she felt the stain her wet hair was leaving on the back of her shirt, and it was then that she turned and noticed Josie Pine standing where she’d left her, hands on her hips, red rivulets dripping down her face and arms.

Angelina Auburn brought a hand to her mouth. “Oh my God, Josie Pine, I’m so sorry—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Josie Pine said with an eye roll. “You’re just lucky I’m wearing my dyeing clothes,” she gestured to her burlap apron, “otherwise I’d have to beat you like a dusty carpet.”

“Never again,” Angelina Auburn said with a deferential bow. She returned to her seat, where Josie Pine ordered her to continue soaking her hair for several hours before she was finally allowed to move. Angelina Auburn settled for floating in and out of a nap to kill the time as she listened to the faint sounds of music and camaraderie. 

Finally, Josie Pine wrapped her hair up in a towel, then, once it had dried, she brought her in front of the sole mirror in their possession — a browning old thing, but it still got the job done. 

Josie Pine spent a moment diligently arranging her hair before announcing, “Perfect,” and finally allowing her to look in the mirror. 

Angelina Auburn looked at her reflection and smiled. The red color seemed to bring life to her face, warming her light brown skin. She looked livelier this way, not like a girl who was afraid of her own shadow, looking over her shoulder for Peacekeepers with every step she took. It looked like she was getting back to her old self, leaving her fears and traumas behind. And as she looked around at the joyful chaos that was the Covey camp, it seemed that maybe they all were.