EPILOGUE

I wasn’t terrified. I wasn’t. I baked fresh bread, coffee, and tea every day. This was nothing new. I had all the proper serving dishes, and I knew how to use them. I had Leah’s—my, it was mine now—good silverware. The good cloth napkins. Everything was in place, hot, warm, or cold as the foodstuffs demanded. The house was clean. The beds—including the new king-sized bed in my room—all were made and had fresh sheets. Clean towels were freshly folded in the bath. Extra rolls of toilet paper.

The cell tower going up on the hill was finally finished. Thank goodness. The woods had hated the noise and the vehicles rolling all over it.

A fresh dusting of snow was on the ground, and I had burned a lot of wood to heat the lower floor. The overhead fans were turning to redistribute the warm air that rose toward the ceiling.

My hands were sweating, palms itching.

I was having company. For the first time. And Not Mr. Thad and Deus and his big, noisy family, who brought Bojangles’ takeout for dinner last Sunday. And not the PsyLED team. But real company. Family. My mama, maw-maw, Mama Grace, and Mama Carmel. My sisters, Priss, Mud, Esther, and Judith. And four half sisters. Coming to visit. Coming here.

I whirled and caught a view of myself in the mirror on the back of the bedroom door. I should change. I should definitely change. Pink was not a church color. A pale ice pink, to be sure, but pink. Pale pink layered shirts, slightly darker pink skirt. Rose leggings, mostly hidden beneath the skirt hem and the tall boots. My fingernails were painted. Clear, not pink or red, but still. Painted. I curled my fingers under as if to hide them.

And my hair was cut. I had stared at myself for long minutes in the mirror at the hair-cutting place. I was so different I didn’t recognize myself. My hair stopped at my shoulders and curled forward just a bit. They had called it a long bob at the salon. Not saloon. They had laughed when I mispronounced it. But the moment the salon ladies discovered that I was from the cult up the hill, the women had gathered together and chosen a cut that would be easy to style, easy to keep, and would still fit back in a tail for working. They had taught me to wear makeup too, stylishly and to “enhance my looks rather than shout pole dancer.” Their words, not mine. I was wearing the blush, lipstick, and a slight tint of mascara today.

I felt them coming up the mountain. Three cars and two trucks, filled with females. My hot sweat went cold and shivery.

I walked back through the house, checking to make sure the guns were safely stored away, except John’s prize four-barrel shotgun hanging on the stairwell wall. Rick had informed me that the gun was a collector’s item and might be worth up to seventy thousand dollars. That kinda money would go a long way to securing my financial future. I wiped away a bit of ash dust at the base of the cookstove. Turned a cup to its proper position.

My booted feet loud in the empty house, I walked to the front door and leaned against the jamb, watching through the windows as the first of the vehicles motored up the steep road. I didn’t move as they all pulled into the drive and up to the parking area. They parked and got out, and adjusted their dull gray-brown–sage green clothes. They were all carrying baskets. Guest gifts. I’d have plenty to eat when they left, and childish embroidery and cross-stitch samplers to hang on my nearly bare walls. Or maybe they would bring crocheted scarves or hats. Each of them would take home a small jar of my homemade, all-natural, organic caramel. It had taken me eight hours to make it all. And it was delicious, according to Occam and Paka, who had eaten an entire small jar all by themselves last night. Darn cats.

The first car was full of women and girls, some I knew, others I didn’t. Not yet. But Priss was driving and seemed to be in charge, pointing and directing as the others got out, almost as if she had been here before. I still needed to talk to Priss about getting a passport, about going away to a foreign country to witness, but that would be a private conversation, one between sisters about life and choices and opportunity, not something to be shared with this group. And, amazingly, I might have the chance to actually do that as the women seemed willing—eager, even—to get to know me. Which brought a smile to my face.

When the last truck pulled to a stop, a small form burst from the cab and raced across the front yard and leaped up onto the raised bed. She dropped to her knees and pushed her hands into the soil. And laughed. Her head to the sky, her mouth open. Laughing in delight and relief and something else I wasn’t sure how to name but understood perfectly. Mud. Communing with my Soulwood. Just as I do. She scampered from one part of the raised beds to another, and even stopped at the dogwood tree in the large white pot, the one I would be planting in town at the ballet studio.

Mud looked from the tree to the house and met my eyes where I stood at the door. She was crying in happiness. And so was I. Because my life was full and getting ready to be even more full when I went to Spook School to become a real PsyLED agent.

Not that it was all perfect. I still had that rooty feeling in my middle. And I still had a shadow in my land, watching and willful, if impotent. There might be ways of dealing with that, when I was stronger.

But I cried mostly because I wasn’t alone at all now. I had PsyLED Unit Eighteen. I had family. And I had Mud.

My baby sister, who was yinehi. Just like me.