Daughters,

Oh daughters! We take what we need, what we know will bring us life. As I wait for you, I gather the elements I know you shall desire upon your return. The sweet flesh, the drink of dreams—and yet, I have not all. My body will not produce all you require; I fear that perhaps this will impede your return. I am old, and I wait for a lamb, but the lamb will not come. For I have long ago lost the fruit of man's seed, and for all you asked of me, I have, ultimately, failed.

You taught me much, daughters. We held our place in this forest. We ate and drank as one, and I watched as you were taken from me.

My fingers are nearly gone; my still-tender palms will be next; my wrists and elbows will follow; and then, if need be, I shall devour until my mouth can reach no more.

~ the woman in the woods

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That strange child, Faith, was there. The girl must've been nearing her twenties, based on her facial features, her physical development, and yet her overall affect was one of such meekness that she appeared about ten years old. Once again, they were in that great round building, sitting across from Dorothea, Hank, and Faith. Minn couldn't help her fermenting unease at the recurring scene. What had changed in the forty-eight hours since she and Peter had first found themselves sitting across from these three? She was more wary, now, not quite as unsuspecting, and yet still, the villagers had only helped her. If they hadn't found her last night, she'd have surely become too ill to continue walking, and who knew what might have happened to her and Peter? And yet it was all too strange, too foreboding, how their attempt to get away had only put them back where they'd started.

"You've likely got questions," Dorothea began.

Minn regarded the woman seated across from her. The elder was not so old that she was decrepit; in fact she was hearty, probably in her seventies. She wore beneath her apron a dress of bright red, a color seen nowhere on any of the others, perhaps indicative of her standing within the community. Her eyes twinkled over youthful cheeks, her smile was as warm as that of a beloved grandmother, and in the fashion of a Bavarian beer maid she wore her thick white hair in a braid crown atop her head. By now, Minn had come to understand that Dorothea held some sort of command over the people. They listened to her, almost revered her. The way Hank responded to her was in itself testament to this: he hung on her every word, hushed himself at a motion from her, cast down his eyes when she talked.

"What you saw yesterday, it was frightening, to be sure."

Though she wanted to ask about her nightmarish walk through the village, Minn figured she'd better focus on what she knew had been real, before she'd grown feverish. "The singing in the forest, and the light—what was it?"

"They are ever present, ever upon us. From where they came, we do not know, only that they've been plaguing us for many years. We never wander into the forest alone, for those who do seldom return. They lure our good people with their song, pulling us toward their dark light, and none who has gone into it has come back to reveal its secret destination. They take us into themselves. It is why we have placed the markers, so that any who loses his way foraging may find a path home."

Minn realized Dorothea meant the poles, the ones with the hair and clay bits.

"And we've some shrines, where we thought to place our sacred talismans, so that we may deter them."

The strange little hut in the woods. "But who are they?"

"Weisse Frauen," Faith muttered.

Everyone turned to the demure thing, who sat so curled into herself that she practically looked like a receding snail.

"Yes," Dorothea snapped with some emphasis. "Yes. The White Women, we call them. They surely followed from the Old Country."

Raising her eyebrows, Minn couldn't help but ask, "What old country would that be?"

Dorothea looked to Hank, who nodded, replied, "Sister Minnow, to be sure our ancestors were from Germania. They came to this land nearly three hundred years ago."

Not wanting to be rude, Minn chewed back her real thoughts. "Well, I don't really believe in the paranormal. But it was weird—I'll admit that. Whatever it was, there must be some rational explanation for it. When Peter and I do make it home, we can probably help you figure it out."

Dorothea and Hank struggled to smile at her, though what exactly they thought, she couldn't guess. "Until this weather clears," the elder woman added through her pale lips, "we'd be honored if you would join us for Ostara! It's our most important festival, and this year's is sure to be the finest we've had in quite some time. We'll be busy in preparation for it. Even should the weather clear, you may wish to stay, as we seldom have travelers to observe this week of ceremony."

"Week?"

"Aye. Almost a week. We've begun our preparations today; they'll culminate in five days' time. And should you wish to leave afterward, we shall form a party to guide you safely out of these woods, as was originally promised."

Minn turned to Peter, who only shrugged, so she replied, "I appreciate your invitation. We—we'd like to stay."

Dorothea clapped her hands, rocked back and forth in apparent joy, and Hank offered something that sounded like a hooray. But in their excitement, Minn caught the eyes of the wan girl sandwiched between them, shrinking ever more into herself, and Faith met her gaze with such simmering, trembling emotion that Minn couldn't even tell what exactly was behind it—fear? joy? rage?

"But I have to insist that my son and I stay together. I understand you have your way of doing things, and I do respect it. But we . . . we've been through a lot. I need him nearby."

"That won't be a stickler, sister," Hank nodded, apple-cheeked above his graying whiskers. "We understand our customs are not like those you're used to, and this is why we have found you houses near one another. Will this be acceptable to you?"

Minn looked from Hank to Dorothea. "Yes. That's perfect. Thank you." With effort, the woman avoided giving any more attention to Faith, whose disposition was so intense she nearly felt heat radiating from the girl.

Dorothea stood, putting an end to the conversation. "Faith will take you to join the women, to aid in the preparations they have undertaken. Brother Peter shall continue working with Brother Hank's sons, if you deem that suitable?"

Well, Hank and Dorothea were at least in a compromising mood today; Minn couldn't complain about that. She'd already likely tested their patience with insisting on the propinquity of the cottages, and while there was a lot she wished to discuss with Peter, she figured they could easily meet with one another later, if they were to be near. She got to her feet. "That's fine," she said. "Oh! Wait. Where are my clothes? And my pack? I want—I mean, I'd like them back. Everything is in there: my license, my phone, my money . . . just, everything I have. So . . ."

Why were they staring at her as if she were speaking gibberish? Dorothea and Hank exchanged some sort of meaningful looks, and Minn wanted to scream in frustration at them and at the same time give a lecture about why her things were important in the modern world, but she kept her temper in check, not wanting to test the boundaries of these peoples' goodwill.

"We're cleaning your goods," Dorothea said at length. "Your son's as well. And we—forgive me, little swimmer, but we felt sure you'd be more comfortable during your stay if you looked like all of us." She took a sudden step toward Minn, who drew back but couldn't evade Dorothea's plump fingers, which pushed through some of the short hair above Minn's ear. "Your locks, we can do little for, I'm afraid. But the clothing, at least, should bring us all peace."

Minn was pretty sure losing her only belongings brought her anything but peace, but she told herself that her stuff really didn't matter; it wasn't as if the phone or money or cards would work here, anyway. She had Peter, and surely they'd return her pack and clothes when they left.

Hank was already clapping a ham-hand on Peter's shoulder, offering an obnoxiously jocular grin, asking him how he'd been (as if they hadn't seen one another in weeks), and Peter seemed uneager for the attention. The boy gave his mother a questioning look, and when she gestured her permission, he acquiesced, headed out of the hall. He'd be fine. Of course he'd be fine. They seemed to like Peter (more than they seemed to like her, really), and there was no evidence that these people were inclined toward violence. They were just weird. Even if the freakish visions she'd thought she'd seen the night before had been real (and the more time that distanced her from them, the more she was certain they couldn't have been), nothing in them had revealed anything unsafe.

Something brushed against her fingertips, which were down at her side, and Minn turned sharply to find Faith next to her. The girl was beginning to inspire revulsion, but the woman did her best to hide her dislike. The poor thing was obviously sick, and surely there was no real medication or help in a place like this. Minn shuddered to think of what they did for injuries and disease. They probably just had to let people die.

"Come with me, sister," Faith murmured, attempting to clasp hands.

Minn pulled away, feigning a stretch. Faith's mangled, bandaged hand was the last thing she wanted to hold. With a forced, flat grin, Minn said goodbye to Dorothea and left the building, rolling her eyes once more over the vibrant red, green, white, and yellow painted beams. When she exited the door, Minn asked Faith to wait. She realized that she could take this opportunity—being alone with the feeble girl—to ask her questions. This timid, simple creature would be far more likely to answer straight than would Dorothea. "What are these pictures around the door?"

Faith stared with mouse-wide eyes at the variety of images that'd been painted in the same palette as the interior. Raising one of her few remaining fingers, she pointed and stated, "Sister Fern, Sister Berry, Brother Worm."

Even the plants and animals were sisters and brothers. Right. Minn sighed. "All right. Carry on."

They crossed the bright soft grass, neared what Minn had thought was a community garden. She'd seen it when they'd first arrived and made their way through the village, and men were working busily inside the partitioned area, weeding and digging and pulling and caressing the multitude of leafy greens and tubers within.

"We grow millet and corn out beyond the fence," Faith commented unasked. "The men harvest it."

"Do the men do all the gardening and harvesting?"

"Aye, they do, and supply us with water, from the river and from the well."

That surprised Minn, though maybe it shouldn't have. On the one hand, such a rural, isolated community would no doubt require the dedication of every member to produce enough sustenance for the entire group. And yet this community had a weird thing about separating men and women, and so maybe the jobs for each gender were purposely discrete. "I guess the women knit, make clothes and blankets and things like that?"

"Oh, no. The men build and mend and sew and craft—all of those things."

"So what do the women do, then?"

Faith smiled quiveringly, stopped walking. "Forage, and prepare the special foods, and pray and sing. And, right now, the skinning."

Skinning? Minn had stopped as her guide had stopped, and as Faith spoke, Minn turned. They'd meandered from the communal garden into the women's dwellings. In a clear space between several of the cottages, nearly fifty or so girls and women were gathered, seated on stools in a circular formation, working away with sharp, glinty knives at things they held in their smeared hands. The sound of ripping material was interspersed with their laughter and chatter. In their midst was a towering pile nearly six feet high of some pinkish, reddish stuff that Minn couldn't quite make out, and every so often a woman tossed an addition onto it. A smell wafted over, its pungency enhanced by the moist, heavy air: it was the odor of fresh, raw meat.