Daughters,

What might you do for me, upon your return? Should I be so fortunate as to see you once more, I would weave braids in your flowing locks, and I would pluck your eyes from your heads, feed them to your mouths while you reveled in your second sight.

On a bed of forest finery, I would watch the tremors of your body, the satisfying of your flesh. I would partake in your pleasure, for pleasure leads to pain, and pain is the source of all. Life begins in pain; life ends in pain. The forces of creation and destruction—and who knows this best but a woman? What man has ever considered the pain his pleasure might bring? Ah, but the pain is never his own. He burdens another for his ephemeral gratification. And for his selfishness, he has no part of creation and destruction. These are food for us, alone, daughters.

Many wrongs you righted, and yet the wolves in lambs' clothing stole all. It is only I who remain, biding my time.

~ the woman in the woods

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Weisse Frauen, they called them—the White Women. The source of sound and light and shape. Minn and Peter hadn't even hit three markers before they ran into a group from the village, led by a dark-haired middle-aged man and one of those strange twins of Hank's, approaching them with handheld lanterns to cut the gloom. They'd been trying to locate the outsiders for hours, they said, knowing what was there in those woods, hearing even from a distance the telltale signs of the Weisse Frauen.

Minn was in no condition to comprehend much of what they were telling her. The dash through the forest had been wearying, but beyond that, she was surely growing ill. She was trying to hide the swimming nausea, the chills that'd been steadily creeping upon her. Her mind was so bent on attempting to quell the sickness within that she had little energy left to question anything going on around her, and as much as she didn't want to admit it, being back amongst other people was in many ways a relief. The prospect of being lost and without food and sick was terrifying. Minn held on to Peter as he helped her climb over the log partition separating the beyond from the village. She wondered mildly why these people didn't have a gate or entryway but was too concerned with controlling her stomach as she was lifted up and over to care too much.

"I don't think she's feeling well," she heard Peter say, and she resurfaced from her grogginess to find him holding on to her, his arm around her waist in order to keep her from stumbling.

Someone from the surrounding group offered Minn a cup of water, and without thinking of anything but her thirst, she drank it. "I'm fine," she managed. She had to keep her wits about her. These people might try to separate her from Peter again.

Dorothea suddenly appeared. Maybe she'd been there all along, out in the woods with the search party, or maybe she'd just popped into existence right then, but the older woman was suddenly right up in Minn's face. "Sister Minnow," she soothed, placing a clammy hand against the other's cheek, "we're so grateful for your safety. There's much to talk of, but for this night, we must let you rest." She looked up and around, called, "Goodnight to all of you! Your work is done. The Mother bless you for your diligence this night. And now," she continued, looking toward Peter, "let's get our sister to a bed."

"I need to stay with her tonight, or at least nearby. She's sick, and I don't want to leave her alone."

Minn had herself been trying to say as much, but she'd been unable to focus enough, so hearing Peter's demand was comforting beyond anything else these people might offer.

If Dorothea had thoughts about Peter's ask, she didn't share them within earshot of Minn, and the older woman was soon guiding them to some destination. The walk felt longer than the hours they'd spent in the forest. Minn was misleadingly steady on her feet, able to keep upright, so that Peter assumed she was well enough and carried on a few feet ahead of her in order to speak with the older woman. Surely both he and Dorothea thought she was in control of her senses, at least, but Minn's head was so clouded that she felt as if she were underwater. The soft, damp grass below, the specks of light at varying distances indicating lanterns outside the multitude of timber structures, the darkness that had settled swiftly upon them, the moist dusk air—these surroundings didn't spin but instead seemed to pulse with a strange energy, a heightened, quivering precision. More than once, Peter turned to ask whether she was all right, and she answered in the affirmative each time, and yet even as the nausea had subsided, the atmosphere around her and within her skull had morphed into surreal, delusory dreamscapes, strange and unreliable.

They carried on. Minn followed the vivid yet throbbing figures of Dorothea and Peter, who seemed always just a little out of reach. She was relatively confident in her ability to reason even if her perception were dulled and intoxicated, and so she knew that what she saw wasn't quite reality, that it was some trick of her perception, and that she had only to keep on after her son and all would be well. They passed cottage after cottage, most closed, some filled with laughter, some dark, and some aglow with warmth-giving fires. Outside one, Minn paused while the surroundings shivered still. The door to that cottage was ajar, open well enough to see much of the dwelling's interior, and within stood two women, one older and one younger, and both were naked from the waist up, the tops of their dresses having been folded down. The older woman stood behind the other and brushed her shimmering blonde hair. Her breasts were large and heavy, in surprising contrast to her slender stomach, and Minn couldn't help but stare. The women spoke in smiles, though what they discussed was too quiet to hear, and just as the older woman reached a hand to the side of the younger's breast, stroked it, she turned and caught sight of their observer. Minn startled within, though her physical reaction was slowed, and she stood in mesmerized embarrassment as the voluptuous older woman stepped to the door and shut it.

In her state of incognizance, Minn was aware after only several attempts on his part that her son called her. She dragged her heavy feet and directed herself after him, and yet she fell deeper into confusion the farther she moved. Shadow crept from the corners of her eyes. Music sounded somewhere—singing? Something about rabbits and lambs. And there was another golden interior shining toward her, another cottage open—a nude woman on hands and knees, washing the feet of a partially clothed woman lying back on a quilted bed. And there, a window, an uncurtained window. Minn felt her nose pressed to glass, suddenly, and within the dwelling she saw a familiar face, though where she'd seen it, she couldn't quite recall—another bare-breasted woman with a black snake twined around her upheld fingers and wrist, two raven-waved women at her dark nipples, lapping the milk that dripped from them. And she pulled away from the scene to find lights flickering on and off inside and outside every cottage, to see faces and flesh in every window and door, to hear soft intermingled laughter and moaning and singing until everything within her began to cloud and melt.

But Minn kept on, kept moving, so that she no longer knew whether she was asleep or awake, lost in dreams or a terribly confusing reality. Everything merged. Peter's voice, and Dorothea up close in her face, and fireflies—or lanterns?—and why was her cheek to the grass? Oh, the stars. The stars spun overhead. And she couldn't breathe. There was so much weight on her, such lethargy . . . something pressing against her chest. God, she couldn't breathe! She was drowning! Where had Isaac gone? There, he was in the car with her. He had that gun again, but it wasn't aimed at himself—no, it was aimed at her. Stuck in her mouth! She could feel the barrel against her teeth. He was going to blow her head to pieces, and who would pick them up? Peter would be unable. She'd have to do it herself, unless . . . Wolf. Her brother took care of everything. Always. So why was he sitting on her, now, stopping her breath? She couldn't inhale—her lungs! They'd burst! She couldn't—Wolf laughed—laughed! while the world began to implode—

—and Minn fell onto the floor.

Everything was suddenly so quiet. The dark had become soft daylight; the chaos of sound had become gentle birdsong. The polished earth beneath her, though, was freezing cold. The fire must've gone out. And where were her clothes?!

Minn got to her feet far too quickly, and her head swam. The clutter in her brain began to clear, though. She was herself again, in one of their cottages, no doubt, but it was organized a little differently than the other had been, bed against a different wall, fireplace to the right and not the left. There was no one else in there, not even Peter, but in that moment, she was glad for it. Her clothing had been entirely removed, even her bra and underwear, and a quick search revealed they weren't in the hut. Instead, a plain brown dress and its long white undergarment—the same thing they'd given her two days ago. As much as she loathed the thought, she had no other option than to put it on. It was either that or wrap the bedquilt around her naked body, and that would've been even less prudent. She'd just have to swallow her pride in this instance.

There were no shoes, though. She'd have to remain barefoot on that icy floor.

Slipping into the white underdress, Minn's head began to spin. She sat on her bed a moment, closed her eyes. A hand went to her forehead. What exactly had happened? She'd been sick—she knew that. And they'd obviously returned to the village. She recalled the walk back through the woods, climbing the partition, the others gathering round, Dorothea, Peter . . . from there, things became hazy. She'd been so disoriented, moving through the village. The things she'd seen!

Minn blinked her eyes several times, recalling the strange images, the bizarre scenes. Her cheeks flushed as she thought of them, and yet how blurred they were in her memory. She'd been so ill the night before that there was no certainty any of what she'd seen had been real. In fact, surely it wasn't. As puritan as these people seemed, there was no way her wildly sapphic visions had been anything but a product of her mental state. They'd been hallucinations, just as her nightmares had been only nightmares.

Remaining seated, trembling from the chill, Minn pulled the ugly brown dress over her head. It tied in the back, but she couldn't reach around to do the ribbons, and her desire to find Peter was beginning to outweigh any concern about anyone seeing her bare back, so she steeled herself for the damp grass outdoors and opened her door.

Whatever time it was, the day was already well underway. People milled about, worked small plots of land around their cottages, fed chickens, carried buckets of water. They were mostly women but not all women. In fact, a good number of them were men, and this was heartening. Many looked her way but none quit their tasks as Minn stepped out into the open. A wide gap existed between her dwelling and the next nearest, and when she saw a handful of boys exit it, she realized that her own small cottage must've been at the edge of the women's area and beginning of the men's. She noticed, too, that many of the homes across the way were larger than those where she'd stayed. In fact, many were three or four times the size, likely to hold multiple people. Minn remembered Peter telling her he'd stayed with Hank and his sons that first night; their home must have been something larger than those of the apparently isolated women. Whether or not the isolation was a bonus for privacy, or whether the segregation was something demeaning, Minn couldn't figure out.

"Hey!"

She spun left to find Peter approaching. He was again dressed in the garb of these people, but Minn could hardly complain in her current state, and she instead flung her arms about him. "Thank God you're all right."

"Me?" Peter held her at arm's length. "I was so worried about you! I checked on you several times. See—" he pointed somewhere to the left. "I was staying just over there. I told them I needed to be near you this time."

"You—you checked on me?"

"Yeah. Three or four times. You were so dead asleep I had to make sure you were breathing each time."

Minn chewed her lip; she certainly hadn't felt as though the night were restful. "Peter," she said in a disturbed hush, "I think we really need to get out of here."

He had no chance to offer a response, though, before Minn literally jumped at the cold touch of fingers unexpectedly at her back. "No cause for alarm, Sister Minnow," soothed a familiar voice. "We cannot expose your bareness before the men." The fingers finished the work of tying the dress, and then Minn was able to turn and see her helper, who, as she'd guessed, was her former beautiful guide, Opal. She stood with Faith, the strange sallow girl, who hid her bandaged hands in her apron pockets, and another plainer girl with straw-blonde waves of hair.

Minn attempted to offer a smile, to look less troubled than she felt, but something in Opal's gleaming eye caught her. An image flashed through Minn's mind, of that face, near the flicking tongue of a black snake . . . Minn's breath caught—had she really seen that? Had it been real?

Opal cleared her throat, called them back to attention. "You are to come to Sister Dorothea," she sweetly instructed. "She wishes to offer an explanation, and an invitation."