In addition to a stint in the Ice Pillory, Meya’s punishment was to return all her wages from the last three months to the manor’s coffers.

As all that gold had already been transformed into the flesh on her body, Meya would have to work without pay for three months instead.

After a fierce round of yelling their heads off, Dad and Farmer Armorheim went back to queue up at the Records Hall and settle their taxes. Thus, it fell upon Jason to make sure Meya and Deke went straight home without causing further trouble.

It was high noon by the time they made it back to the village. The dirt road was empty save for flocks of sparrows and pigeons pecking for seeds in the clumps of spiky grass along the wayside, and the occasional pile of sunbaked horse dung still swarming with flies.

“Say, Jason, how come you’re here today? It’s not bazaar day, is it?” asked Meya as she massaged her hands; they had become stinging and burning hot after their time in the Ice. Handing Jezia his waterskin, Jason sighed, looking careworn.

“The king’s overseer is here. He summoned all merchants trading in Crosset to gather at the castle and discuss the coinage shortage.”

“The what what?” Meya stared, wide-eyed, having never heard of those two words before in her sixteen years, then winced as Jezia doused water over her hands.

“We’re running out of metal. That’s why the treasury issued these lighter coins; precious metals are getting more expensive. They’re even thinking of scrapping money altogether.”

The merchant explained with a grimace, then cocked his balding head, his voice lowered,

“They’re still hushing it up, but ore ships haven’t been coming back from Everglen since last month.”

“You’re kidding! What happened?” Deke joined in. Jezia leaned in and whispered back.

“That’s the problem. Nobody knows. The king’s sent several ships to investigate, and they’ve all disappeared without a trace, too.”

Meya frowned in thought as she navigated the bumpy lane strewn with potholes. Mining had been banned in Latakia for two centuries. According to one High Priest Uriel IV, the goddess Freda suddenly realized digging too deep a hole would enable the evil she had sealed underground, the demoness Chione, to resurface and wreak havoc upon the land, and she conveyed her enlightenment to Uriel in a vision during his daily prayers.

Why the omniscient goddess had not divined the obvious centuries sooner was not a harmless sentiment to ponder aloud, as Meya had discovered at the tender age of six for the price of a lump on the head. Since the Ban, Latakia had been ferrying ships across the sea to a barren land ironically called Everglen to carry ores back.

“Great. Just when Myron got his letter, too.” Meya rolled her eyes and puffed out a moody breath. After all the butter Myron piled onto Yorfus the Blacksmith to get an apprenticeship, those ore ships just had to sink. Typical Freda. “Will you two be fine? What’s going to happen if we don’t have coins?”

Jezia looked up at Jason, who heaved a deep sigh, looking gloomy.

“Country towns like Crosset could survive without trade, I reckon. But for the cities and merchants like us, our only hope is lifting the Ban.”

“King Alden’s been trying to lift it since he took the throne, but the Anti-Miners on his Council are too powerful; they say Baron Hadrian’s lobbying behind them. The king couldn’t ever get enough votes to overturn it.”

“Ain’t he supposed to be all-powerful?” Deke frowned. Jason chuckled.

“Takes more than one head to run a kingdom.”

“Can’t we make money out of some other stuff?” Meya suggested, adding at the sight of Jason’s raised eyebrow. “Like, I dunno...seashells, shiny pebbles, wooden chips...”

Out of examples, Meya shrugged. Jason’s eyes twinkled in affectionate amusement. He gestured at the pink-with-brown-patches piglet Deke was leading along on a leash.

“Let’s pretend I want to buy your Hanna. I’ll give you fifty snail shells for her. Would you accept it?”

Meya glanced at Hanna, puckered her lips, then gave another shrug.

“Well, if everyone else were trading with snail shells and I could buy a new piglet with it, I suppose I’d accept.”

“Really? You don’t seem happy about it.” Jason observed with a shrewd, glinting look. Meya blew out a breath of annoyance.

“Of course, I’m not! I’m selling my pet for fifty snail shells. What am I supposed to do with them? Grind them up and mix them with flour?”

Jezia and Deke guffawed. Jason nodded.

“Exactly, Meya. Anybody can pick up a snail shell. And nobody has a use for them. It’s not the same with gold, silver, or copper. Or diamonds, rubies, sapphires and emeralds. Everyone in Latakia agreed these things are rare and precious. That’s how they became tradable.”

Jason trailed away as Meya’s house came into view. The Hild cottage did its seven-generation-history of poverty impeccable justice. Its grayish daub walls decorated with cracks like spider-webs fell away in places to reveal the crisscrossing wattle underneath. The thatched hay roof was dabbed with mildew. A crooked, soot-black metal pipe stuck out like an old feather on a straw hat—their chimney. The steady trickle of pale gray smoke meant Morel, Meya’s second sister, was busy preparing dinner.

Out front, Meya’s big sister Marin ambled about with a reed broom, scraping away fallen leaves that had become sodden and sticky from yesterday’s drizzle. She was a willowy woman in her early twenties, with shining copper hair and bright blue eyes. What little of her skin that poked out from her sleeves was porcelain white, unblemished by a single freckle.

Young men peeked out of oiled parchment tacked over their windows, savoring the precious moments before the reigning May Queen was again locked up for the night. Like a diamond in a chest.

“Yes, diamonds are precious. Like Marin.” Drawled Meya, crunching footsteps coming to a halt just out of Marin’s distracted earshot. “As opposed to yours truly, the Queen of Swine Dung.”

Jezia grimaced. Deke gave an awkward laugh as he scratched his head. Jason’s beady black eyes narrowed.

“Meya,” He began, his voice somber. Meya turned to him, eyebrows raised. “In Fyr’s Lake, tis not wealth, nor beauty, nor wit, nor high blood, but your deeds that are weighed.”

Meya averted her eyes, hitching up a bitter smile.

“Freda’s teachings aren’t to guide the living. They’re to comfort those about to die unnoticed.” She muttered. Jason cocked his head with a smile.

“Perhaps, and also to remind every father of a daughter.” As Meya blinked, unsettled, Jason grasped her shoulders, pinning her with his willful, melancholic stare.

“Mirram cares about you, Meya. Much more than gold. Much more than your mother’s Song. And he’ll prove it to you when you need it most. You don’t need to put yourself through this.”

Jason’s voice disappeared into his throat. His meaty hands cradled hers as his eyes roamed over her bruise-red, swollen, trembling fingers with genuine sorrow. Even as her heart pained, Meya heaved a sigh of derision.

“He left me to rot in the Ice and I got out on my own, Jason. Either there’d never be a day I’d need him most, or no need of mine would be enough for him.”

“It’s not the same, Meya. You don’t need help with the Ice. Why, you could bake bread with these scorching hands!”

Jason shook his head. Meya shrugged. Just another weird feature to add to her list, next to glowing eyes, never getting colds, and fingertips that grew back after you’ve chopped one off trying to slice carrots. Needless to say, The Hilds didn’t eat stew that frightful night. And Meya was never asked to help with dinner again.

To the general populace, the Ice Pillory would bring to mind black, frostbitten limbs that must be axed off. For Meya, it was the chance for swift freedom. She had requested it, knowing that otherwise, Farmer Armorheim would bribe the warden to free her, even if Dad wouldn’t bother.

“I can’t bake. The heat from my hands would ruin the dough.”

She jested, voice as flat as her vacant expression, and Jason could only shake his head.

“Someday, lass. Someday.” The old merchant patted her shoulder, then gestured with his chin, “Well, hop along. We’re here ’til next Monday. Don’t forget to drop by.”

He slung an arm around Jezia, who gave a tiny wave. Meya wished she knew how Dad’s hand felt on her shoulder, when he wasn’t crushing her collarbone in his squeeze after catching wind of some wicked shenanigan.

Grinning, she raised her hand and Deke slapped it.

“See you at work.”

He left the leather ring at the end of Hanna’s leash in her palm. She grasped it tightly as she watched her friends withdraw and go on their way. When their retreating silhouettes had vanished behind the dip of the hill, Meya took a deep breath then ventured towards her house.

Marin perked up at the sound of her footsteps.

“Meya! You’re back so early!” She chirped, her face aglow with delight.

“Hope that’s still legal.” Muttered Meya under her breath as she swept past her sister into the garden. After leaving Hanna in her pen, she pushed open the termite-infested back door.

“Is the pig well tied up?”

Mum’s husky voice reached her even before her big toe had entered the house. She was bent over the hearth-hole in the middle of the room, stirring the dinner stew. Morel was sitting beside her, chopping vegetables.

Meya breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed news hadn’t reached these three yet. She closed the door and strode in, answering with all the liveliness she could muster.

“Yep, as tight as the waistband on Bailiff Johnsy’s bell—oof!”

A basket came flying out of nowhere and slammed into her chest, knocking the wind out of her.

“Parsnips!” Morel barked. She’d win the annual plate throwing contest for sure, if only she’d deigned to sign up. On any fine day, Meya would’ve chucked the basket back to Morel and demanded she walk three steps to hand it over politely. But this was no fine day.

“Oh...right.” Meya gathered herself, then headed back to the door.

“And I want it in ten minutes, so don’t go chasing some shiny beetle into the woods, doofus!”

“Aye, milady.” Meya grunted. She shuffled out to the vegetable patch, gathered her dress then hunkered down to yank out some tubers, tossing them into the wicker basket. Then, she pressed the basket over a water basin and rinsed the dirt out.

After she had half thrown, half slid the basket in front of Morel, earning herself a glare, Meya was about to go out and kill time with Hanna, when Mum stopped her with her hoarse, damaged voice.

“Have you seen Mistral?”

Meya swallowed the bitter lump in her throat with difficulty. Mum and Morel seldom left the house or join in the village’s gossip rings. But Meya had hoped, after sixteen years with her, Mum would’ve sensed something off.

“No. Still weaving with Silma, probably. She’s teaching her new patterns today.”

Mum bobbed her head along as she stirred.

“And Marcus and Myron? And Maro?”

“Working the fields,“...of course! Where else d’you expect they’d be? Meriton?

Meya itched to add, if only Mum’s ladle didn’t look so malicious as it swirled in the boiling stew.

“Hm-hmm. Seen your father on the way here?”

“No, sorry.” Meya lied. Well, she hadn’t seen Dad on the way; she parted with him before she started off. Mum didn’t seem to suspect any foul play. She scooped up a ladle-full of brown stew and let it plop back down, studying its texture.

“Hmm.” A low hum escaped her pursed lips. She turned to Morel, who was reaching for an onion. “Leave the onions for later, then, Morel honey. Your father would take some time.”

Mum had finished her business with Meya. Meya bit back a sigh and turned to leave.

“Meya, wait.”

Meya spun back at the call she thought would never come. Mum had peeled her eyes away from the stew to look at her, and Meya was taken aback.

“I’m fine, thanks.” She smiled. Mum blinked, puzzled.

“I can see that. I was going to ask if you’ve brought back the chicken yet.”

Meya’s grin froze on her face. Oh, that. Avoiding Mum’s gaze, she gestured towards the door.

“Um, no. Er, I’ll get to it.” She whirled away, hoping to hide her burning cheeks, then jerked back again at Mum’s reminder.

“Take a copper for Old Horth.” Mum pointed her chin towards the money tin on the shelf. Meya noticed a block of Morel’s fruitcake sitting next to it.

“How about this instead? Jason said coins are getting short.” She picked it up.

“Really?” Mum looked up, mildly interested, then cocked her head. “Well, take the cake, then. You fine with it, Morel dear?”

Morel gave an offhanded shrug.

“What can I say? Shepherd Horth loves my cooking.” She smirked, not one for modesty. Mum mussed up her golden hair.

“So does every shepherd in the pasture.”

Morel tittered, and Mum joined in. They’d long forgotten Meya standing there, and Meya could safely let her smile sag and her shoulders hunch. Mum accepted her lies without protest, no matter how suspicious she’d attempted to be. She’d always ask Meya about her siblings, and the livestock and vegetables she was in charge of. If she wouldn’t ask about her to her face, Meya hoped, perhaps she would ask the others, at the least.

Meya retreated outside, grabbing her ragged black cloak and stowing Morel’s cake in one of its pockets. She swung the gate into the garden once more.

The chicken coop was empty; every morning before heading to the fields, Meya would herd the chicken onto a wheelbarrow and trundle them to the communal pasture outside the village, where they could forage among the livestock of other villagers, under the shepherds’ watchful eyes.

Hanna, in her pen, had settled in for a snooze. Meya unlatched her door and bent down to muss up her head. She grunted and opened one bleary eye.

“Sorry, Hanna. Wanna go with me to the pasture?”

Both of Hanna’s eyes snapped open. Oinking, wagging her tail, she scrambled up and waddled along. The round wooden nametag swung on her collar as she followed Meya down the meandering dirt lane, towards the grasslands spreading out beyond the rolling green wheat fields. Upon the tag were letters carved by Myron, spelling Hanna—at least, Meya thought that was the case, as she couldn’t read.

Back home, in the hole in the dirt floor where Meya kept her belongings, she had collected ten tags, bearing names of piglets she had raised since the start of spring, only to send them to the slaughterhouse by the eve of winter. All parts of the pig were useful. Their tags were the only remains she could keep.

They could afford to raise only one pig at a time, so Meya couldn’t help treating her annual piglet akin to a pet—albeit one you have to butcher and eat. Meya never touched their meat, though, no matter how much her stomach ached in winter.

A gust of wind blew over faint bleats and moos from the communal pasture, reminding Meya of creamy fresh milk and rich sheep cheese and butter. They couldn’t afford flocks of sheep or cattle. Luckily, the Armorheims insisted on giving their poorer neighbors a daily pail of milk.

At the chirp of a robin streaking by overhead, Meya tilted her head back, following his journey across the sky. It was the clear, light blue of early spring, with wispy clouds that edged towards the horizon on the wings of the cool breeze.

She wondered where the little robin was going. Perhaps if he flew high enough, he could see if there really were a deity—the goddess Freda—up there, like it said in the Holy Scriptures.

She wondered why Freda made her a girl. And a Greeneye, too. Meya could do much more to help her family out, if she were a boy with beautiful blue or brown eyes that didn’t glow like a pair of cursed fireflies from a haunted forest.

At least, she wouldn’t have to resort to wage fraud to earn gold for her dowry, and end up losing all that to a hefty fine. She could aspire to become a merchant like Marcus. She could take up apprenticeship like Myron. She could be useful. The way she was now, she was just wasting the family bread.

Glancing down at Hanna, Meya couldn’t help wondering if it would be that different with her neck on the butcher’s board instead of Hanna’s this winter.

Except for the fact that Hanna’s meat would probably taste better than hers.