Hopelessness churns in my stomach as I sit in the rocking chair, my knees pulled to my chin, watching the late afternoon shadows stretch across the floor. It's the same position I've been in since we came home—after I watched my own father gut my best friend.

In the kitchen, Papa and Honor sit at the table, silently picking at their bowls of soup. Papa continues to eye me with his brows drawn together. His sets down his spoon, the metal clinking against the table, and lets out a defeated sigh. "Faith, you should have some supper. You haven't eaten since breakfast."

I don't answer.

Wind pummels against the side of the house and sneaks between the crevices, making the flames above our candles waver like ghosts. Goosebumps slither across my skin.

Their warm golden glow usually comforts me, but not tonight.

Papa's gaze scorches the side of my face. "I know you're upset, but you need to keep up your strength. Especially now. You're going to make yourself sick."

I'm already sick.

"Faith." A warning lurks in his voice.

Finally, I give in, though I refuse to meet his gaze. "I'm not hungry."

Papa continues to stare. After what feels like forever, he turns to my brother with a tone much gentler than what he used with me. "Why don't you finish up in your room. I'd like a moment alone with your sister."

Honor bounces out of his seat as if he'd been waiting for the opportunity, his bowl in one hand and a glass of milk in the other. I don't blame him for wanting to get away. If I was offered the chance to leave, I'd jump on it, too.

Using his hip, Honor bumps open our bedroom door and nudges it closed with his socked foot.

After a long beat of silence, Papa pushes away from the table. It's not until he's sitting next to me that I realize he brought along the kitchen chair. "We need to talk." His mouth is set in an even, unbreakable line.

I turn away.

Papa grips my shoulder and gently swivels me around to face him. When he settles back into the seat, the wood groans beneath his weight. "Keeping quiet doesn't suit you," he says with the hint of a smile.

Tears blur my vision as all the words I've been biting back beg to gush from my mouth.

I glare at him, unwilling to hold them in any longer. "How could you? I asked you to stop them, but you—"

A breath shudders through me. Papa sits silently, and waits for me to continue.

"Eliza was my best friend. She deserved better than that. And you sliced her open like she was nothing more than a muskrat from one of your traps. You're just as guilty as the rest of them!" By the time I'm finished, my rushing breaths turn into a cough I can't control. I bark and hack until my lungs smolder like the logs in the stove.

Papa goes to the kitchen and brings back a glass of water. When I'm finally able to breathe, he hands over the mug and returns to his seat. "You're right. Eliza didn't deserve what happened to her."

The room spirals until black splotches take over the fringe of my vision. I take a swallow of water and then another, allowing the cool liquid to soothe my throat. But I don't attempt to speak again until the glass is drained. "Why did you do it?" I finally say, leaning the back of my head against the rocker. "We should have given her a proper funeral. We should have prayed for her soul."

Instead, the townspeople torched her insides and fed them to her family.

In the wink of an eye, the man I've always believed my father to be—honest, kind, and God-fearing—turned into someone I don't even recognize. Just like the rest of this miserable town.

"Come spring, Eliza will have a proper burial. I'll make sure of it." Papa shifts in his seat and studies me. His face is drawn, his forehead glistening, as if he'd just been working in the fields. "This may be difficult to believe, but what I did...I did for Eliza and her family."

His words sting like a slap. I don't know what to believe anymore. "You said the Undead aren't real." I push the words past my clenched teeth, my fingers digging into the arms of the rocker. "You've always told us to have faith in God. You said He will provide. Eliza went to church every week, and just like the Miltons, she never shied away from serving the Lord. If God is so loving, why is He allowing this to happen?"

An uneasy silence stretches between us.

"Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding."

No amount of Bible verses will help this time. Trusting in the Lord; having faith in His word. They're all just empty sentences with no real meaning.

Tears spring from my eyes and roll down my cheeks. I bury my face in my hands to keep Papa from seeing the unholy thoughts in my head.

"Faith..." His fingers wrap around my wrists, and very gently, he tugs my hands away. My eyes close for a beat before meeting his. "I wanted to give Eliza's family peace of mind. I wanted to spare them from whatever horrors the townspeople had in store if they put up a fight. Nothing has changed. I don't believe in the Undead, and I do not believe drinking ashes will save anyone from this hell." He hesitates, and the weight of what he's said presses down across my shoulders. "Sometimes, the Lord asks us to do things we don't want to do. And as His servant, I will always obey."

Anger and grief rise in my chest. "God did not want you to do that to Eliza!"

Papa's shoulders sag. "I think He wanted me to be there for my friend. And even when it makes me uncomfortable, I have to do what He asks of me."

"But how do you know what He's asking? How do you know if He's even real?"

For a moment, Papa stares past me and doesn't answer, and I fear I may have gone too far. But then our gazes collide and he lifts his chin. "Because I heard Him." He releases my wrist and places a hand over his chest. "I heard him right here, in my heart."

I swallow past the sob that's still stuck in my throat.

And like a purging, calmness comes over me. It starts in my chest and spreads throughout my entire body, washing away any trace of uncertainty I might have. In times of pain and suffering, isn't that when we should lean on God the most?

My voice comes out quiet. "Will I ever hear Him?"

Papa gives me a small smile but it doesn't reach his eyes. "As long as you believe, you'll hear Him when you're meant to." He rounds his back in a long stretch, and plants his hands on his knees. "I have something for you."

As he rises from his seat and crosses into his bedroom, an ache swallows my head. I pinch the bridge of my nose to relieve the pain. It doesn't work.

He returns a moment later with something hidden in his grasp. "This was a gift from your mother on the day we said our vows. I think she'd want you to have it."

He places a weighted, brass disk in my open hand. It's the size of my palm. There's an inscription on the surface: For we walk by faith, not by sight. This is the first time I've ever seen it.

My eyes meet his. "Is it a locket?"

"Open it and find out."

With careful fingers, I pry open the clasp. Instead of pictures inside as I expect, a black starburst splays against a pearly white plate. It's similar to the face of a clock. Except, instead of telling the time, it shows the direction; north, east, south, and west.

"A compass?" I murmur. But it's more than just a compass. It's the most exquisite instrument I've ever seen, crafted by someone with meticulous hands. It must have been expensive. How could Mama afford such a lavish gift?

"Your mother told me as long as we have faith, this compass will guide our way. It's what pointed us toward South Harbor. And to this day, I believe it was the smartest move we ever made." He smiles at the memory, his eyes shining in the candlelight. "Sometimes, life is filled with hardship that tests our faith. But God's love is as true as any compass...you just need the courage to believe."

All my anger melts away. I lean forward and throw my arms around his neck, the compass tight in my grasp. The dam inside me breaks, my cheeks flooding with tears. "I'm sorry I doubted you, Papa."

"Now, now. There's no reason to get upset." His hand moves over my head in long, gentle strokes, filling the hollow inside my chest. It's the same way he would comfort me as a child. A skinned knee, or hurt feelings didn't hold a candle to one of Papa's hugs.

When I've finally had my fill, I untangle myself from our embrace as the question I've been holding onto leaps from my tongue. "Do you blame me?"

Confusion settles across his face. "Blame you for what?"

My throat tightens, and the words come out smaller than I intend. "Do you blame me for what happened to Mama and Grace?"

Silence.

My heart thuds to a stop.

"Blame you for what happened?" It takes a moment, but the realization of what I'm asking hits him like the recoil of a shotgun. Papa gathers me into another hug, squeezing so tightly I'm afraid I'll lose my breath. His chest trembles against me, as if he's holding back tears of his own. "Oh, my sweet girl. I have never once blamed you. What happened to your mama and baby sister is not your fault. Not in any way."

Tingles of relief spread through my entire body. With my eyes squeezed shut, I bury my face in the warmth of his neck, letting my tears stain his flannel shirt. I hug my father every night before bed, but it's been years since we've held each other this close.

We sit like this for several minutes, holding each other up, and I'm thrown back to the night Mama went into labor.

Things didn't go as planned.

Baby Grace wasn't supposed to come for another couple of months, and Papa said the pain Mama was in was far worse than what she'd experienced in the past.

As the evening progressed and Mama's cries of agony grew louder and more intense, Papa broke down and made the trip to collect the doctor, leaving me and Honor behind to watch over her. I assisted our mother the best I knew how, the same way I'd done when our horse Clarabelle birthed her colt. But her wails and screams were too much for my brother to bear. As he hid in his bed, his hands cupped over his ears, I held a cool rag to Mama's brow and sang songs to calm her nerves.

But my efforts couldn't save either one of them.

As the full moon made its way across the luminous spring sky, Grace came into the world, blue-faced and listless, bringing with her more blood than I'd ever seen in my life. I washed my sister clean, and placed her tiny body in our mother's waiting arms. As Mama grew weaker and more pale, waves of blood pooling between her legs, I made a promise to her I intend to keep—the promise to always take care of my father and younger brother.

It was the last thing I ever said to her.

Papa lets out an exasperated breath. He sits back and cups my face, his palm course against my cheek. "Please tell me you've not faulted yourself all this time."

My gaze falls. I don't trust myself to speak.

"Did I in any way make you feel you were to blame?" When I look up, there's a heartache in his eyes I've never seen before. Not like this. As if my answer has the power to destroy him.

I shake my head. "Never."

In his relief, Papa briefly closes his eyes and takes a slow breath. "I wish you'd come to me sooner. I hate that you carried this burden for so long."

"But I was supposed to watch over them." My lips press together as I fight back more tears. "I tried to save them, but—"

"Faith..." Papa's hands reaches for mine and I clutch onto them tight, as if they're the only thing keeping me tethered to the earth. "The way you cared for them is more than I could have ever asked for. Even if we could turn back time, there was nothing more you could have done. It's another one of life's mysteries we can't explain."

"Were you mad at God afterward?"

He's noticeably taken aback. "I was mad that we'd never get to hear your mama's laugh again. And that we'd never watch Grace grow up. But I was never once mad at God. Were you?"

I hesitate before answering. "Today, after what happened to Eliza, I blamed Him for everything."

Papa turns away from me and stares at the flames in the stove. "Losing your mother and sister was the worst day of my life. We can ask God why over and over again, but the answer will always be foggy," he says. "Someday, after we leave this world and go on to the next, I believe everything will be clear."

The meaning behind those words linger, and for a while, everything's quiet, my body lighter than it's been in a very long time. Finally, I let out a yawn.

Papa smiles. "Why don't you get your brother and I'll make you a bowl of soup? Do you think you can eat?"

I think I can, even if it's only a little.

Outside, the sky is dark, a fact that hasn't hit me until now. We rise from our seats and I grab a candle as Papa heads toward the kitchen and me to the bedroom. When I open the door, Honor is sprawled across his bed with his back to me. Shadows leap across the walls as I enter the room. His soup and glass of milk sit on the bedside table barely touched. Breathing in deep, I creep across the floor and shake his shoulder.

He doesn't move.

I nudge him again, more urgently this time. "Honor—wake up. It's not time for bed yet."

Still...nothing.

A ribbon of alarm coils in my chest. I round the bed and squat down in front of him as light from the flame flickers over his face. I set the candle on the floor. "Hey sleepyhead, you need to get up."

Silence.

My breaths grow shallow. It's all I can do to keep from screaming his name.

Papa peeks his head around the door. "Is everything all right in here?"

My stomach drops out from under me. What am I supposed to say? I swallow hard and try to find the right words, when Honor finally stirs in bed.

His lids flutter open and he stares up at me, the whites of eyes glistening in the shadows. "Sissy?"

A lungful of air rushes past my lips. "I'm—I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were asleep."

"Honor's had a long day. We all have. Why don't we let him get some rest," Papa says from the doorway. "Come on, your supper is waiting."

As Papa retreats, I lift the candle and gaze down at my brother, letting my fingers comb through his hair. It's slick with sweat. "I'll tuck you in. Okay?"

He nods and burrows back into his pillow, already half-asleep.

I wrap the blanket around and kiss the top of his head. "Sweet dreams."

But just as I'm about to leave, a sound makes me turn back.

Scratch

Scratch

Scratch

It's coming from outside the window.

A shutter must have come loose in the wind. I force myself forward. With each step, my heart thumps louder in my ears, a profound pressure building behind my eyes.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

That's no shutter.

My chest heaves, and goosebumps crawl up my arms. I nudge aside the gauzy veil and squint through the frost-laced window into the night. But nothing's there.

Before I let the curtain fall back into place, I take a moment to calm my rushing breaths. And that's when I see it. A dark figure lumbering down the road in the opposite direction of town, its black cape thrashing in the wind.

The fabric falls from my grasp and I pivot away, my chest rising and falling with a quickness it's never known. Sagging against the wall, the events of the morning surge back like an ominous vortex in my head. The mansion. The girl. The awful things Mr. Baptiste has done.

Despite everything, Victor's warning still looms.

If we tell anyone what we saw, we could be arrested. If I'm sent to jail, there will be no way for me to keep Papa and Honor safe. I'd break the promise I made to my mother.

Except if I keep quiet, how many more of us will die?