When we get home, Papa's not there.

A fire burns in the oven, the rabbit soup I prepared earlier simmering on top, yet he's nowhere to be found. It's not like him to leave the house unattended. When my gaze connects with Thomas, I can tell he's thinking the same thing.

"Did your father say where he was going?" Thomas asks as we look around.

Honor peeks his head into Papa's bedroom. "No." He blinks up at me, his eyebrows drawing closer. "Why would Papa leave our supper on the stove?"

"I'm sure he's around here somewhere." But my voice doesn't sound convincing.

With growing concern, I fling open the front door and step onto the porch, staring past the row of icicles sagging from the roof. Horse tracks trample the freshly fallen snow, as if they'd been in a hurry to get away.

"He must be in town," I call over my shoulder.

Victor pulls down his hood to scratch the top of his head. His fingers disappear inside his ratty, black hair. "I think your food's burning."

When I turn back to the kitchen, plumes of smoke rise above the stove.

"Oh, no." Pushing past him, I remove the kettle from the fire and set it on the counter, waving the smoke away with my gloved hands. I steal a glance at Thomas. "He's been gone for a while; the broth's completely evaporated."

He moves closer and lowers his voice. "There must have been an emergency." Something uneasy churns in the pit of my stomach. "Maybe we should head back to town and see if everything's okay?"

Snow batters my face as we plod down the uneven road toward the center of South Harbor, and the clouds are dark and angry above our heads. The further we go, the more my ankle throbs inside my boot. My teeth grind together. I must have twisted it while we were running away from the mansion. Somehow, I hadn't even noticed. I'm noticing now.

Thomas catches me limping. He slows his pace until he's walking alongside me. "Are you all right?"

"It's just a little sprain. When we get back home, I'll pack it in snow."

He doesn't say a word, he just loops his arm around my waist, helping me along.

His close proximity makes my heart race. "Do you think we'll need to amputate?"

"Your leg?" When our eyes meet, the corner of his mouth lifts. "We may."

A comfortable silence weaves in the space between us. With every breath, his chest rises against me, the soft exhale of air against my cheek. Our lips mere inches apart. When Thomas adjusts his hold, something funny stirs in my stomach.

But then the moment passes.

He glances at Honor and Victor walking several feet ahead. "Are we still going to tell your father what happened?" He hesitates, his expression conflicted. "I mean, what if Victor's right? What if we get arrested for breaking into the house?"

I let out a breath and shake my head. "I don't know. If Mrs. Lloyd finds out, she'll demand we—" My voice trails off, but I don't need to finish. Thomas understands. "But we can't just leave that girl there. She's wasting away—I could see the veins beneath her skin. And all that blood..."

My eyes close as I struggle with what to do. We need to help her. If we don't, she'll die...if she hasn't already. Unless she's—

A shiver moves through me as I push the thought from my brain. Victor's ridiculous accusations are trying to get the best of me, but I'm not going to let them. Someone in this town needs to keep a level head. But who knew uncovering evidence would only make things more complicated?

Wind screams in my ears and I dip my chin inside my coat. "Who is she, and why is she there?"

Thomas shrugs. When he finally looks back at me, he shakes his head. "I honestly don't know."

But I can't let it go. I need Thomas to believe me. "I'm not making assumptions; Mr. Baptiste is involved. Please tell me you see that now."

He bites the inside of his cheek as if mulling over the question. "After what we just saw, it does seem like more than a coincidence."

A wave of relief crashes into me, nearly knocking me off my feet. I have no idea what to do next, but as long as Thomas is on my side, the outlook doesn't feel as bleak.

Up ahead, people are in the streets. Their voices carry as they hurry back and forth, but I can't make out what they're saying. Although, the closer we get, the more I sense something's wrong.

"They have torches!" Victor shouts at us from over his shoulder. Before I comprehend what he's said, he and Honor tear off towards the commotion.

My stomach tightens as we watch them disappear into the crowd. Some of the men carry rod-like pieces of wood, the ends ablaze with flames. Smoke and sulfur smolder in the air.

I don't like the looks of this. "Why would they need torches?"

"Let's find out." Thomas tightens his arm around my waist and a ribbon of heat coils in the center of my chest. I lean into him, using his body as an anchor to keep from falling over. By the time we make it onto Main Street, the townspeople are in a full-blown panic.

A woman rushes past us with a bundle of sticks in her arms. "What's happening?" I ask, trying to stop her.

"There's been another death."

My mouth falls open. "Who?" But she doesn't slow her pace. She weaves around a family of five, nearly knocking a toddler to the ground, until she's out of earshot.

Desperation clenches my chest. I untangle myself from Thomas' grasp and grab the sleeve of someone else. The man's eyes are wide, unfocused, and he's panting like a dog. "Please, sir. Can you tell us what's going on?"

He gapes at me in horror. With brute force, he yanks his arm away. When his strides widen into a sprint, one of his shoes slips out from underneath him and sticks in a rut of snow. He leaves it behind as he races down the road.

A shudder tears through my body. With mounting panic, I whip around to face Thomas. He knows what I'm thinking before I can even say it. "We'll find him," he says, returning his arm to my waist.

All I can do is nod.

As we round the corner of the church, what looks like the entire town clusters together in the cemetery. They're scurrying about like ants after someone's stepped on their colony. In the center of the chaos, women toss brush and branches into a fire raging among the snow-covered tombstones. Long orange flames lick at the bruise-colored sky.

Stumbling closer, I scan over the people around us. Some are enraged, others crying.

With a small crowd gathering around him, Pastor Turner angles himself toward the flames, his bulbous nose buried in the Bible. Firelight dances across his face as he raises an arm above his head, his eyes and lips moving along with the words on the page.

The noises melt away, and the only thing left is the sound of blood rushing through my ears.

Thomas' parents are here. And Victor's. Several kids from school. So many faces I recognize from my daily routines. Even Mr. Baptiste is here, his black cloak flowing around his boots as he wanders among the mob. But there's still no sign of my father.

Sweat prickles the back of my neck as I fight to keep control.

"Have you seen John Alexander?" Thomas says to an older lady moving past.

She shakes her head as heat from the fire pushes her back. Asking everyone we pass, no one offers a proper answer, as if they don't know or won't say. I can't tell which. My heart pounds harder.

A burst of agitation explodes through the crowd. Their voices grow louder, their movements unpredictable. A body slams into me, and then another, and before I know it, I've lost sight of Thomas.

Squinting through the snowflakes, my eyes land on a familiar face. My hands shoot forward and I grab a hold of one of Papa's good friends. "Please, Mr. Kerby. Have you seen my father?"

When Joseph Kerry removes his glasses, his bloodshot eyes spill over with pity. "Oh, Faith. I am so very sorry."

Horror claws at my chest. He can't mean...

My head spirals like a tornado as Mr. Kerby fades into the background. I press a hand to my mouth and shake my head, heat from the flames rippling around me. My muscles go limp.

When my knees finally buckle, two hands grip me beneath my arms and force me around. "Faith..."

"Papa!" I fall into his chest and bury my nose in the itchy fabric of his coat. It smells like smoke and sweat.

He tightens his grip and my arms curl around his waist. "Praise the Lord, you're safe." Papa forces me back and takes my face in his hands. "Listen to me very carefully. Honor is with the Morningstars. I need you to grab him and go home."

My brain stumbles around his stubborn urgency. "Why? What's happening?"

"Please just do as I ask. We'll discuss this later."

I'm trembling and lightheaded, but I pull away from his grip, defiance burning in my gut. "I'm not leaving until you tell me what's going on."

Another roar rises from the crowd. With several men trailing behind him, Mr. Washington exits the cemetery vault with something cradled in the arc of his apron. Blood smears across the stiff white fabric. His shoulders sag, his hooded eyes refusing to make contact as he marches through the growing mob.

I don't need to ask what he's done.

Papa gives me a sharp nudge. "Faith, please. Go now."

My head spirals out of control, my father's words getting lost in the rotation. The only sense I can grasp onto is what's happening right now in front of us.

Once they're gathered around the fire, Mr. Washington pulls four globs from his smock and plops them along a fallen tombstone at the edge of the flames. The hearts of Mr. and Mrs. Milton, Ms. White, and Mr. Dodd clump together like bloody clots.

They're going to burn them, just like they did to Andrew and Agnes.

When the men heave the stone into the fire, a cloud of smoke mushrooms above it, the fist-sized lumps sizzling like slabs of meat. The charred stench makes me cough. It only takes a few minutes before all that's left is grit and ash.

Mr. Washington uses his dagger to scrape the remains onto a silver-plated platter. He hands it over to a waiting Mrs. Lloyd.

I should have known she was behind this! No one else would suggest this level of brutality. What mystifies me is how easily the others have been to persuade.

Using a long-handled spoon, she stirs the ashes into a pitcher of water. One by one, people form a line in front of her, their voices rising in anticipation. Yet she calls out to Victor first.

A bead of sweat trickles down the side of my face as Victor steps away from the crowd. "Papa, what are they doing?"

But he's not listening. His head shakes, the movement knocking loose a tear. "May the Lord have mercy on their souls."

Like a kick in the gut, it hits me. The realization forces me back.

Mrs. Lloyd cups her hand to the back of Victor's head and forces the tin to his lips. "Aunt Tilly says if we drink the ashes of the infected, it will keep us safe from the Undead."

His voice cracks as he pulls away. "No!" Victor jerks back harder, sealing his mouth tight.

His mother bares her teeth. "Listen to me, young man. You will do as I say, and that is that!" She tips the cup again, forcing him to take a mouthful of liquid. Victor's cheeks puff out like baseballs until she slaps him on the back. "Swallow it!"

With a face as red as a beet, he doubles over gagging. Water and ash spew from his lips.

My stomach rolls and I turn away, a bitter tang soaking my tongue. "Why is she doing this?"

Papa doesn't answer.

Tension thickens the air, and all at once, Papa's arm is around me, his body massive against mine. When the crowd parts down the center like the Red Sea, his breath quickens, his chest rising with a wheeze against my cheek.

Mrs. Webster steps through the opening. Her eyes are red; her lips chapped and quivering. Matilda hugs her hip in an oversized coat, and a young boy and a girl follow after them.

When the family pauses at the roaring fire, the crowd goes silent.

I push away from my father and stand on my tiptoes, straining to see around the people in front of me.
The constable comes into view next. A blanket drapes over his outstretched arms. There's something inside, but I can't tell what it is. His green eyes stare, unseeing, as the flames draw him closer.

As he passes by, a gust of wind lifts the edge of the fabric and a limp auburn curl spills out from underneath.

My breath comes out in a single rush.

Eliza.

With trembling shoulders, Constable Webster lays the swaddled body before the flames. My muscles weaken, the weight of my body too heavy to hold up. I lean against my father for support.

Not Eliza. She's supposed to get better. She's not supposed to die!

Mr. Washington steps forward, the dagger still gripped in his fist. But when he drops to the ground, Constable Webster pushes him away. "I'll do it! She's my daughter." His words whip around us on the wind.

As if tending to a fragile newborn, Eliza's father gently unwraps the blanket. Flames from the fire illuminate her face. Dried blood speckles her chin and nightshirt, but her expression is at peace. If we were anywhere else, I would think she's sleeping.

Except. She's not.

With trembling fingers, the constable unfastens the pearl-like buttons from Eliza's nightdress and exposes her chest. I gasp at her sudden nakedness.

She shouldn't be here; her body disrespected for everyone to see. Eliza should somewhere safe, a place where we can take care of her and provide her last rights.

Mr. Washington folds the dagger into her father's hand. When he steps back toward the crowd, Constable Weber's gaze lands on his daughter. Slowly, very slowly, he raises the knife.

Flames glint off the blade as it quivers above his head.

I fight to slip out of Papa's grip, but I can't breathe. "You need to stop him. Please!"

But just as the constable's hand falls, a strangled sob explodes from his lips. He collapses, his wails muffling against his daughter's dead body.

The town stares in stunned silence.

An eternity passes before Mrs. Lloyd emerges from the crowd. Flames dance across her face, distorting her already exaggerated features. Barbed chin, beaked nose, eyes like flaming embers. She looks like the devil. "The only way to save this town is to remove the hearts of the Undead. If you fail, the blood of every person here will be on your hands."

A cry of agreement rises above the tombstones.

After an excruciatingly long moment, Constable Webster raises his head. When his eyes meet hers, he gives a defeated nod. She gestures for the butcher to step forward, but he doesn't budge. His expression hardens, as if he'd rather be anywhere but here.

Mrs. Lloyd curls her lip. "Mr. Washington, if you don't do it, someone else will. And I guarantee they won't be nearly as skilled as you are."

After a long beat, his broad shoulders sink.

"No!" The constable flings himself across Eliza's body, his red hair clinging to his sweaty forehead. "If this is what must be done then I'll be the one to do it."

But with his tear-soaked face and trembling voice, it's obvious he's in no state.

The crowd turns restless. Shouts of desperation escalate until the deafening howl rings in my ears.

"Mr. Washington, we're wasting time." Mrs. Lloyd surges with impatience. "This needs to happen now, before anyone else is killed!"

She directs the butcher toward the flames, but each step he takes makes the constable wail louder.

A visible swallow crawls down Mr. Washington's throat. As his fingers reach for the dagger, the crowd behind us gasps. In a rush of anticipation, they push forward, and we careen closer to the fire. Waves of heat warm my cheeks. When a sudden gust sends a billow of smoke into my face, I cough and turn away, a scream clawing at my chest.

Finally, a gruff voice rises above the pandemonium. "Stop!"

When I realize where it's come from, I freeze.

"Please. Give me a moment." Papa's arms fall away from me and he goes to his friend. He sinks onto his knees to look Constable Weber in the eye. They exchange words, and when they're finished, the constable pushes the knife into Papa's hand.

A relieved sigh rushes from my lungs.

Papa's changed his mind. He's not going to cut out Eliza's heart! Before I can go to him, Thomas is at my side. There's a slant to his mouth I can't read, and tension clenching his jawline.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. Tears shine in his eyes.

I stare at him, confused.

When his arms slide around me, more than anything, I want to sink into the embrace. Let it suffocate the horror taking place around us. But I can't.

This is more than just a hug. Thomas is holding me back.

As the church bell howls through the cemetery, Papa raises his face to the dark clouds overhead. "Please, Lord—forgive me for what I'm about to do."

My legs buckle as the weight of what's happening slams into me. A scream unlike anything I've ever heard fires past my lips. "Papa, no!"

Smoke sears my throat as I thrash against Thomas' hold, but his arms are wrapped so tight, there's no room to wiggle free.

"Please, Papa! Please don't do it!"

My father doesn't even look at me. With shaking hands, he positions himself in front of Eliza. He raises the dagger, and stabs the blade into her chest.