December charges in like an army, bringing with it more snow and a drift against our farmhouse reaching well above my head. Winter doesn't slow us down. Honor and I still begin each day helping Papa with the farm animals, preparing breakfast, and dressing for school.

Our one-room schoolhouse sits at the far edge of town. It's a big square with a walnut desk in one corner and a pot-bellied stove in another, the constant crackle of flames rising from the vent. A wedge of blackboard fills the wall in between them. In the center of the room, fifteen students occupy the benches, ranging in age from eight to seventeen.

Only a couple I consider true friends: Eliza Webster, a freckle-faced girl my age whom I've known since before I can remember, and Thomas Morningstar, a barrel-chested seventeen-year-old who looks more like a man than a boy. His transformation happened over summer as he helped his father haul in nets of halibut and cod, the daylight's golden rays baking his skin. He's a handful of mischief and sunshine, and I've always liked him in a way I've never had to think about. But there are times, now, when I catch myself lingering over his sinewy build and blond hair, the tips still white from all that time working in the harbor, and something unfamiliar spirals in my stomach.

"Oh, Miss Alexander..." An amused voice pulls me out of my head. Our teacher, Lillian Perkins, stares at me staring at Thomas. "How do you expect to learn anything when you spend your time daydreaming?" She closes her geography book and plops it on the desk, her lips twisting into a mischievous half-grin.

Heat swamps my cheeks as chuckles erupt around the room. I fold my arms over my chest, and force myself to look her in the eye. "I'm sorry, ma'am. It won't happen again."

"Except we all know it will," Victor Lloyd sing-songs loud enough for everyone to hear.

Miss Perkins' sinks onto the edge of her desk and crosses her ankles, the hem of her dress swallowing her boots. "And what about you, Mr. Lloyd? How many times have I asked you to stop whispering in class?" Her head tilts as she waits for a response that doesn't come. "Mind your manners, or you'll find yourself in the corner with the dunce cap again."

She says that last part like she's upset, though I don't believe she is. The cone-shaped punishment is a threat she throws at Victor nearly every day, but has only followed through with on one occasion: last year, when he loosened all the screws in her chair. As she crouched to sit, the seat crashed to the floor, and her along with it.

Victor scowls as more laughter explodes from the students.

"That's enough!" The teacher claps her hands and stands. "We'll miss supper if you all need to be disciplined—we're running late enough as it is. Now, I want each of you to pick up any trash you see lying around and dispose of it properly. Eliza," she nods at my friend, "please draw tomorrow's water from the well."

"Yes, ma'am." When Eliza pushes away from the desk, her auburn waves swish above her shoulders as she fetches the tin bucket.

"Victor, see to it that the erasers are clapped out." Miss Perkins returns her attention to the class. "I'd like to start our lessons right away in the morning, there will be no time to dilly-dally. First up, we'll work on penmanship. Beautiful handwriting is the mark of an educated person, you know." Her eyes find Victor's once more. "And watch your posture, young man. You're going to end up a hunchback."

"Yes, Teacher." Victor's lanky frame straightens, all elbows and knees.

"Honor, make certain the woodpile is well-stocked; tomorrow may be even nippier than today. Our little oven's working overtime, and winter's only just begun."

"Yes, ma'am." My brother gives a mock salute, his hand slanted in a rigid line above his eyebrow. He hurries to the porch, gathers as much timber as his arms will allow, and stacks it next to the stove.

Once our chores are complete, we dress in our coats and make two single-file lines at the front of the class, boys on one side, girls on the other, and wait for Miss Perkins' next cue.

Her hands clasp in front of her. "Boys and girls, I've enjoyed your company today. Remember that if you have not yet said a kind word or done a kind deed, consider it an opportunity lost and do better tomorrow."

"Yes, Miss Perkins," we respond in unison.

Satisfied, she nods, the chestnut bun atop her head bobbing like a dinner roll. "Now, please exit quietly and I'll see you all in the morning." She pauses. "Faith, would you mind staying behind for a moment? I'd like to speak with you."

Dread spreads through my chest. Preparing myself for a lecture, I step aside to let the other students pass until we're the only ones left in the room. I do what Papa would expect of me and swallow my pride. "I'm sorry my mind wandered in class today, Miss Perkins."

She shakes her head. "It's not that, dear. It's about Honor." She gestures toward a bench. The wood creaks beneath our weight, the roof above our heads moaning under the pressure of snow. "How's he doing at home? Are things getting easier?"

My gaze drifts to the frost-laced window. Outside, Honor clomps across the yard, the brown scarf Mama knitted two winters ago trailing behind him like a tail.

My stomach stirs as I turn back to her. "He's not the same. He's still not sleeping, and most days we have to coax him to eat."

Miss Perkins lets out a quiet breath. "That's what I was afraid of. I hate to trouble your father with this—his hands are full enough as it is. Especially with the early winter. But your brother's grades are slipping." She angles herself closer. "I know it hasn't been long since —"

"Seven months," I interrupt. Seven months, two weeks, five days. If she asks, I can even tell her the hours, but I keep it all to myself.

"Yes." She tries to smile, but the corners of her mouth droop instead. "You're such a bright student. I was wondering if you might help him a little more at home? He could certainly use it."

Her words bear down on my shoulders. "Yes, ma'am. I'll do what I can."

"I know you will." She places her hand over mine and gives it a squeeze. A bone protrudes from her wrist, round and bulging beneath her skin. It's painful to look at. "You take such good care of him—and you watch out for your father, too. Your mother would be so proud."

My vision blurs. I clear my throat and turn away. "Thank you, ma'am."

Everyday, I try my best, but I still fall short. Honor suffers from compulsions I'm told to ignore. And at night, while I lie awake in bed, I hear Papa through the wall separating our rooms, sobbing into his pillow as he falls asleep. I miss watching my parents together, the secret smile they'd share when they thought we weren't looking. The way they'd brush a fallen eyelash from the other's cheek as if it had been their own. Alike in so many ways they were practically the same person.

But now, she's gone.

When I tug my hand from Miss Perkins' grip, an unexpected pain shoots up my arm like the blade of a sharp knife. Below my coat, and underneath the sleeve of my dress. I pull back the cuff to expose my flesh. Three jagged lines slice across my wrist, the skin around them red and angry. Irritated by fabric.

It's the scratches Andrew left just before he died.

Whenever I injure myself on the farm, it's never been a problem. Scrapes mend. Bruises fade. Aches melt away. It's been almost two months. The cuts should have healed by now, but instead, they're getting worse.

"Faith?" Her voice makes me jump. When our eyes meet, Miss Perkins' brows snap together. "Is something wrong?"

My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. "It's—it's nothing." Still, she leans in close for a better look and I yank down the cuff of my sleeve. "I'll work with Honor. You have my word."

Before she can respond, I jump up from my seat and shoot out the door, letting the crisp ocean air steal my breath.

She doesn't try to stop me.