Walking past the watchtower, Cricket felt naked without her long knife. Trudging to the harvest table, she drew her cloak closer to her throat. Women were no longer allowed to carry weapons inside Covenant. Faraday said it was the man’s role to protect. Faraday said a lot of stupid shit. Cricket was one of the few females allowed outside of the community gates and that was only because she was a good trekker. Her pack of found goods bulged. She was a very good trekker.

“Little Sister, Preacher wants you to report to his tent as soon as you arrive,” Cutter said.

Ignoring Cutter, Cricket untied her pack and loaded her satchels onto the table. Cutter coughed to get her attention. She rolled her shoulders to get the blood moving. Everything hurt, inside and out. Heads down, the McGuire sisters were sorting Cricket’s load. Ruefully, Cricket remembered how just a few years ago the sorting process was time of tall tales and gossip. After weeks of solo hiking, she remembered walking up with her treasures and walking away with the news of all the occured in her absence.

“Little Sister—“

“Don’t “Little Sister” me Cutter Lewis McGuire. I changed your nappy and read you bedtime stories. You ate at my grandparents’ table. Call me by name or other at all.”

Cutter spluttered. One of his actual sisters giggled and the boy flushed.

“Preacher said—I mean yo’re supposed to—Preacher wants to see you, Crick.”

Cricket tsked and headed off to Faraday’s tent. Meadow ran after her, gave Cricket a quick hug, and them ran back to the sorting. That little hug lit her fire to get this over with. Faraday’s tent was really a group of tents to house his main disciplines and wives.

“Blessings, Daughter of Mine,” Faraday said.

“Blessings, Little Sister,” Tuck said, stumbling over the title.

Hands loose but ready, Cricket stood refusing the pillow at the false prophet’s feet, refusing to look at her ex-boyfriend.

“Good tiddings, God has revealed to me in a vision that women trekkers offend his teachings. You are to take three Little Brothers with you and teach them your ways,” Faraday said.

“You mean my grandmother’s trekking skills. Cut the old-timey Pilgrim talk, you’re no more a holy man than I am,” Cricket said.

“Blasphemer!” Faraday yelled. “Take her for re-education.”

Tuck took a halting step. Suddenly a loud crack rang out in the tent and smoke. Falling to his knees in supplication, Tuck screamed in shock. When the smoke cleared, Cricket was behind Faraday with a pen knife to his jugular.

“Tuck for Pete’s sake get up. It’s not God. It’s a parlour trick. Paper and something called gun power to make a bang and smoke. My Gran told me about tricks from the before days. That probably why she had an “accident,” last winter, right Faraday.”

Cricket had pressed the thin knife hard on the word accident. His Adam’s apple bobbed in fear. Increduous, Tuck looked up.

“Took me ages to find the merchant who sold you the magic tricks. He’s coming here in a few days to put on a show. But don’t worry Faraday, you will have left long before that."