The End Has Come

“Who told?” Frain hissed, looking around at them all. “Which one of you told?”

No one said anything. Aren cringed and ducked her head. Felice stared at her hands in her lap.

Frain turned to Enid. “Who sent the report? I’ve a right to know my accuser — the household’s accuser.”

“The report was anonymous, but credible.” Part of her job here was to discover, if she could, who sent the tip of the bannerless pregnancy to the regional committee. Frain didn’t need to know that. “I’ll be asking all of you questions over the next couple of days. I expect honest answers. When I am satisfied that I know what happened here, I’m authorized to pass judgment. I will do so as quickly as possible, to spare you waiting. Frain, I’ll start with you.”

“It was an accident. An accident, I’m sure of it. The implant failed. Aren has a boy in town; they spend all their time together. We thought nothing of it because of the implant, but then it failed, and — we didn’t say anything because we were scared. That’s all. We should have told the committee as soon as we knew. I’m sorry — I know now that that was wrong. You’ll take that into consideration?”

“When did you know? All of you, starting with Aren — when did you know of the pregnancy?”

The young woman’s first words were halting, choked. Crying had thickened her throat. “Must . . . must have been . . . two months in, I think. I was sick. I just knew.”

“Did you tell anyone?”

“No, no one. I was scared.”

They were all terrified. That sounded true.

“And the rest of you?”

Murmurs answered. The men shook their heads, said they’d only known for a month or so, when she could no longer hide the new shape of her. They knew for sure the day that Frain ranted about it. “I didn’t rant,” the man said. “I was only surprised. I lost my temper, that was all.”

Felice said, “I knew when she got sick. I’ve been pregnant —” Her gaze went to the banner on the wall. “I know the signs. I asked her, and she told.”

“You didn’t think to tell anyone?”

“Frain told me not to.”

So Frain knew, at least as soon as she did. The man glared fire at Felice, who wouldn’t lift her gaze.

“Aren, might I speak to you alone?”

The woman cringed, back curled, arms wrapped around her belly.

“I’ll go you with you, dear,” Felice whispered.

“Alone,” Enid said. “Bert will wait here. We’ll go outside. Just a short walk.”

Trembling, Aren stood. Enid stood aside to let her walk out the door first. She caught Bert’s gaze and nodded. He nodded back.

Enid guided her on the path away around the house, to the garden patch and pond behind. She went slowly, letting Aren set the pace.

The physical state of a household carried information: whether rakes and shovels were hung up neat in a shed or closet, or piled haphazardly by the wall of an unpainted barn. Whether the herb garden thrived, if there were flowers in window boxes. If neat little water-smoothed stones edged the paths leading from one building to another, or if there were just dirt tracks worn into the grass. She didn’t judge a household by whether or not it put a good face to the world — but she did judge them by whether or not the folk in a household worked to put on a good face for themselves. They had to live with it, look at it every single day.

This household did not have a good face. The garden patch was only just sprouting, even this far into spring. There were no flowers. The grass along the path was overgrown. There was a lack of care here that made Enid angry.

But the pond was pretty. Ducks paddled around a stand of cattails, muttering to themselves.

Enid had done this before, knew the questions to ask and what possible answers she might get to those questions. Every moment reduced the possible explanations. Heavens, she was tired of this.

Enid said, “Stop here. Roll up your sleeve.”

Aren’s overlarge tunic had wide sleeves that fell past her wrists. They’d be no good at all for working. The young woman stood frozen. Her lips were tightly pursed, to keep from crying.

“May I roll the sleeve up, then?” Enid asked carefully, reaching.

“No, I’ll do it,” she said, and clumsily pushed the fabric up to her left shoulder.

She revealed an angry scar, puckered pink, mostly healed. Doing the math, maybe seven or eight months old. The implant had been cut out, the wound not well treated, which meant she’d probably done it herself.

“Did you get anyone to stitch that up for you?” Enid asked.

“I bound it up and kept it clean.” At least she didn’t try to deny it. Enid guessed she would have, if Frain were there.

“Where did you put the implant after you took it out?”

“Buried it in the latrine.”

Enid hoped she wouldn’t have to go after it for evidence. “You did it yourself. No one forced you to, or did it to you?” That happened sometimes, someone with a skewed view of the world and what was theirs deciding they needed someone to bear a baby for them.

“It’s me, it’s just me. Nobody else. Just me.”

“Does the father know?”

“No, I don’t think . . . He didn’t know I’d taken out the implant. I don’t know if he knows about the baby.”