When I remember Irielle, I think of lace. She wore it when she burned to death on her wedding day.

I remember how she carefully slipped into her gown six years ago, eyes bright with unshed tears as her fingertips traced the hand-worked floral designs.

How the decorative overlay browned and curled inward long before the flames lit it on fire. My vision narrowed and went gray, until all I could see was that meticulous pattern, even as I heaved out tears and snot and vomit into the dirt at my sister‑in‑law’s feet. Then, when her dress finally started to burn . . . I don’t think I’ll ever forget the smell. The assault of it choked me—that stench of charred lace.

It’s a moment I can’t escape. Not in the bright light of day, where the memories loom, hazy and throbbing. Certainly not in the darkness of sleep, where they come to life in nightmares so real, so vivid, that I’m trapped, reliving it night after night.

Mother says it’s because I’m cursed, like Irielle. She’s right, of course, in more ways than one.

Sweat drips down my face when I finally stop swinging my scythe and raise my eyes to the deep blue sky. The scalding heat from summer has long since faded, but the autumn breeze tangling the wisps of curly hair against my neck isn’t enough to cool me off.

I wave at my youngest brother, who runs over with a bucket of water. None of us—not even my mother loading the wheat in the two-wheeled cart behind me—comments on the water sloshing to the ground as five-year-old Leo skids to a halt in front of me, his crooked grin lighting up his face as he hands me the ladle.

“Thanks Leo,” I gasp between gulps. His chest puffs with pride.

“I’m a very good helper until I can be strong like you and Seb,” he tells me.

“You are.” I nod, serious. “The best helper.”