Spectacle. Rachel Vincent

      Twenty-seven years ago

      A scream broke through the surface of Tabitha’s dreams like an oar slicing through calm water, and she sat straight up in bed, still half-submerged in that other world. Heart pounding, she slid one small hand beneath her mattress, grasping for the handle of the knife her mother had hidden there.

      Just in case.

      Because if there were another reaping, parents could not be trusted. Children would have to protect themselves.

      Tabitha’s fingers found the blade of the knife instead, and the cut was a sharp, immediate pain. The clarity of the sting—not muddled like blunt blows that left bruises—drew her thoughts into focus and vanquished the fog of sleep. She sucked on the cut without truly noticing the familiar, coppery taste of blood. Then she slid off the bed and lifted her thin mattress, bedding and all, and seized the knife the proper way.

      Just like her mother had shown her.

      Another scream sliced through the night, startling crickets and cicadas into silence, and Tabitha whirled toward the source of the sound. The open window over her nightstand.

      She pushed the sheer curtain aside and bent to stare through the gap beneath the old, cloudy glass and the flaking windowsill.

      Candlelight flickered in the barn.

      Tabitha straightened her pale green nightgown, covering an old bruise on her leg, then headed for the hall clutching the knife. No one knew what a second reaping would look like, but Tabitha knew where to stab. Her mother had shown her which soft bits of flesh would be most vulnerable to her blade, should he come into her room at night, and Tabitha remembered every lesson.

      What she did not remember was that the first lesson had come three years ago, almost a year before the reaping.

      In the hall, Tabitha passed the bathroom and peeked into Isabelle’s room on her way toward the stairs. Isabelle’s bed was empty. Her sheet was thrown back and her slippers were missing.

      Tabitha took the stairs one at a time, flinching with every creak of the wooden treads. Downstairs, her parents’ bedroom door stood open. Their bed was empty too.

      Barefoot, her stomach pitching with fear and dread, Tabitha pushed open the back door and descended three porch steps. The grass felt prickly against her bare feet, but the backyard was peppered with smooth patches of soft dirt. When she was halfway across the yard, another scream froze her in place. Her fist clenched around the knife handle.

      But then she exhaled slowly and pushed forward. That wasn’t her mother’s scream. It was just Isabelle’s.

      Over the past two years, she had heard Isabelle cry a lot from her room down the hall. She’d heard Isabelle pray and beg in the middle of the night. But the screaming was new. Was that why Tabitha’s mother slept with earplugs? Had she known there would eventually be screaming?

      Tabitha pushed open the barn door. The horses looked nervous, shuffling in their stalls and tossing their manes. Her father stood in the center aisle, clutching a thick-bottomed glass. In the light flickering from a candle stuck to the top of the nearest stall with melted wax, she could see that the glass was empty, but for a single melting ice cube.

      The front stall was supposed to be empty too.

      “Tabitha?” Her father’s gaze struggled to focus as he stared at her, and she knew that was not his first glass of the night.

      At the mention of her daughter’s name, Tabitha’s mother popped up from the nearest stall like Jack from his box. Her clear gaze was focused and hard. “Go back to bed. We’ll talk in the morning.”

      “Let her stay,” Tabitha’s father said. “Nine is old enough to know how the world works.”

      Neither of them mentioned the knife their daughter held.

      Tabitha’s mother frowned, then sank onto her knees in the stall again. Her father waved her forward, and when she hesitated two feet away, he slapped one rough hand onto her shoulder and pulled her closer, positioning her in front of the open stall.

      Tabitha flinched, but she forgot all about the unwanted hand when her gaze landed on the floor of the stall. There, propped up on both elbows in the strewn hay, lay Isabelle. Her face was crimson and streaked with tears. Her hair was sweaty and matted, odd strands of it clinging to her damp cheeks.

      “Tabitha,” Isabelle panted. “Help me.”

      But there was nothing Tabitha could do but watch.

      Most of Isabelle’s hair was dark, from the dye Tabitha’s mother made her use, but the roots were a soft green. The very shade of the moss that