Lady Mae wanted to tell Arbuckle about it, but she tried not to talk about atonements or punishments with him. She certainly wasn’t going to tell him that her mother had said she kept the discards regularly, as if any one of her pockets might be hiding a thumb or a middle toe. And though Lady Mae understood that the residents sometimes liked to take their discards home with them so that they could feel whole even if they weren’t, she knew Arbuckle wouldn’t. She was both angry and saddened about the gulf that remained no matter how much time they spent together. It sat there, floated behind them as they walked down the crescent road. She’d never get away from it, and so without a word she stood up and disappeared into the living room to fetch the telegram. She sifted through the papers that sat on the table beside the door and found it buried underneath as if hiding it would make it untrue. She walked back into the kitchen and thrust the telegram toward Arbuckle. “Here. Came a few weeks ago.”

“What’s this?” His strong hands unfolded the piece of paper. As his eyes fell on the words, Lady Mae stood next to him, her hands crossed over her chest, her fists balled, and read the words again herself.

Miss Lady Mae Hilvers
Old Mill Pass
Number One

THIS IS TO CONFIRM APPRENTICESHIP UNDER SECTION 194 FOR FUTURE APPOINTMENT AS BUTCHER STOP PLEASE REPORT FOR REGISTRATION NO LATER THAN 6^TH OF AUGUST STOP DIRECTIVES TO FOLLOW STOP THE DEPUTIES

Arbuckle turned it over and folded it closed.

“Lady Mae, I—” He held his hand out to her, offering her the comfort she sought but would not ask for. She took it instinctively and without trepidation, and when Arbuckle opened his mouth to say the words that would carry no weight, she held up her other hand.

“Don’t say nothing about it. It’s time is all.” She looked down at the primer and the abacus on the table and nodded toward it. “Guess that don’t much matter.”

“You never know. Things could change.” But there was worry in his voice. She knew him well enough.

“Ain’t nothing going to change.”

Lady Mae sat back down at the table. The telegram lay before them. Even if she tore it up, even if her mother kept her home, even if she hid, it wouldn’t matter. When did you stop being scared, Mama? The Deputies would come at dawn on her eighteenth birthday, carrying with them a wagon filled with books, a smock, and a satchel of cursory tools. It wasn’t the butchering of livestock she needed to learn; that was easy—just a quick slit of the throat and leave it to bleed out. It was the atonements she’d need to practice. Most likely there would be a case of specimen jars filled with frogs and skinned rabbits, and when she had mastered the rudimentary incisions she’d begin at the depot beside her mother, watching as she electrocuted and boiled for the lesser crimes, sawed and stitched for the worst.