“Lady Mae,” she said, lifting her daughter’s chin with one hand and sweeping back her hair with the other. “This is a sentencing, and you have every right to say exactly what you told me last night. Don’t hold nothing back.”

“I don’t feel so good.”

“I reckon you don’t.” Her mother gently rubbed Lady Mae’s arm. “Ain’t nothing good about this situation, but it’s got to be done. Ain’t nobody can do it but you.”

“But what if it don’t work? What if it happens again?”

“Then we do this again. And again and again until it’s done no more.” Her mother reached over and grabbed her daughter’s hand with both of hers. “I ain’t ever going to let anything happen to you again, you hear?” She shook as she said it, as if speaking such a conviction aloud made her nervous. It was not like her mother—nor any other parent—to intervene and defend. The children, especially that of Lady Mae’s age, could think and speak for themselves and were expected to do as much. That her mother was so insistent made Lady Mae uneasy.

“Aye, Ma.”

The courtroom doors opened, and the four children that Lady Mae had accused appeared. Deputy Parson followed behind them all. At first glance, the Deputies all appeared the same: black suits, tall, pointy hats, chains hanging from their hips. But Lady Mae could tell them apart because she’d been looking at them all her life. In the end, Deputy Parson was no different than any of the others. They all followed orders—from whom, Lady Mae did not know, not really. Like all children, she learned from an early age that there were other settlements, nine to be exact. And that in each was a handful of Deputies who were born of other Deputies, a butcher born of another butcher, shopkeepers, workers, and so on, each resident taking the place of their parent when they came of age. But who decided that? Maybe no one was giving the orders. Maybe the four Deputies in Settlement Five sat behind closed doors and simply decided for themselves.

Lady Mae watched as the children took their seats. The boys hung their heads low and kept their eyes down. But Edith, the only girl, stared at Lady Mae the way Arbuckle’s father had stared at her mother. Edith had never been accused before and was clearly unafraid. There was speculation, though in itself against the law, that her parents were informants. That’s why she always got away with it. But whether or not the rumors were true, Lady Mae had publicly called her by name, and as the girl sat in her chair, she kept her unblinking eyes on Lady Mae.

The residents came into the courtroom next. They filled the front first—they wanted a good look at the butcher and her daughter, wanted to stare at them without having to look away. Lady Mae did not turn around, not even to search the room for Arbuckle, whose kind eyes and small smile would no doubt comfort her. They filed in quietly, and all Lady Mae heard was the creaking of the benches as they sat and tried to get comfortable. She could feel the energy in the room, a low simmering of excitement and anticipation, but it did not rise above a few murmurs. No one wanted to be too eager lest they found themselves up on the stand having to answer questions for their own crimes. People always remember, her mother had said, and ain’t no one want to be at the wrong end of revenge.