“And you say you did not provoke them?” he asked.

“I did not,” she replied.

“Thank you. You may sit.”

As she walked slowly back to her seat, she felt on her flesh the stares of what seemed nearly the entire settlement. It burned, churning like lava deep inside of her, bubbling and seeping down into her fingertips and toes. Each step echoed, the wood floor cracked and snapped, and she thought she heard Arbuckle call her name. She looked up then, quickly and without thinking, and saw hundreds of eyes upon her. There they were, knitted together in the stifling heat, their hot skin shiny, their eyes weary but wide. They nudged each other, pointing low toward Lady Mae, whispering out of the corners of their mouths. The panic rose fast—the lump in her throat and the pressure on her chest—and try as she might she could not find Arbuckle in the crowd, though she was certain he was there. She took her seat next to her mother, who reached over and patted her daughter’s hand. Lady Mae felt the clammy palm and cold fingers on her own skin, her own tell safely hidden inside.

“We will hear from the defendants,” said Deputy Daniels. “Edith Cummings, approach the witness stand.”

Deputy Parson neared the girl to bring her to the front of the room, but as he did she jumped up and pushed her chair back with such force that it toppled over, its crash bouncing off the walls of the scorching courtroom.

“I don’t need no help.”

Leaving the chair on the ground, she walked up to the stand, her eyes on Lady Mae the entire time. She mumbled something under her breath as she passed Lady Mae and her mother, but it was unclear. As the girl took her seat on the witness stand, the alarm in Lady Mae boiled up like milk sugar. Just because they were there in court didn’t mean they’d leave Lady Mae alone—the potential consequence hadn’t deterred them. Maybe they’d lose a finger or a toe and think it was worth it and go after her again and again until she was nothing but a pulpy mass left to die in the dust. Maybe little Edith Cummings would not raise a fist to her again, but there were others—plenty of others—that would. Perhaps there were children and adults alike that lay in the darkness of night, unable to sleep in the hot, sticky air. They might rub their fingertips together, trying to decide which one would be worth getting their hands on the butcher’s daughter.

“Edith Cummings?” asked Deputy Daniels.

“Yes.”

“You have been charged with assault. What is your plea?”

“I ain’t done nothing wrong.”

“Says here you were one of four accused of throwing stones at Lady Mae Hilvers. In addition, you lay your hands to her body. What say you?”

“It weren’t me.” She flipped her hair back behind her shoulders and sighed loudly.

“Are you saying you were not there?”