“Oh. Right. I saw the sign,” Sorrow said, with a rush of relief. Not something she had forgotten, then, only something she had never experienced in the first place. “We never went when we were kids.”
Not to that festival or any others, May Day or the harvest, Thanksgiving or the holiday lights on Main Street. Sorrow had only known what they were missing when Patience tried to convince Verity to take them into town. Verity had always refused. She didn’t need the town to tell her how to mark the passage of the seasons, she would say, and Patience would roll her eyes and huff and say that wasn’t the point, the point was to see people, and not be stuck in the orchard alone all the time, and it wasn’t fair that they didn’t even get to try, not even for a little bit. Sorrow had always dreaded the times when Patience would ask to do something their mother would refuse. On a good day the refusal would come with stony silence. On a bad day it would end with a slamming door and a gaping dark stretch of time when they didn’t know when Verity would emerge from her room again.
“There was really a battle here?” Kavita asked.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Roche, but she added, “a very small one. It was really more of a disagreement between families.”
“It was a bunch of farmers with pitchforks,” Sorrow said.
Mrs. Roche conceded the point with a small nod. “But that’s where it all began, you know. The feud between the Lovegoods and the Abramses. You know all about that.”
Kavita slanted a glance toward Sorrow. “I’ve heard a little. I didn’t think it was a big deal, like, historically.”
Mrs. Roche leaned forward eagerly. “Oh, it may not seem that way now, but I promise you us old folks remember when it was different. When we first moved to town back in—it must have been 1978, goodness, where do the years go—we weren’t here a week before some of the ladies from church stopped by to warn us about walking through the woods after dark. They made sure we understood it wasn’t safe, not with Devotion Lovegood prowling her property with that great big shotgun of hers, and Eli Abrams doing the same on his side of the fence, each looking for any excuse to shoot and call it a hunting accident.”
Kavita laughed, but it had an uncertain edge to it. “Seriously?”
“As the grave,” Mrs. Roche confirmed. “It did get a bit better when Devotion passed, God rest her soul, but then it got right nasty again when Henry Abrams had his accident. He was never as mean-spirited as the rest of them, and when he was alive he did what he could to keep his brother Eli from doing anything rash.” She paused and gave Sorrow a thoughtful look. “I’m sure your mom’s told you about all that. It wasn’t an easy time.”
“A bit,” Sorrow hedged. She knew almost nothing about her great-grandmother Devotion, but she didn’t know if it was because she had forgotten or because she had never known in the first place. “I was a little young for that kind of story when I left.”
Mrs. Roche patted her hand. “Of course. And I expect it’s difficult for her to talk about, all things considered. She was such a trouper when your grandma needed help.”
Sorrow only nodded, because Mrs. Roche was still giving her a look like Sorrow ought to know exactly what she was talking about, and the last thing Sorrow wanted to do was admit that Mrs. Roche knew more about her family than she did. It might not matter in a normal family or a normal town, but she was Verity Lovegood’s daughter, and the one true thing everybody knew about Verity was her obsession with her own family history. Mrs. Roche would have a week’s worth of gossip fuel if Sorrow let on there were big pieces she was missing.
“What’s this festival like, anyway?” Kavita asked. “How do you celebrate a battle?”
“We reenact it every year,” Mrs. Roche said.
Another laugh, this one less uncertain, and Kavita said, “Small towns are so weird.”
Mrs. Roche poked her with a long, knobby finger. “Don’t be like that. It’s a great deal of fun. This year it’s the kindergarten’s turn. There’s a pie contest too. I’ll be looking forward to seeing both of you there.” She pointed at each of them in turn. “And you bring that handsome brother of yours along.”
“Please don’t let him hear you say that,” Kavita said. “His ego’s big enough as it is.”
“Give your mother my regards, Sorrow, and your grandma.” Mrs. Roche hitched her purse on her shoulder and turned toward the door. “I’ve got to get going. I promised Barbie Rheingold twenty-five cupcakes for tomorrow and I’m out of wrappers.”
She turned to leave, but she was only a few steps from the counter when the door opened and two girls came in. They were teenagers, maybe sixteen or seventeen, one white with her blond hair cropped into a spiky pixie cut, the other Asian with red streaks in her black hair. The blond stopped abruptly just inside the door; her friend bumped into her shoulder before stepping around and smiling brightly at Kavita.
“Hi, Kavita,” she said.
“Hi, Ellie,” Kavita said.
“Is—”
“He’s not here.”
“—Mahesh working today?”
Her blond friend snickered, and Ellie blushed. “Oh. Well. Okay. Tell him I said hi?” She offered a little wave to Mrs. Roche. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“That’s quite all right,” Mrs. Roche said. “How is your grandfather doing these days?”
“He’s all right, I guess.” Ellie shrugged, and a beat later she remembered to add, “Thanks for asking.”
“Did you need something?” Kavita asked.
“No, I mean, we just came to say hi, so . . .” Ellie’s face was furiously red now. She looked around for her friend, who was flipping idly through a rack of shirts. “Let’s go. Cassie?”
The name, spoken so casually, felt like an electric spark. Sorrow had rarely thought about Cassie Abrams in the years since she’d left. She didn’t think they had ever interacted much—they were forbidden from playing with each other—except for those few times their paths had crossed in town, and Cassie had snarled some insult about Sorrow’s patched clothes or messy hair, and Sorrow had slunk away in shame. She remembered Cassie vividly as a little girl on a snowy day, a vision of pink and red, but the image had no context. Ribbons in her hair. Hands on her hips. Mrs. Abrams had always dressed her up like a doll, earning coos and compliments from ladies in town that had made Sorrow glower with envy.
Sometime during the intervening years, that little girl had evolved into a teenager with spiky hair and raccoon-like eye makeup and punk schoolgirl clothes. If Ellie hadn’t said her name, Sorrow wouldn’t have recognized her at all.
“Wait,” Sorrow said. She stepped out from behind the counter, aware of Kavita and Mrs. Roche watching her curiously. “You’re Cassie Abrams?”
At the door, Cassie turned. “Do I know you?”
“I’m Sorrow. I live next door—I mean, used to live—”
Cassie narrowed her eyes. “You’re Sorrow Lovegood.”
“Yeah. That’s me.”
“Why the fuck would you ever think I’d want to talk to you?” Cassie yanked the door open; the bell jangled cheerily.
“Wait, what?” Sorrow said. “What’s that supposed to mean?”