The sun's brightness is a less than welcome sight the next morning. I squint at the horizon, no longer pink with the dawn. I must've slept in. It happens with moderate frequency whenever I'm up late, quelling suspicions. But every time it happens, it still racks me with guilt.

Audrel rounds the corner to the cave just as I sling the bag of flowers I collected yesterday over my shoulder. She smiles, cheerful at the sun and seemingly oblivious to my late rise.

"Good morning," she chirps. My lips lift at the corners, the only acknowledgement I can muster.

I fall into step beside her as we descend the mountain path leading to the fractured cliff. Women gather in circles, sitting with the family and friends they share meals with. My stomach growls, and I remember that I missed my first meal. Based on where the light hangs in the sky, I have a long time to go before I'll get to eat.

It's no worse than what Mother endures.

One woman hands me two wooden bowls, one filled with water, the other for collecting the dyes. I settle into the nook I always sit in and begin to pick out the fairygold flowers from my bag, dropping each into the water until the blue surface has turned a rich shade of yellow. My fingers form a rhythm with the conversation buzzing in the air. Despite the random lulls and spikes in the drone, a melody still emerges. I catch snippets of words — news on the latest baby that's been born, chastisement for a child's rushed herb sorting, plans for stocking our winter supplies. It's late summer, and before we know it, snow will kill the vegetation we take for granted in the warmer months, sending animals into hibernation in the process.

The red in my bag gradually outnumbers the gold, until only a few stray petals remain amongst the crimson pine flowers. I swish my hands through the water, ensuring that the water hydrates every flower. Then, I lift one and pinch each tiny petal between my fingertips. Several drops fall into the wooden bowl. I place the wilted flower to the side before moving on to the next one. I wish I could've begun this process yesterday afternoon. Instead, after leaving Mother, I pretended to gather more flowers since I "didn't get enough in the morning."

Once I get the movement down, I lift two flowers at a time, wringing every last drop from them. A ring of gold collects in the wooden bowl, then a puddle, then a small lake. The sun rises higher behind me, beating against my tanned arms and back. I wear my hair short, just like the others used to. It falls slightly above my shoulders, exposing my back to the elements. It's nice in the summer, when it's hot, though I wish for more warmth in the winter. To compensate, I weave clothes that cover my neck for the colder months.

"Geanna."

The word catches in my mind just before it fades to the air. My head snaps up in time to see the glances cast in my direction. The fairygold slackens between my fingers.

There it is. My mother's name, spoken like a curse on their lips. And if they're talking about her, surely they speak of me by association. I'm her daughter, brought into this world by a woman who betrayed the tribe, or attempted to anyway. They talk about her as if she were exiled from the tribe last week, opposed to eleven years ago. The news should be old by now, but scandals never die. They age like cured meat, growing into more of a delicacy with time. I shrivel, my shoulders wishing to fold into themselves. I press harder on the flowers, harder and harder, until I feel like my bones will shatter.

In a flurry, I grab more, moving my fingers back and forth to wring out every last drop of pigment. Wilted fairygolds drop to the ground, ready to be whisked away by the wind.

Emotions reel through me, fueling me to work faster. By the time the sun shines directly overhead, I've ground the last traces of golden liquid from the flowers. Only then do I feel the soreness on my fingers. A vague concern stirs in my mind: pain may inhibit my ability to work in the coming days. I suppress it, focusing instead on delivering the wooden bowls to the matriarch weaver, Jeayma m'ke.

"Excellent work, Celisae," she praises. Gold dye coats the bottom of the bowl in a thick layer. She hands it to one of her assistants, who tops it with a moist cloth.

I force a smile and dip my head. "Thank you, Jeayma m'ke." I hurry away before any more compliments are made. Shame, just a tinge, stirs inside me. I should do my work out of appreciation for the clan, not out of an emotion dangerously close to anger. I should strive toward being a productive tribe member. That's the only way to belong.

The women clear a space in the gathering square for the cooks to set up the second meal. Men and women trickle in from the forest and higher mountain cliffs. It isn't until I stand in line, receiving a bowl of stew and smelling the hearty roasted meat and herbs that I realize how hungry I am. It takes minutes to devour the bowl, and still, hunger lingers on the outskirts of my belly. I didn't save any for Mother this time, but perhaps I can forage for some fruit in the forest. If I hurry, I could be back before the afternoon tasks. No one would even notice, except that I run into Audrel while returning my bowl.

"There you are Celisae," she says.

I doubt her words slightly. After all, I sit in the same place every day.

"You are planning to play at the tribe's gathering tomorrow night, right?" She beams, and the cheer in her eyes could light a thousand candles.

Actually, I forgot about it. I don't pay enough attention to the night sky to notice when it's half-moon.

"Yes," I say, rubbing the pads of my fingers together.

"You always lighten up the mood," Audrel gushes. "I just love the songs you play."

"I'm glad," I say. I hand my bowl to a boy half my size, the nearest person cleaning up after the meal, and start toward my spot, hoping that her eyes aren't trained on my back.

Why does it matter? You're allowed to go into the forest, and there are a million reasons to do so. Still, I can't help but glance over my shoulder. I don't catch a single person's eye.

My feet drag against the leaves. Exhaustion is catching up to me, and food seems to slow my movements into sluggish steps. I scour the treetops for any sign of fruit — apples, perhaps pears if I'm lucky. Red hangs in the distance, and when I get closer, I see a low branch stretching toward me as if to offer a gift. Truly, it is a gift to not have to climb a tree to retrieve it. The gatherers must have missed this one. I twist the stem, holding the apple in my palms. It's mostly a bright, enticing red, with a yellow splotch only on one side.

In my peripheral, I notice wildberries on a bush. I pluck them off, popping a few in my mouth and wrapping the rest in a cloth. I raid a few more bushes before tying the top and dropping the cloth and the apple into my pocket.

I turn to head back to camp, but freeze in place. There's a tree right in front of me, which I'd run into if I keep walking. Fatigue really dulls the senses. But that's not the reason I stopped.

The tree's bark has been chipped away, forming a huge semi circle. Inside it are several swirls, each one drawn with practiced precision. Nature couldn't have formed this shape, the shape of Earth.

Gea.

A tremor shivers through my hands. Twigs snap, and my head whips around.

"Who's there?" I whisper on instinct. The only reply is fluttering feathers. Still, I search the trees for any sign of who could've done this. I tear the apple from my pocket, looking it over, then looking back at the nearby branch it came from.

My hand releases it, and it thuds to the ground. I'll find another apple for my mother, Geanna, one away from this occurrence.

It's a coincidence. It has to be.

I don't fully believe that. But repeating it in my head helps ease the prickling anxiety at the base of my skull. My quickening pulse gives me the momentum to sprint away, far away from the tree, far from prying eyes that might be noting my every movement.

Branches claw at my arms in my haste, but I only stop if my clothes or hair gets tangled in the brush. I barely notice the burn in my lungs, the screaming of my muscles, until I'm far from camp. The adrenaline ebbs from my system, slowing my limbs down. I stumble my last few steps before collapsing on the ground. I feel as though I could sleep for days. My eyelids tug downward, and I physically slap my arm to stay awake.

My thoughts catch up to me now that I'm staying still. Images flash through my head, a timeline starting yesterday morning.

Thunder, na. Salt, an. Earth, gea.

Alone, the meanings represent elements of nature. When put together, the words collide, taking on a drastically different purpose.

Geanna. My mother.

Someone knows. Someone knows. I drink from my water skin in between panting breaths.

Someone knows. Someone knows. It's a drumbeat in my head, as insistent as my heart.

There's no other explanation. Someone put those symbols directly in my path. Then again, how could someone know exactly what sorts of places I would happen to look? Did they carve my mother's name all over the forest?

Does the whole tribe know? Could they be preparing to exile me, or worse, sentence me to death?

I force myself to stand on shaky legs and circle tree after tree, though none bear earth, salt, or thunder marks. My head swims, lightheaded from what is clearly a message for me and the walking. Once again, I sink to the ground.

Someone must have observed my routine. Two marks, thunder and salt, were in places I normally go — near my seat in the gathering square and by the water bank. If the person knows that I bring Mother food, it's logical to place the mark by food in the forest that I may go near to retrieve. And the first thunder symbol, well, everyone's entitled to a pinch of luck.

It seems that my lucky sprinkle has shifted from good to bad.

Someone knows.