Escape from Eden Read Free Page B

the other members of the Flock. But I’d always tasted what I’d cooked, numerous times, throughout the process. It was how I understood flavors, and how they bloomed during the cooking time. Not tasting the dough as we baked went against everything Agatha had said during my kitchen duty training.
    After I’d stored all the cookies in airtight containers, I headed down the path to the infirmary.
    The back of my thigh stung. It grew more painful as the day went on.
    “Mia!” I heard, and turned around. Aliyah ran toward me, grinning. “Sister agreed to make me a shirt for Prayer Circle. Come with me to the sewing cottage?” Her large eyes pleaded with me in that little girl way of hers, and I caved.
    “Sure,” I said and tried to keep up as she skipped down the path toward the sewing cottage.
    Sister oversaw the sewing and laundry, although she preferred to call what she did textile arts. When we arrived, she was seated behind a large table inside, her graying hair escaping from a black-and-white floral headscarf. In her thin mouth she held a series of pins, the flat tops catching the light each time she bent her head. All around I saw gray, white, and black fabric, and boxes of Edenton emblems, the lids printed with the familiar tree.
    Suzanne and Kori, girls a few years younger than we were, folded laundry in the back. We older girls were relegated to kitchen duty; the younger ones worked in the laundry. The Reverend believed in what he called “gender-appropriate chores.” I loved cooking, but sometimes I longed to be with the boys catching fish on the beach or weeding and planting the gardens, bugs and all.
    Sister’s wrinkled fingers moved along a surprisingly pink stretch of fabric and they shook slightly with the effort. Beside Sister, Aliyah plunked down on a stool. Her eyes were alight as she stared at the spread of pink fabric like it was candy.
    “Peony pink,” Aliyah breathed.
    “It’s pretty,” I said, leaning my elbows down on the table. It was, too. Her dark skin would look velvety next to the color.
    “It’s so beautiful.” Aliyah’s palm skated across it reverently.
    “It’s pink,” Sister said, her voice rusty with age. “Pepto-Bismol pink. Calamine lotion pink.” She flipped the fabric over and mumbled, “But this pink won’t heal. Won’t heal much at all.”
    “I just want to look pretty,” Aliyah said.
    “That you will, darlin’.” Sister nodded, bobbing her head. “That you will.”
    But what Sister had said echoed in my head. “What do you mean won’t heal?” I asked her.
    Sister chewed the inside of her cheek like gum and shook her head at me. “Don’t listen to me. I’m an old seamstress who talks nonsense.”
    Aliyah, as instructed, ignored her. “I’m also making banana rice pudding to take to Prayer Circle tonight. Do you think they’ll like it?”
    Before I could answer, Sister let out a long-suffering sigh. “You girls need to get on out of here. I need to work in peace. I’ve got these girls trained to keep quiet while I work.” She thrust a knotted thumb back at Suzanne and Kori, both of whom glanced up. “I can’t listen to all this talk. These ruffle sleeves ain’t gonna ruffle themselves.”
    I grabbed Aliyah’s arm and dragged her toward the door. By the look on her face, I knew she didn’t want to leave.
    “I’ll be back after dinner service,” Aliyah said to Sister.
    She waved us off with a gnarled hand clutching a tiny needle, the pink thread swaying with the movement.
    Outside, an occasional breeze eased the relentless humidity. Sister’s sewing cottage sat on a small crest. Edenton, bordered by the jungle, stretched out in rows of wooden cottages and cobbled paths below. I could see the kitchen, behind it the herb garden, and behind that the path through the trees to the acres of vegetable gardens and fruit orchards.
    Along the outside wall of the schoolhouse, painted a deep beet red, the younger kids lined up, Max among them, after