Sisters of the Lost Marsh


 Contents
 
 Title Page
 Dedication
 Epigraph
 Contents
 Part One: Midwinter
 
 Chapter 1
 Chapter 2
 Chapter 3
 Chapter 4
 Chapter 5
 Chapter 6
 Chapter 7
 Chapter 8
 
 
 Part Two: Springtide
 
 Chapter 9
 Chapter 10
 Chapter 11
 Chapter 12
 Chapter 13
 Chapter 14
 Chapter 15
 Chapter 16
 Chapter 17
 Chapter 18
 Chapter 19
 Chapter 20
 Chapter 21
 Chapter 22
 Chapter 23
 Chapter 24
 Chapter 25
 
 
 Part Three: Midsummer
 
 Chapter 26
 Chapter 27
 Chapter 28
 Chapter 29
 Chapter 30
 Chapter 31
 Chapter 32
 Chapter 33
 Chapter 34
 Chapter 35
 Chapter 36
 Chapter 37
 
 
 Notes and Acknowledgments
 About the Author
 Copyright
 
 
 
 Guide
 
 Cover
 Title Page
 Dedication
 Contents
 Start of content
 Notes and Acknowledgments
 Copyright
 
 
 
 Pagebreaks of the print version
 
 Cover Page
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 iv
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Title Page
 Dedication
 Epigraph
 Part One: Midwinter
 Chapter 1
 Chapter 2
 Chapter 3
 Chapter 4
 Chapter 5
 Chapter 6
 Chapter 7
 Chapter 8
 Part Two: Springtide
 Chapter 9
 Chapter 10
 Chapter 11
 Chapter 12
 Chapter 13
 Chapter 14
 Chapter 15
 Chapter 16
 Chapter 17
 Chapter 18
 Chapter 19
 Chapter 20
 Chapter 21
 Chapter 22
 Chapter 23
 Chapter 24
 Chapter 25
 Part Three: Midsummer
 Chapter 26
 Chapter 27
 Chapter 28
 Chapter 29
 Chapter 30
 Chapter 31
 Chapter 32
 Chapter 33
 Chapter 34
 Chapter 35
 Chapter 36
 Chapter 37
 Notes and Acknowledgments
 About the Author
 Copyright
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 In winter, the light lies cold and flat on the water. The rushes of the marsh are furred with frost, and silver gilds each thistle …
 May Fernsby, “The Forgotten Village,”Tales of the Marshes
 
 
 
 
 
 
 I am looking into the eyes of an enormous white horse called Flint. They are glossy brown, like puddles after fresh-fallen rain, with long black eyelashes. I hate him—this big, stupid creature we’ve been given in exchange for my eldest sister.
 Silas Kirby brought him over to our farm the morning after the betrothal.
 “That’s a good plowing horse for you, Nate Fernsby,” he said.
 “That’s a good anything horse,” Dadder replied, squinting into the cold sunshine and stumbling down the steps. He looked the horse up and down and nodded, impressed. Then he said, “Check him over for me, Willa.”
 Dadder doesn’t know the first thing about animals. It isn’t even his farm, really—it’s Grammy’s. Everything we know about farming, we’ve learned from her. Dadder likes to dish out orders, and he swans about at market like a gentleman farmer, but he doesn’t know one end of a beast from the other.
 Flint stood still in the frosty muck of our yard while I inspected him, running my hands over his big shoulders and strong back. He danced about a bit, making it tricky for me to check his hooves. He jerked away when I tried to see his teeth. “You’re a lively fellow, aren’t you?” I muttered. And Flint tossed his head proudly.
 At last I was done. I nodded at Dadder, and his eyes widened with a sort of baffled glee that someone should barter such a magnificent animal for one of his wretched daughters. Like gold for a sack of dung.
 “Walk him up and down a bit, Willa,” Dadder said, and then he watched as Flint clopped steadily over the cobbles and back again.
 “Will you be wanting to give Grace an inspection too, Mister Kirby?” I said, looking him right in the eye. Dadder glared at me, but Silas laughed, and my little sisters were delighted.
 “Grace!” Dolly shouted at once, running to the door, with Deedee close behind. “Mister Kirby needs to check your feet!”
 Darcy, the youngest of the triplets, rolled her eyes at them.
 Grace met Dolly and Deedee on the step; she was coming out to take kitchen scraps to the hens.
 “Here she is!” Dadder was still half-drunk, after striking the betrothal the night before, so his smile was like the grin of a hollowed-out turnip. “My beautiful Grace! Soon to be your beautiful Grace, eh, Silas?”
 Silas Kirby smiled and bowed to Grace.