Around the time that Milton's baby was born, the folly of the moment was an immense pit Greene had ordered dug into a fallow patch of land. It was about the size of a horse paddock and nearly ten feet deep. Stripped to the waist and coated with dust, we carted in granite brought all the way from Vermont. Using chutes we'd built ourselves, we slid boulders and stones into the pit. These sur-rounded a huge iron auger encircled by oak beams that extended from it like spokes on a wheel and from which we attached ourselves by means of ropes and leather straps. After maneuvering a boulder into the right spot, we positioned the auger above it and, by trudging in a circle, bored into the center of the stone. Others in our crew supported the work with pickaxes and hammers. As we ground big rocks into smaller rocks, Greene hovered and took notes.

We strained while Greene stared down at us, often pausing to instruct us to shift our bodies according to his precise designs. Occasionally he took respite with a cool drink and fresh biscuits brought by Pandora, a kitchen maid, on a silver tray. Silent Mary's biscuits were just one of many wonders known to come from her cookhouse. Greene had already studied her methods at length, recording every dollop of cream and turn of her spoon with the intent of publishing a recipe manual of regional dishes. There was a market for it, he was certain, and he'd even spoken of his plans for the resulting profits. Silent Mary, of course, would get none of those, save perhaps a new apron or a poultice for her ankles, swollen and sore from long hours standing before a hot stove. Even a full share of Greene's imagined bounty was not likely to comfort poor Mary. As a young woman of a mere sixteen harvests (or so it was reckoned; the exact year of her birth being, like all Stolen births, a mystery), Mary had been struck dumb when her newborn babe was snatched from her arms and hastily sold. She collapsed, pressing her face to the earth as if crushed by grief. There she remained a full day, rising only when forced to her feet—and said not one word from that point on. When nearly a year had passed without Mary speaking, her angry captor sold her to Greene. After many years of enjoying her food, Greene regarded her with an unlikely tenderness.

The racket we produced in the pit prevented us from singing or talking. With no other options, we sought escape from the drudgery by allowing our thoughts to wander. I could guess, for example, that Little Zander was thinking, as he often did, of angels and flying. Milton's head was full of worry about his daughter's whispering ceremony to be held later that night. My own thoughts alighted most often on Margaret, whom I had begun to love with a fierce devotion that surprised me. By then I knew as well as any Stolen that affection was a dangerous habit that would only bring more pain and suffering. While I trudged and the leather straps bore into my shoulders, I enjoyed a vision of her soothing my aches when we met again.

The last time, before leaving her cabin at Two Forks, I had taken each of her hands and enfolded them in mine. I held them firmly, never taking my eyes from hers.

"This is touch," I said.

I put one hand on the back of her head and gently nudged her face into my chest. With my other hand I grabbed a great handful of her hair and pressed it to my nose. I leaned over and whispered in her ear.

"This is smell."

I placed two fingers under her chin and lifted her lips to mine. She opened her mouth to me, and we kissed hungrily. After a long, wonderful, terrible moment, I pulled away.

"That's taste."

I placed her hand flat against my chest, spread her fingers over my heart.

"And this is longing," I said.

She wept then. Taking a kerchief from between her breasts, she used it to wipe her tears. Then she handed it to me.

"I'll never lose it," I promised, tying it about my neck.

From YONDER: A Novel by Jabari Asim. Copyright © 2022 by Jabari Asim. Reprinted by permission of Simon & Schuster, Inc.