Miranda
By noon, nearly everyone in Blackstone had gathered near the settlement entrance.
Families pressed as close to the road as the guards allowed. Children sat on shoulders. Mothers clutched photographs. Husbands and wives stood with hands locked together, afraid to hope too openly in case the person they waited for was not among the first group.
I remained near the back with my children.
Matthew stood beside me, holding Jake’s hand. At eight, he had decided grief made him responsible for everyone younger than him. Jake clutched the wooden horse their father had carved, while Becca shifted restlessly against my hip.
“Daddy home?” she asked again.
“Not today, sweetheart.”
Matthew looked toward the gates. “These are the people the queen said were cleared?”
“Yes.”
“Cleared of wha
