Magnificent Devices 01 - Lady of Devices

can’t eat their food? That grow up spindly and thin and won’t fill the stomachs of your family?”
    “No.” I sighed. We had this same conversation every spring, and every spring I hated it just as much. The part about getting married and having my own farm hadn’t come up before, though. I wondered what had brought that on.
    “Sophie.” Maman held out her hand. Gently, I put the chick into it and turned away. With no sound but a sudden rustle of the dark blue cotton of her sleeves, it was over. “Are there any more?”
    “The one with the yellow spot on its head can’t walk. There, by the Wyandotte mama.” Another rustle of movement. “I’ll bury them, Maman.”
    “Don’t be long bringing in the eggs. I want to speak to you.”
    After I’d done my sad duty, I comforted myself watching the rest of the chicks tumble over each other, nip food away from their companions, and collapse in happy abandon for a nap under their mamas’ wings, which kept them warm on this sullen day in the hind part of April. The chicks could not know what had happened to the others, and their innocence was a joy in itself. But how fair was it that they’d only escaped because they met a standard they didn’t even know existed?
    The chicken barn was sectioned off from the field horses’ stalls and the neat area where the buggies and tack were stored. That part belonged to Papa and the boys. This part belonged in name to Maman, and in reality to me. It was dry, cozy, and safe, and on rainy days the birds made themselves comfortable in the deep bedding of wood shavings or perched on the hay bales stacked along the wall. For me, it felt peaceful and industrious at the same time, as the hens got on with the business of laying, raising chicks, and eating. Once I’d collected the eggs, I walked slowly across the yard, drying now as spring advanced, to the kitchen door.
    What did Maman want to speak to me about? We talked all day long. As the second eldest girl in the family, and since leaving high school in tenth grade last spring as was required of les jeunes , or Brethren young folks, I was her biggest help. That had been my older sister Rachelle’s place, but no longer. Last year, Rachelle had said in her letters that she’d fallen in love with life in Coeur d’Alene and would wait a little longer to come back to Minuit. Why wouldn’t she? She was in the period of life we called “running wild,” where she could stay out all night if she wanted. Talk to a boy without a dozen relatives leaping to conclusions and then into wedding plans. Drive a car like the Outsiders—meaning one with a combustion engine, not a hand-cranked magneto engine—and even finish high school and go to college.
    That was all well and good—for her. But she shouldn’t wait too long to decide whether she was coming back. My father had taken to falling into silence whenever her name was mentioned, and that was not so good. The thought of having to treat my own sister as an Outsider made my skin go cold and coiled a sick knot of apprehension in my stomach. What crazy girl would sacrifice her family and her church just to stay out late and drive a car?
    I ran warm water into the sink and began to wash the eggs while Maman put a couple more sticks of wood in the stove and sliced into the pile of scrubbed potatoes on the counter. Father and the boys were out planting our rocky, unforgiving soil, now that the Idaho winter had released its iron grip on the ground and the days were long enough, and they’d be hungry as bears when they came in.
    “What did you want to talk to me about?”
    On the rug my grandmother had braided as a bride when she’d come to Minuit, baby Marianne kicked her legs with great energy, and Maman glanced at her to make sure she wasn’t going anywhere. At this rate, she’d roll over and start crawling, without any of the in-between. My mother seemed to be taking an awfully long time to reply.
    Oh, dear.
    I ran the last several hours through my head, and when nothing popped up that would rate a talking-to, I ran through yesterday, too. I’d dropped an egg on the way out of the barn, but the birds had eaten it so fast there couldn’t have been any evidence left to tell the tale.
    This silence couldn’t have anything to do with marriage and new farms, could it? I was only sixteen. I hadn’t even gone to the Assembly of Brethren over in Washington State this spring to meet boys, like several of my friends had. Didn’t