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do?”
    “They’re leaves too.”
    I scooped up a handful of red, rotting needles and sighed again—it would take weeks to wash them completely out of my hair. Trying not to wince, I sprinkled the debris on my head and patted it down. “Will this dance take long? I have to get back to town.”
    “I thought you were on vigil,” Leeta said. “Aren’t you Committing tomorrow?”
    “Something came up.”
    “Something involving Cappie too?”
    I looked at her warily. “Why do you ask?”
    “Because I wanted Cappie to play the man for this ceremony,” Leeta answered. “She was quite enthusiastic. I know she borrowed her father’s clothing to look the part.”
    One mystery solved. And as soon as Cappie had put on men’s clothing, she’d have been ripe for possession by devils. I dimly recalled dressing up as a man when I was a teenaged girl: I hid behind closed doors and jumped at every creak of wind, but I put on a complete outfit, pants, shirt, jacket, sheath. When I finally stood in front of the mirror, fully dressed, both man and woman . . . yes, I was excited by the sight, by the weight of the jacket against my breasts. Easy to see how a woman dressed as a man was ripe for possession; I had been strong enough to resist, but Cappie was not.
    I felt myself growing aroused at my memories of secret sin and quickly cast about for a distraction. “If the duality is so sacred,” I said, “isn’t it wrong to use Cappie as a fake man? I mean, when the fate of the planet depends on the ceremony.”
    “In any ceremony, appearance is more important than reality,” Leeta replied. “And Cappie wanted to take part. She really did.”
    “Instead of vigil?”
    “In addition to vigil,” Leeta corrected. “Just for an hour or so.” She gave me a glance, as if she was weighing whether to say more. “The thing is,” she finally murmured, “a girl who wants to become the next priestess is required to break a few rules. Especially the Patriarch’s ridiculous rules about vigil.”
    “Cappie?” I said in disbelief. “The next Mocking Priestess?”
    “Why not Cappie?”
    “Because…because…”
    I couldn’t say it to her face, but the female religion was nothing but a hodgepodge of silly rituals—the Patriarch had only tolerated it to avoid a backlash among the women of his day. He often said the female religion amused him; he sanctioned the office of Mocking Priestess with the same joviality he showed when he appointed a Town Drunk and an Official Fool. The cove had been fond of its priestesses over the years, but the fondness stopped short of respect.
    Cappie couldn’t take on such a ludicrous calling. It would reflect badly on me. True, I didn’t intend to stay with her after Commitment, but the other men would still talk. They always do. “Cappie’s not right for the job,” I said. “Isn’t there someone else?”
    “I’ve left it too long,” Leeta answered. “Doctor Gorallin…” She cleared her throat. “Gorallin has suggested I put my affairs in order. And it’s traditional to choose the next Mocking Priestess from the current candidates for Commitment. I can only pick Cappie. Or you.”
    “So why pick her over me?” I asked, affronted.
    “Would you do it?”
    “Not a chance!”
    “There’s your answer.” Leeta bent over a burlap bag lying on the ground and pulled out a red sash decorated with animal claws. The claws ranged from a huge yellowed bear talon with a raggedly broken tip, to a gray fleck that might have come from a mouse or chickadee. “Hold still,” she said, and put the sash over my shoulder.
    She fussed for a while trying to get the claws sitting straight. I held my breath, uncomfortable that she was so close but treating me like a sewing dummy. I didn’t like women concentrating so intently on my clothes—it was as if the clothes were real and I wasn’t. To pull her attention back to me, I said, “If you had to choose a successor, why did you wait so long?”
    She