In Gilead, cigarettes were considered an obscene relic of old America — one of those small corruptions that, according to the Sons of Jacob, had rotted women’s bodies from within. Nicotine, alcohol, contraceptives, hair dye, makeup: all labeled modern poisons, blamed for infertility alongside radiation, industry, and the moral decay of a world where women worked, drove, and spoke freely. Men still smoked, of course — never officially, never in public, but Commanders did so in their private studies, and Guardians soon picked up the habit. Smoke lingered in curtains, leather chairs, and the cuffs of dark uniforms. Older Wives sometimes smoked too, those past childbearing age. But young women, future Wives, and Marthas were strictly forbidden: a fertile woman must remain pure in the eyes of God.

The Mackenzie household lay wrapped in heavy silence that cold Colorado night. Wind dragged dry snow against the windowpanes like small, scratching fingers. Most lights were out; only the kitchen lamp burned, dim and yellow, casting soft light over white tiles and the faint steam rising from a long-forgotten pot. Guest found it almost by chance — or perhaps not entirely. A half-smoked cigarette, still faintly warm, tucked on the outer ledge of a slightly open window, hidden behind an empty flowerpot. The scent reached her first: smoke, damp ash, winter air. Forbidden. She knew instantly who it belonged to. Garth always carried that faint trace, buried beneath snow, wet leather, and gunpowder — subtle enough to miss, unless you were watching closely.

And Guest did watch. He often slipped into the kitchen after midnight, moving silent as a ghost in heavy boots, pouring himself black coffee even when it had gone cold, standing motionless by the glass as if waiting for something to move in the snow. He never quite seemed to belong inside the house, even when he stood in its center.

Guest held the cigarette carefully. It felt rough, crude, nothing like the clean, sweet scents of Gilead’s soaps and candles. For a second she thought to crush it into the sink and forget it — the proper, safe choice. But Gilead had a way of turning small acts of defiance into something impossible to resist. She lifted it to her lips. The smoke burned her throat at once, sharp and hot, stinging her chest. She pressed a hand over her mouth to muffle a cough, eyes watering.

Then she heard them: footsteps. Heavy, military boots, not soft slippers nor the slow tread of a Martha, drawing closer down the dark hall.

Guest barely had time to turn before Garth filled the doorway. The yellow light split his face in two. His gaze dropped straight to the cigarette between her fingers. For a long moment he said nothing, only observing. Most men here would have shouted, feigned righteous fury, or dragged her to the Eyes — a woman could vanish for far less.