The Grace Year Page 6

  Boom.

  Boom.

  Boom.

  As he comes toward me, I’m trying to keep it together, not give myself away, but my veil is trembling under a dead calm sky. Lowering my eyes, I wait for it, wait for the moment he claims me, but his footsteps pass me by, settling in front of a girl to my left who’s holding a pink nasturtium. The flower of sacrifice. I watch him lift her veil, and my heart sinks a little when Gertrude Fenton’s face is revealed. He leans forward to whisper in her ear; she doesn’t smile or blush or even cringe. She doesn’t do anything at all but run her thumb over her scarred knuckles.

  I should be relieved it’s not me. The thought of his old wrinkly skin pressing up against mine makes me sick to my stomach, but no one deserves Geezer Fallow. Not even Gertrude Fenton.

  Boom.

  Boom.

  Boom.

  I steal another glance to see Tommy and Michael smiling at one another, until all I can see is red. Clenching my eyes shut, I try to simmer down, but I can’t stop picturing Tommy’s ruddy face grunting over me. I thought I’d prepared myself for this moment, rehearsed my part to perfection, but the closer he gets, the hotter the fire burns. I want to run … set myself on fire … disintegrate into a pile of ash.

  Boom.

  Boom.

  Boom.

  Kiersten’s veil flutters next to me. A gasp as her red camellia falls to the ground. No doubt so she can embrace Michael dramatically. She always knew how to put on a show.

  Boom.

  Boom.

  Boom.

  A pair of freshly shined boots settle before me. The heavy breath of anticipation. The susurration of the crowd behind me. This is it. His fingers graze the edge of my veil, lingering in a hesitant, unexpected way. Slowly, he lifts the netting, every movement weighted with intention.

  “Tierney James,” he whispers, but his voice is all wrong.

  I raise my eyes to meet him, and I feel like a bluegill that’s been tossed on the riverbank, mouthing for air.

  “Michael?” I manage to get out. “What are you doing?”

  In confusion, I glance over at Kiersten to find Tommy Pearson pawing all over her, the heel of his boot crushing her red bloom into the soil.

  “This … this is a mistake,” I sputter.

  “No mistake.”

  “Why?” Feeling light-headed, I rock back on my heels. “Why would you do this?”

  “You didn’t think I’d let you be assigned to the field house.”

  “But that’s what I wanted,” I blurt, then quickly lower my voice. “How could you sacrifice your happiness for me?”

  “I did no such thing.” He looks up to the sky for a moment, an anguished smile playing across his lips. “Tierney, you must know.” He takes my hands. “I’ve been trying to tell you for so long. I love y—”

  “Stop,” I say a little too loud, attracting unwanted attention. “Stop,” I whisper.

  I feel hundreds of eyes on me, their judgment prickling the back of my neck.

  “I tried to tell you yesterday,” he says as he takes a step closer.

  “But I saw you … with Kiersten … in the meadow.”

  “And I’m sure you saw her with many others, but you were too kind to tell me.”

  “I’m not kind.” I look down at the ground, the tips of our boots almost touching. “I will never be the wife you need.”

  He places his warm fingers beneath my chin. “I want more than that,” he says as he closes the gap between us. “You don’t have to change for me.”

  Tears burn my eyelids. Not out of happiness, or relief. This feels like the ultimate betrayal. I thought he understood.

  “It’s time,” Mr. Welk calls out, staring daggers into me. He must’ve been one of the other protestors my father spoke of at the choosing ceremony. I’m far from the daughter-in-law he imagined.

  Michael leans in to kiss my cheek. “You can keep your dreams,” he whispers. “But I dream only of you.”

  I don’t have a chance to react, to even take in a breath, before the gates open, signaling the arrival of the returning grace year girls. Instantly, the atmosphere shifts. This is no longer about veils … and promises … and hurt feelings … and dreams—this is about life and death.

  As the bell begins to toll, we all stop to count. Twenty-six. Which means nine of the girls have met the poachers’ blade. That’s two more than last year.

  There are no elaborate good-byes. No public displays of affection. Everything has been said. Nothing has been said.

  As we’re led out of the square, I notice a long line of men waiting their turn at the guard station, men I don’t recognize from the county, but I quickly lose interest as we pass the returning girls, bone weary, emaciated, reeking of wood smoke, rot, and disease.

  The girl in front of me slows to stare at one of the returning girls. “Lisbeth?” she whispers. “Sister, is that you?”

  The girl raises her head, exposing a blood-crusted scab where her ear used to be. She blinks hard, as if trying to wake herself from a never-ending nightmare.

  “Move it.” The girl behind her pushes her along, the tattered remains of her soiled red ribbon hanging limply from her severed braid.

  And to think—these are the lucky ones.

  Frantically, I search their faces for a hint of what happened to them out there … what’s in store for us. Beneath the dirt and grime, their gaunt expressions, there’s a glimmer of seething hatred in their eyes. I can’t shake the feeling that their ill will isn’t for the men who did this to them but for us, the pure, unbroken girls who now possess the magic they’ve lost.

  “You’re dead,” Kiersten says as she passes, jabbing me hard in the ribs. I’m doubled over, trying to catch my breath, when the other girls from my year walk by hissing insults.

  “Slut.”

  “Traitor.”

  “Whore.”

  Michael may think he saved me from a life in the fields, but all he’s done is put a target on my back.

  I think of my mother, blood clinging to the corners of her mouth, telling me to trust no one.

  As I look back on the closing gate, at the sisters, daughters, mothers, and grandmothers gathered around to watch the broken birds, it hits me. Maybe the reason no one speaks of the grace year is because of us. How could the men live among us, lie with us, let us care for their children, knowing the horrors we inflict upon one another … alone … in the wilderness … in the dark?

  There’s no specific marker in the road, no proclamation of our arrival, but I can tell we’re nearing the outskirts.

  It goes beyond the guards tightening their formation around us, beyond the glimpses of thatched stone cottages dotting the woods, and flashes of red darting through the dwindling foliage—it’s the smell that gives it away: a thick gamey scent of fertile soil, freshly tanned hides, green ash soot, flowering herbs … and blood.

  I can’t decide if it’s pleasant or repugnant, maybe somewhere in between, but it’s absolutely dripping with life.

  Though the women of the outskirts are unprotected by the gates, the church, the council, they seem to survive. I’ve heard the wives who are banished here never last long. If no one wanted them in the county, they certainly wouldn’t want them here, but if they’re young, lucky enough to be taken in, they can be of use serving the men of the county in exchange for coin. Their bastard sons are raised to be poachers, and their daughters age into the family trade. I used to wonder why they didn’t just leave—there’s nothing stopping them … no gates, no rules. It’s easy to tell myself I can’t leave because my younger sisters would be punished in my stead, but deep down I know it’s more than that. I’ve never heard of a soul who’s lived to tell the tale of what lies beyond our world. The men say Garner County is a utopia. Heaven on earth. Even if it’s a lie, there’s no denying our tradition, our way of life, has kept us alive for generations now. And if it’s the truth, I shudder to think what lies beyond the woods, beyond the mountains and plains. M
aybe it’s the fear of the unknown that binds us here. Maybe we have that much in common.

  As the women from the outskirts emerge from the woods, gathering alongside the trail, Kiersten raises her chin, higher than I even thought possible. The other girls follow suit, but I can see their fear—veins protruding from rigid necks, like winter geese stretching out on the chopping block, instinctively striving for a clean death.

  Not me.

  I’ve been waiting to see this my whole life.

  I know I said I’d leave the dreams behind, but I know my father has been sneaking off to the outskirts for years. What if the girl is here … waiting for me? A long-lost half sister I never knew. Maybe she’s been dreaming of me, too. I feel dizzy with the prospect. All I need is a fleeting moment of recognition … just to know she’s real.

  As I search the crowd, I notice the young girls are all wearing natural linen frocks, while the women wear clothes of beet-dyed linen. It reminds me of our red ribbons. Maybe it’s a symbol that they’ve bled … that they’re open for business.

  With hair loose and wild, threaded with withered flower petals, the women press in as we pass—so close I can feel the warmth from their unbound bosoms. A low hissing sound swells through the crowd, making my skin prickle. No, it’s not mere curiosity that brings them here. There’s an undercurrent of seething jealousy. I can almost taste the bitterness on the tip of my tongue.

  With their heads held low, they glare up at us through heavy strands, zeroing in on the girls with veils. For a moment, I forget that I’m one of them. I try to tuck away the gauzy netting in my cloak, but it’s too late.

  To them, we must represent everything they’ll never have, everything they think they want.

  Legitimacy. Stability. Love. Protection.

  If they only knew.

  As uncomfortable as it is, I meet each and every face, Young. Old. Everything in between. There are certain features that remind me of her—a dark widow’s peak, the slight cleft chin—but no one bears the small strawberry mark under the right eye.

  I’m feeling stupid for giving in to this, for even entertaining the idea to begin with, when I spot a tiny red petal threaded into a strand of hair of one of the women lining the path. It’s not the girl, but I’d know that flower anywhere. It has to mean something. I’m gravitating toward her when I’m shoved from behind.

  Falling to my knees, I feel a burst of red warmth bloom through my wool stocking, seeping through my chemise and traveling smock. And by the time I get to my feet, the woman is gone. Or maybe she was never there to begin with.

  “You should watch your step.” Kiersten smiles back at me.

  Something inside me snaps. Maybe it’s the magic rising in me, or maybe I’ve just had it, but as I start to go after her, I feel someone grip my elbow. I turn, ready to lay into one of the guards for touching me, but it’s Gertrude Fenton.

  “It’ll only make things worse,” she says.

  “Let go.” I try to pull away but she clamps on even tighter.

  “You need to lay low.”

  “Is that right?” I’m finally able to jerk my arm away, but she’s stronger than she looks. “And how has that helped you?”

  A deep flush creeps up her neck, and I immediately feel bad.

  “Look,” I try to explain. “If I don’t stand up for myself, she’ll treat me—”

  “Like me,” she cuts me off. “You think I’m weak.”

  “No,” I whisper, but we both know it’s a lie.

  “You’ve always thought you were better than us. You think you’re so good at hiding, at pretending, but you’re not. Everything shows on your face—always has,” she says as she continues walking.

  I want to let it go, sink back into my solitude, but I feel bad for never coming to her aid before. I wanted to, plenty of times, but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, and here she is, going out on a limb for me. That’s far from weak.

  Catching up with her, I match my footsteps to her own. “You and Kiersten used to be best friends. I remember seeing you together all of the time.”

  “Things change,” she says, staring straight ahead.

  “After your…” I can’t help staring down at her knuckles.

  “Yes,” she replies, tugging down on her sleeves.

  “I’m sorry about that … about what happened to you.”

  “Not as sorry as I am,” she says, fixing her gaze on the back of Kiersten’s skull. “If you’re smart, you’ll stand down. You don’t know what she’s capable of.”

  “But you do,” I reply, fishing for answers.

  “It wasn’t even my lithograph,” Gertrude says under her breath.

  “It was a lithograph?” I ask. Everyone knows Kiersten’s father has a collection of lithographs from long ago.

  Gertrude clenches her jaw before lowering the veil over her eyes, signaling the end of our conversation.

  And all I can think about is that phrase my father used to say. Still waters run deep.

  One thing is certain.

  Gertrude Fenton has something to hide.

  Maybe we’re not so different after all.

  * * *

  The guards march us east, well past sundown, to a sparse campsite. There’s a strip of dirty linen marked with fresh blood draped over a rotting log. This must be the same spot the returning girls camped last night.

  “Two coins on the Spencer girl,” one of the guards says as he spits between the spokes of the wagon.

  “You can kiss that money good-bye,” the one with the dark mustache says as he lays down his bedroll. “It’s the Dillon girl.” He glances back at the girls huddled around the campfire.

  “The big one?”

  “Bingo.” He gives a lopsided grin, but there’s a bittersweet quality to his voice. “Doubt she’ll last a fortnight.”

  As they’re sizing us up, I’m sizing them up, too.

  These guards are different from Hans. Escorting the girls is the lowest work available, so they’re either too old, too young, too dumb, or too lazy to do anything in the county. They act like they’re disinterested in their virgin cargo, but I can see that’s not entirely true. The way they look at the girls, such longing, such despair, but at the same time they despise us for taking away their manhood. I wonder if they still think it was worth the trade.

  I’m leaning against a knotty pine, situated halfway between the guards and the girls. For me, it’s the best observation point. I can listen in on both sets of conversations and still have a good vantage point of the woods surrounding us, but I can see how this must look to the others. And maybe Gertrude’s right, maybe I did think I was better than them. I thought I had it all figured out, that I could slip beneath the surface, unnoticed, unscathed, but that’s certainly over now. Michael betrayed me by giving me a veil, the girl wasn’t in the outskirts, and now I have a target on my back. But all is not lost. There’s Gertrude Fenton—possibly a friend, one that I never thought I needed.

  I watch her from the shadows, sitting with the other outcasts, fiddling with the end of her red ribbon. But even her fellow outcasts know to keep their distance. I wonder what really happened to her. If it was Kiersten’s lithograph, and she let Gertie take the blame, that would mean Kiersten is capable of absolutely anything.

  As much as I feel the urge to protect her, I keep coming back to my mother’s words. Trust no one. Not even yourself.

  A breeze rustles through the camp, and I pull my cloak tighter around me. I’m dying to warm my aching limbs by the fire, but I’m not ready to join the other girls.

  Slipping off my boots, I try to rub some feeling back into my toes. I was smart enough to wear the boots around the house as soon as they arrived to try to break them in, but I can tell some of the others weren’t as fortunate.

  Without our grandfather clock or the bells of the county, I have no idea what time it is. I guess it doesn’t really matter anymore. The only time that matters will happen thirteen moons from now. Thirteen long m
oons. But I can’t get ahead of myself. My father always told me that you only have to solve one problem at a time, and right now, my biggest problem is Kiersten. I need to stay out of her way until we reach the encampment. Maybe we’ll all have cozy little cabins to ourselves, and I’ll scarcely have to deal with her.

  For now, I’ll do what I do best.

  I’ll watch.

  I’ll listen.

  The wind forces its way through the forest, making the pines creak and yaw.

  “Do you think the poachers are watching us right now?” Becca asks as she peers into the dense woods.

  “I heard they follow us the entire way to the encampment,” Patrice whispers.

  “Let’s find out.” Kiersten stands up. “Is this what you want?” she yells, raising her skirts, flashing her legs to the darkness surrounding us.

  “Stop that.” They pull her back down, giggling, like this is some kind of game.

  “My oldest sister said they wear shrouds over their whole bodies,” Jessica says.

  “Like ghosts?” Helen asks.

  “Ghosts don’t wear shrouds, stupid.” Jenna laughs. “That’s only in the Christmas pageant.”