by Kim Liggett
And so I stand there with the others, watching the red petals dance with every spasm, every final impulse, until her hand finally goes limp.
There’s a moment of silence that follows every hanging. Sometimes it feels like it stretches on forever, like they want us to dwell in it for as long as possible—dwell is the right word, to be domiciled, take up residence, to abide—but this time, it feels too short, like they don’t want us to really think about what just happened … how wrong it is.
Mr. Welk steps to the front, seemingly oblivious to the macabre sight of her corpse swaying gently behind him, or maybe in spite of it.
“And now there are thirteen eligible men,” he announces as he motions toward Mr. Fallow.
Mr. Fallow stands with his hands clasped piously in front of him. Geezer Fallow. I can’t stop thinking about seeing him this morning in the square. He seemed happy as a lark. Not a man who was about to condemn his wife to death, but a man who was on the hunt for a new one.
As the crowd slowly begins to disperse, instead of backing away with the others, I push forward. I don’t want to see Mrs. Fallow up close, but I need to find that flower. I need to know that it’s real, but Michael stands in front of me like a brick wall. “We need to talk—”
“I forgive you,” I say as I peer around him, scanning the ground for the bloom.
“You forgive me?”
“I just … this isn’t a good time,” I say as I drop to my knees to look. Where could it be? Maybe it slipped through the cracks. Maybe it’s wedged between the cobblestones.
“There you are.” Kiersten bounces on her tiptoes in front of him. “Is everything all set?” she whispers.
Michael clears his throat. He only does that when he’s at a complete loss for words.
“Oh, I didn’t see you down there,” Kiersten says through her tight smile. “We’re going to be the best of friends. Isn’t that right, Michael?”
“Okay, lovebirds.” Michael’s father clamps his hand over his shoulder to pull him away. “You’ll have plenty of time for that later. Right now, we have a choosing ceremony to attend.”
Kiersten squeals in delight and flutters off.
At last, I think I’m free, when I’m yanked to my feet from behind.
The guards are herding the women back toward the church.
“Wait … there was a flower—” I start to yell, but one of the women elbows me hard in the ribs.
I lose my breath; I lose my bearings. I get swept up in the crowd, and the further I get from Mrs. Fallow’s swaying body, the less I’m certain the bloom was ever there to begin with.
Maybe this is how it starts—how I lose myself to the magic lurking inside of me.
But even if it was real, what would it matter anyway?
After all, it’s just a flower.
And I’m only one girl.
Before all the women are locked inside the chapel to await the veils, we’re counted. Normally, this would be my cue to make a round, do something annoying to get myself noticed, which would be followed by a swift admonishment from my mother to keep quiet and behave. I’d then sneak into the confessional booth and disappear through Father Edmonds’s quarters. That was always the creepiest part—the smell of laudanum and loneliness seeping from his bedchamber.
But there will be none of that tonight. Even though I’m not getting a veil, the girls who receive one will want to rub it in, soaking up the envy and disappointment in the room like emaciated ticks.
Standing with my back against the curtain of the confessional booth, I grip the oxblood velvet with hungry fingers. It’s killing me that I won’t be able to witness my own year. But if I close my eyes, I can feel the hay itching my nose, smell the ale and musk wafting up to the loft, hear the names of the girls escape their feverish lips.
I already know the prettiest girls with superior breeding and gentle graces will get a veil, but there’s always at least one wild card. I scan the room wondering which one it will be. Meg Fisher looks the part, but she has a strange savage streak. You can see it in her shoulders, the way they roll forward when she feels threatened, like a wolf trying to decide whether to attack or retreat. Or Ami Dumont. Delicate, sweet. She would make for a docile wife, but her hips are too narrow, beddable to be sure, but not sturdy enough to withstand childbirth. Of course, some men like breakable things.
They like to break them.
“Bless us, Father,” Mrs. Miller says as she attempts to lead the women in prayer. “Please guide the men. Let them use your holy voice to do your bidding.”
It takes everything I have not to roll my eyes. By now, the men will have cracked open a second barrel, telling tall tales of the women in the outskirts, the wicked things they’ll do for coin, bragging about all their bastards roaming the woods, hunting for a girl to poach.
“Amen,” the women say, one after the other. God forbid they do anything in unison.
This is the one night a year the women are allowed to congregate without the men. You’d think it would be our opportunity to talk, share, let it all out. Instead, we stand isolated and petty, sizing each other up, jealous for what the other one has, consumed by hollow desires. And who benefits from all this one-uppery? The men. We outnumber them two to one, and yet here we are, locked in a chapel, waiting for them to decide our fate.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s the real magic trick.
I wonder what would happen if we all said what we really felt … just for one night. They couldn’t banish us all. If we stood together, they’d have to listen. But with rumors swirling about a usurper among us, no one is willing to take that risk. Not even me.
“Do you have your sights set on a particular labor house?” Mrs. Daniels asks, eyeing my red ribbon. As she leans in, I get a whiff of pure iron, but I also smell the decay. No doubt she’s been using grace year blood to try to hang on to her youth. “I mean, if you don’t get a veil … of course,” she adds.
I think about giving her a polite rehearsed answer, but her husband’s on the council, and now that Michael and I are on the outs, maybe she can be of use. “The fields,” I reply, bracing myself for the cluck of disapproval, but she’s already moved on to her next victim. She didn’t really want an answer; she just wanted to infect me with fear and doubt.
“Tierney! Tierney James.” Mrs. Pearson, Tommy’s mother, beckons me over with a single wizened claw. She came back from her grace year missing the other four fingers on her right hand. Frostbite, I presume. “Let me look at you, girl,” she says as she juts out her bottom lip to survey me. “Good teeth. Decent hips. You seem healthy enough,” she says as she gives my braid a hard tug.
“Pardon,” June says, coming to my rescue. “I need to borrow my sister for a moment.”
As we’re walking away, Mrs. Pearson says, “I know you. You’re the oldest James girl. The one who can’t get pregnant … the one with no bairn.”
“I don’t care if she only has six fingers,” I say as I clench my fists and start to head back, but June pulls me away.
“Breathe, Tierney,” she whispers as she leads me to the other side of the room. “You’re going to have to learn to control that temper of yours. You don’t want to make enemies going into your grace year. It’s going to be hard enough for you as it is, but everything can change with a seed of kindness,” she says as she pats my arm before letting go to join Ivy. I follow her with my eyes, wondering what she meant by that.
Ivy’s stroking her prized belly, bragging about how she can tell it’s a boy. I swear, she got all of my mother’s vanity, but none of the tact. June stands by her side, smiling, but I can see the strain in the corners of her mouth. Even June must have a breaking point.
“Look at Mrs. Hanes,” someone says behind me, which sets off a string of agitated whispers.
“I wonder if she let another man see her with her hair down?”
“I bet he caught her out in the meadow again, looking at the stars.”
“Did anyone see her ankles? May
be she’s the usurper they’ve been searching for.”
“Don’t be daft, if that were the case, she’d be dead by now,” another woman snaps.
As Mrs. Hanes walks down the center aisle, toward the altar, the women stand back, giving her a wide berth, their eyes affixed to the blunt end of her lopped-off braid, splayed out in anger … in violence. We’re forbidden from cutting our own hair, but if a husband sees fit, he can punish his wife by cutting off her braid.
A few of the women pull their plaits over their shoulders for comfort, but most avert their eyes, as if her shame might rub off on them. It’s not until she’s safely tucked away in the front pew that they resume their vapid conversations.
The whiff of rose oil perfumes the air as Kiersten slips by with Jessica and Jenna trailing behind her. You’d think they might be triplets, the way they move in perfect synchronicity, but Kiersten seems to have that effect on whomever she chooses to shine her light upon. With or without magic, it’s a powerful gift. They quickly zero in on Gertrude Fenton, who’s standing in the corner, doing her best to blend into the cherry-paneled wall, but her fine dress won’t let her.
“Don’t you look fetching in that blush-colored lace,” Kiersten says, toying with the edging on Gertrude’s sleeve. “The gloves are a nice touch.”
Jenna snickers. “She thinks if she covers her knuckles, she’ll get a veil.”
Jessica whispers something in Gertrude’s ear; her cheeks turn crimson.
I don’t need to hear it to know what she said. What she called her.
Up until last year, Kiersten and Gertrude were inseparable, but all of that changed when Gertrude was charged with depravity. Since she still possessed a white ribbon, the details of her offense were kept hidden, but I think that made it all the worse. Our imaginations ran wild with what it could be. And when they dragged her into the square, whipping her knuckles clear to the bone, that’s when I first heard the name, whispered from girl to girl.
Dirty Gertie.
From that moment on, any chance of receiving a veil was obliterated.
And still, they pick at her. It reminds me of my mother and the other hyenas, always ready to cast the first stone.
A part of me wants to throw myself on the pyre, give Gertrude a chance to escape, but that goes against my plan. I promised myself I was going to get through my grace year with as little fuss as possible and that means steering clear of Kiersten and the like. As much as I hate watching them dismantle such an easy target, maybe it’s time Gertrude learns to toughen up a bit. The year ahead will be full of terrors much worse than Kiersten.
I’ve heard as long as we stay within the encampment, no harm will come to us. It’s considered hallowed ground. Not even the poachers would dare cross the barrier for fear of being cursed. So what made the girls leave the safety of the encampment in the first place? Did their magic consume them … make them do foolish things? No matter the cause, some of us will only be returning to Garner County in pretty little bottles, but at least that’s an honorable death. The worst fate, by far, is not returning at all. Some say vengeful ghosts are to blame, some say it’s the wilderness, madness that makes them take their own lives, but if our bodies go unaccounted for, if we disappear, vanish into thin air, our sisters will bear the brunt of our shame and be banished to the outskirts. I look at Penny and Clara, playing behind the altar, and I know, no matter what, dead or alive, I need to make it back to the county, for their sakes.
As the hours tick by, and the refreshments disappear, the tension in the room is palpable. I want to believe we can be different, but when I look around the church, at the women comparing the length of their braids, reveling in another woman’s punishment, scheming and clawing for every inch of position, I can’t help thinking the men might be right. Maybe we’re incapable of more. Maybe without the confines placed upon us, we’d rip each other to shreds, like a pack of outskirt dogs.
“The veils are coming, the veils are coming,” Mrs. Wilkerson finally calls down from the bell tower as she pulls the rope—the manic dull clang, the pinching of cheeks, the stomping of heels, kicking up the stench of desperation.
The doors open and a hush falls over the chapel, as if God himself is holding his breath.
Kiersten’s father is the first to step inside, his face a perfect portrait of maudlin hope. As he places the veil on her head, Kiersten looks at every single one of us, making sure we’re all choking on her good fortune. She’s not only been veiled—she’s the first. An honor.
Jenna’s and Jessica’s veils aren’t far behind. No surprise there. They’ve been setting the bait since their ninth year with diminutive gazes and clear-skinned smiles. God help the boys who fell into that trap.
Mr. Fenton walks in, his face ruddy from drink or emotion, maybe both, but when I see him tenderly place the veil on Gertrude’s head, I can’t help but feel a twinge of happiness for her. Somehow, against all odds, she showed them all.
One after another the fathers file in, the pretty maids are veiled, and with each one down, I feel the chains begin to loosen around my chest. I’m one step closer to building a life on my own terms.
But when my father enters the chapel, the veil held out in front of him like a stillborn calf, it feels as if I’m being gutted with the dull end of an axe.
“This can’t be…” I stagger back against the sea of women, but they only push me forward, rejecting me like a heavy tide.
Through bleary eyes, I look to my mother. She seems just as surprised as I am, wavering on her feet, but she manages to raise her chin, giving me a stern signal to behave.
I feel the heat take over my face, but it’s not embarrassment. I’m furious. And as I look at the other girls, stationed around the room, who would’ve killed for a veil, I feel a pang of guilt.
How is this even possible? I’ve done nothing to encourage a suitor. In fact, I’ve done just the opposite. I openly ridiculed every boy who showed even a glimmer of interest.
I look to my father. But his eyes won’t leave the veil.
Scraping my memory, I search for a hint of who it might be, when it hits me—Tommy Pearson. My stomach roils when I think of him hollering at me when I dropped the mulberries, the way he looked at me when he said he liked them feisty. I search the room for Mrs. Pearson, to find her looking on with great interest.
Kiersten gives me a ghost of a smile from beneath the lacy gauze, and I wonder if she knew … if Michael’s behind this? Just today, he was defending Tommy, said he wasn’t that bad. Did he talk Tommy into claiming me to save me from the fields? He said he only wanted what’s best for me. Is this what he thinks I deserve?
As my father places the veil on my head, he still can’t meet my eyes. He knows this is nothing but a slow death for me.
I’ve practiced every possible expression from despair to indifference, but I never imagined I’d have to fake happiness.
With trembling fingers, he lowers the veil over my raging eyes.
Through the dainty netting, my eyes dart around the room, the jealousy, the whispers, the knowing glances.
I was the wild card.
Tonight, I became a wife.
All because a boy claimed it so.
While my parents escort me home, my sisters twitter around us, spouting off the names of every eligible boy, trying to gauge Father’s expression, but he stays stone-faced. As per tradition, I won’t know the name of my future husband until he lifts my veil tomorrow morning at the farewell ceremony. But I know. I can still feel Tommy Pearson’s eyes on my skin like a festering rash. And soon his eyes on me will be the least of my worries.
Husband.
The word makes my knees buckle, but my parents only tighten their grip on my elbows, dragging me along until I regain my footing.
I want to spit and scream like a trapped animal, but I can’t risk being cast out, bringing shame on my younger sisters. I need to hold it together until we’re safely behind closed doors. Even then, I must watch my tongue. I have a f
ew skills, but if I were to get thrown out of the county now, the poachers would hunt me down within a fortnight. That much I’m sure of.
As my older sisters pair off to their own homes, and my mother chases my younger siblings off to bed, I’m left alone with my father for the first time in months—the incident at the apothecary still fresh in my mind.
I grip the banister, imagining the wood bruising beneath the weight of my fingertips.
“How could you let this happen?” I whisper.
I hear him swallow. “I know this isn’t what you planned, but—”
“Why did you teach me those things? Show me what it meant to be free, and for what? I’m just like the rest of them now.”
“I wish that were true.”
His words are cutting, but I turn to face him. “Did you even try to stand up for me? You could’ve told him I haven’t bled or I smell bad … anything!”
“Believe me. There were plenty of protests all around. But your suitor’s mind was set.”
“Did Michael at least try to dissuade him, or was he the one behind all this? Tell me that much.”
“Sweet daughter,” he says as he eases the back of his hand over my cheek—the scratchy veil irritating my skin, his placating touch irritating me. “We only want what’s best for you. There are worse fates.”
“Like the girls in those little jars?” I advance on him with a viciousness that not even I recognize. “Was it worth it? All for the chance at a precious son?”
“Is that what you think?” He staggers back a step as if he’s afraid of me.
And I wonder if this is the magic taking over. Is this how it starts—the slip of the tongue? A loss of respect? Is this how I become a monster the men whisper of?
I turn and run up the stairs before I do something I regret.
Slamming the door behind me, I rip off the veil. I’m tearing at the dress, contorting my hands behind my back trying to get at the corset strings, but it’s no use. They’re tucked away beyond my reach, which only seems fitting.