The Grace Year

by Kim Liggett

  After a lifetime of planning, wishing, hoping, all it took was a whisper, “Tierney James,” and as soon as the words left his traitorous lips, the life I knew was over. No longer would I be able to pass unnoticed in the lanes. There would be no more dirt allowed beneath my nails, no more scuffed boots and sun-tangled hair. No more days lost in the woods, lost in the curiosities of my own mind. My life, my body, now belonged to another.

  But why would Tommy Pearson choose me? I’d made no secret of hating his guts. He was cruel and stupid and arrogant.

  “Of course,” I whisper, thinking of his pet birds. His birds of prey. The thrill was in the taming, and once they were tamed, he lost interest, letting them starve to death before his very eyes. This was all a game to him.

  I slump to the ground, the raw blue silk billowing around me in a perfect circle. It reminds me of one of the fishing holes my dad and I used to carve out at the deepest point of the lake. How I wish I could slip under the ice—disappear into the cold abyss.

  My mother enters the room, and I quickly throw the veil back on. It’s tradition for her to remove it while she tells me of my wifely duties.

  As she stands before me, the veil still fluttering in agitation, I’m expecting her to yank me to my feet, tell me to buck up, tell me how lucky I am, but instead, she sings an old tune, a song of mercy and grace. Tenderly, she removes the veil, setting it on the dressing table behind her. Slipping off the red ribbon, she runs her fingers through my braid, letting my hair fall in soft waves over my shoulders. She takes my hands, pulling me to my feet, helping me out of the dress, and when she unlaces the corset, I take in a deep gasping breath. It’s almost painful being able to fill my lungs again. It only reminds me of freedom. Freedom I no longer possess.

  As she hangs up the dress, I try to gain control of my breath, but the harder I try, the worse it gets. “This … this wasn’t supposed to happen,” I sputter. “And not Tommy Pearson—”

  “Shhh,” she whispers as she dips a cloth in the bowl of water and washes my face, my neck, my arms, cooling me off. “Water is the elixir of life,” she says. “This has been collected from high on the spring, where it’s freshest. Can you tell?” she asks as she holds the cloth to my nose.

  All I can do is nod. I don’t know why she’s talking about this.

  “You’ve always been a clever girl,” she continues, “a resourceful girl. You watch. You listen. That will serve you well.”

  “In the grace year?” I ask, watching her berry-stained lips.

  “In being a wife.” She leads me to sit on the edge of the bed. “I know you’re disappointed, but you’ll feel differently when you return.”

  “If I return.”

  She sits next to me, taking off the silver thimble, giving me a full view of her missing fingertip, the angry puckered skin. This rare show of intimacy brings fresh tears to my eyes. “You know the stories June used to tell about the rabbits that lived in the vegetable garden?”

  I nod, wiping away my tears.

  “There was one that was always getting into trouble, venturing out where she shouldn’t go, but she learned valuable things, about the farmer, the land, things the other rabbits never would have known. But knowledge comes at a great cost.”

  My skin prickles up in goosebumps. “The poachers … did they do this to you?” I whisper as I touch her hand. Her skin is hot. “Did they try to lure you out of the encampment? Is that what happens to the girls?”

  She pulls her hand away, putting the thimble back on. “You’ve always had a vivid imagination. I’m merely talking about the rabbits. We don’t speak of the grace year, you know that. But I suppose I do need to tell you of your wifely duties—”

  “Please … don’t.” I shake my head. “I remember my lessons,” I say as I wring my hands in my lap. “Legs spread, arms flat, eyes to God.”

  I learned all that ages ago, long before our lessons. I’ve seen countless lovers in the meadow. One time, Michael and I were trapped up an oak while Franklin did it to Jocelyn. Michael and I sat there, trying not to laugh, but it doesn’t seem at all funny now—the idea of having to lie with Tommy Pearson, his red face grunting over me.

  As I’m staring down at the floor, I see a drop of blood run down the inside of my mother’s leg, staining her cream-colored stocking. Catching my gaze, she tucks her leg back to hide it.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. And I mean it. Another month without a son. I wonder if her season is coming to an end, which puts her at risk. I can’t imagine my father replacing her, like Mr. Fallow did, but I can’t imagine a lot of things lately.

  “Your father and I were lucky, but respect … common goals can grow into something more.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “You’ve always been your father’s favorite. His wild girl. You know, he would never give you to someone he thought … immature.”

  Immature? I don’t understand. That’s Tommy by definition.

  “Your father only wants the best for you,” my mother adds.

  I know I should keep my mouth shut, but I don’t care anymore. Let them cast me out, let them whip me until I can’t stand. Anything will be better than silence. “You don’t know Father the way I do … what he’s capable of,” I say. “I’ve seen things. I know things. Like last night, the guards came to see him and he—”

  “As I said…” She stands to leave. “Your imagination will be the death of you.”

  “What about my dreams?”

  My mother stops. Her spine seems to stiffen. “Remember what happened to Eve.”

  “But I don’t dream of murdering the council. I dream of a girl … she wears a red flower above her heart.”

  “Don’t,” she whispers. “Don’t do this to—”

  “She speaks to me. Tells me things … about how it could be. She has gray eyes, like mine, like Father’s. What if she’s one of his … a daughter from the outskirts? I’ve seen him leave the gates more times than I can count—”

  “Watch yourself, Tierney,” she snaps with an intensity that makes me flinch. “Your eyes are wide open, but you see nothing.”

  As I sink back on the bed, my eyes fill with tears.

  My mother lets out a deep sigh as she sits next to me. Her skin is clammy, a sheen of cold sweat dotting her brow. “Your dreams…,” she says as she gently takes my face in her hands, “it’s the one place that belongs only to you. A place where no one can touch you. Hang on to that as long as you can. Because soon, your dreams will turn to nightmares.” She leans in to kiss me on the cheek. “Trust no one,” she whispers. “Not even yourself.”

  I catch a strong whiff of iron, the metallic smell gripping my senses. As she pulls away, I notice a chalky red substance clinging to the corners of her mouth. A sliver of ice moves through me. Her lips aren’t berry stained.

  They’re blood stained.

  The bottles from the apothecary. Pieces of poached girls adrift in a sea of blood and moonshine. I always thought my father was buying it for himself, but what if he was buying it for her—all for a taste of youth? Was she so desperate to stay young that she felt the need to consume her own kind? Is that what the grace year does to us? Turns us into cannibals?

  As she slips out the door, I rush for the window, opening it, gulping down the fresh air. Anything to drown out the scent of blood.

  Aside from the faint crowing of drunken boys, and the muffled weeping of girls who didn’t receive a veil, it’s eerily quiet.

  Staring out at the dim lanterns shining from the woods, the outskirts, I wonder if the poachers are watching me now … if they see an easy kill.

  Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and hold out my arms like an eagle, letting the bitter wind unfurl around me. I sway to the rhythm of the night until it feels as if I’m soaring high above Garner County. Michael and I used to do this when we were little, when the world felt as if it might swallow us whole. A part of me wants to step off the ledge, see if my magic will kick in, letting me fly away from here, but th
at would be too easy.

  And none of this is going to be easy.

  When I wake, I’m alone, nestled beneath soft cotton and goose down. My eyes narrow on the thin strip of hazy yellow light nipping at the edges of the heavy curtains. It could be early morning or late afternoon. For a moment, I think maybe they forgot to wake me, or I dreamt the entire thing, but when I look around the room, at the veil innocently draped over the edge of the dressing table like slow-oozing poison, I know it’s only a matter of time before they come for me. I can hide under the covers, luxuriate in my childhood bed, my childish notions, or I can face this head-on. My father always told me that a person is made up of all the little choices they make in life. The choices no one ever sees. I may not be in control of much, like who I marry, the children I’ll bear, but I have control over this moment. And I’m not going to waste it.

  My body shivers in revolt as I rip off the covers. The cold wood floor groans under my weight, as if it senses how heavy my heart is today.

  Just as I’m about to peek out the curtains, my sisters come barging into the room.

  “Are you mad?” Ivy says as Penny and Clara crash into me, pushing me back. “Someone could see you.”

  We’re not allowed to be seen by the opposite sex without our veils on until the ceremony. We’re no longer children … not yet wives. But we’ve been marked as property.

  As soon as I’m safely out of view, Ivy flings open the curtains; I shield my eyes.

  “Consider yourself lucky,” she says as she pulls down the lace valance. “My year we were drenched rats before we even reached the county line.”

  “Knock, knock,” June says as she comes in with my traveling cloak. It’s the only personal item we’re allowed to have. The rest of our supplies are county issued, probably already packed in gunnysacks and loaded on the wagons by now.

  “I lined it four times, one for each season,” she says, draping it over my chair. “Cream wool with gray fur trim. To match your eyes.”

  “Cream wool? That’s dumb.” Ivy runs her greedy fingers over the cloak. “Come spring, it will be filthy.”

  “It’s lovely.” I nod at June. “Thank you.”

  She looks down, an embarrassed flush blooming in her cheeks. Most of the girls, including Ivy, came back from their grace year even more spiteful than when they left, but not her. June returned with the same placid smile as when she left. It made me wonder if that was her magic—having no magic at all. They say my mother came back much the same, but it’s hard to imagine her ever being at ease or pleasant about anything.

  “Make way,” my mother says as she comes in with a tray full of enough food to feed an army, but when my little sisters reach for a biscuit, she slaps their hands away. “Don’t you dare. This is for Tierney.”

  Without a veil, I’d be downstairs, eating porridge alongside my father in flinty silence, but my mother seems more than pleased to wait on me hand and foot, now that I’ll be coming home to a husband.

  Mrs. Tommy Pearson. The thought makes my stomach churn.

  I sneak one of the biscuits into my napkin and slide it over to the edge; my little sisters seize it like urchins, crawling under my bed to eat it. I can hear them giggling and making fun of Mother, but she turns a deaf ear. She was so strict with June and Ivy, but I think I wore her down.

  “Eat,” my mother urges.

  I’m not even hungry, but I cram as much sausage, eggs, stewed apples, milk, and biscuits into my belly as I can. Not out of duty or to please my mother. I do it because I’m not an idiot. The guards who escort the girls to the encampment are gone for four days. So I figure it’s a two-day journey each way. The wagons are for the supplies, which means we’ll be on foot. And I’m not about to faint out there with the poachers watching our every move, looking for an easy mark. I’ll need my strength.

  Penny crawls out from under the bed and grabs the veil off the table, putting it on, checking herself out in the mirror. “Look at me … I’m the first wife chosen.” She bats her eyelashes and fans herself.

  I know she’s just teasing, but seeing her like that sets something off inside of me. “Don’t!” I yell as I snatch the veil off her head. She looks up at me in shock, as if I’d just given her a fresh slap. She probably thinks I’m being selfish, that I don’t want her touching my precious veil, but it’s the exact opposite. She can be so much more than this. I want to tell her as much, but I bite my tongue. I can’t give her the same false hope my father gave to me. It makes it so much harder in the end.

  But in that same breath, if anything close to the girl in my dreams is real … maybe there’s hope for her yet. For all of us.

  I lean down to tell her I’m sorry, but she kicks me in the shin. It brings a smile to my face. There’s still fight in her. And maybe there’s still fight in me.

  My mother braids my hair with the red ribbon and then helps me dress. A high-neck cotton chemise with a linen traveling smock, followed by my cloak. It’s heavier than I imagined, but that’s because it’s well made. June would make for a wonderful mother. I catch her eyeing Ivy’s swollen belly, and it pains me. Life can be cruel. No one is immune to that, no matter how good you are.

  Before my thick wool stockings go on, my brown leather boots laced up tight, I need to be printed. It’s tradition. Clara and Penny are laughing, fighting over which one gets to do what, but my older sisters, my mother, stand stock-still. They know the gravity of this moment. What it means. Clara rolls the gloppy red ink on the sole of my right foot; Penny holds the stiff sheet of parchment in place. I stand, putting my full weight into it. As they peel it off, a shiver runs through me, but not from the cold ink alone. This is my mark, the brand of my father’s sigil that I received at birth, a stretched rectangle with three slashes inside, signifying three swords. Should I be taken by a poacher, only to come home in tiny bottles, this is how they’ll identify my body.

  The bell echoes over the square, snaking its way through the narrow streets and narrow minds, until it reaches my house, reaching straight into my chest, squeezing tight.

  Hurriedly, my sisters help me finish dressing.

  As my mother places the veil on my head, I glimpse my ghostly reflection in the looking glass and take in a shallow breath. “Can I have a moment?”

  She nods in silent understanding.

  “Girls, out you go,” my mother says as she herds them out of the room, gently closing the door behind her.

  Raising the veil, I practice a demure, flaccid smile, over and over and over again until I’ve mastered something that can pass for pleasant. But no matter how hard I try I can’t dim the fire burning in my eyes. Again, I wonder if it’s my magic kicking in. With any luck, flames will start shooting out of my eyes, burning them all to a crisp on the spot. I think about keeping my eyes downcast, but maybe it’s not such a bad thing, the discord between my mouth and my eyes. Tommy will lift my veil expecting an eagle, and I will give him a dove.

  But I won’t be a broken bird.

  Not for anyone.

  I never thought I’d be grateful for a veil, but the delicate netting makes the walk to the square almost dreamlike. Leers turn to glances. Sharp words are muffled. The falling aspen leaves look more like a celebration than the death of summer.

  Snips of obscenities needle their way into my senses as I pass—

  “How did she…”

  “Who did she…”

  “She must have…”

  Normally, I’d focus in on every word, searching for clues, but the words have never been about me before.

  Burying my trembling hands in the pocket of my cloak, I find a river clam pearl inside. The odd shape, the bluish pink luster. It’s the same one I slipped into the hem of June’s dress for safekeeping. She must’ve placed it here for me as a memento. I roll it between my fingertips, feeling a certain kinship. Like this pearl, I’m the tiny bit of irritant that worked its way into the soft tissue of the county. If I can survive the year, burn through my magic, maybe I’ll co
me back just as resilient.

  The buffalo horn bellows from the outskirts, signaling the approach of the returning girls and the start of a new hunting season.

  “Vaer sa snill, tilgi meg,” my father whispers in the language of his ancestors, please forgive me, as he hands me the flower my suitor chose for me. A gardenia. The sign of purity, secret love. It’s an old-fashioned flower, one that’s long gone out of favor. The only thing I can think is that Tommy’s mother must’ve picked this out for him, because it’s much too romantic for his brutish nature. Or perhaps he’s twisted enough to find delight in the pure, knowing he’s the one who ultimately gets to take it away.

  While my family gathers around to say their good-byes, a final prayer, I have to clench my jaw to keep from crying. They say the poachers can smell our magic a mile away. That you can hear the girls screaming for days as they skin them alive. The more pain, the more potent the flesh.

  As we take our place in line, with the onlookers crowded behind us, I notice Kiersten standing next to me. She’s dying for me to notice her—the camellia precariously balanced between her delicate fingertips. A red camellia, the symbol of untethered passion, a flame within your heart. A bold choice for Michael, but again, I didn’t know this side of him. I’d be happy for him if I still didn’t want to strangle him.

  As the boys start their march from the chapel to the square, the drums begin to beat. Everything wells up inside of me at once—shame, fear, anger. I close my eyes, trying to match my heartbeat to the drum, their heavy footsteps, but my body won’t allow it. Even in this simple act, there’s a part of me that refuses to give in. Surrender.

  Boom.

  Boom.

  Boom.

  I steal a glance and immediately wish I hadn’t. Mr. Fallow is first in line, wetting his paper-thin lips in anticipation. I can’t stop picturing his wife’s body, gently swaying behind him as they announced he would be taking on a new wife.

  A new wife.

  And just like that, it feels like I’ve been hit square in the chest with an anvil. My breath grows short, my knees weak, my thoughts are racing—the way he looked at me yesterday morning in the square, the way he tipped his hat and wished me a happy veiling day, the way he stared at my red ribbon trailing down my backside. The old-fashioned flower. The saccharine sentiment. I wouldn’t be surprised if he gave the same bloom to his last three wives. And my mother telling me that Father would never give me to someone he thought … immature. That’s what she was trying to tell me. Geezer Fallow is my husband-to-be. The thought is so repulsive I have to choke back the bile nipping at the back of my throat. I want to pretend it’s my imagination, dread getting the best of me, but when I look over again, he’s staring right at me. The truth feels all at once shocking and like something I’ve always known. Maybe this is God’s way of punishing me for wanting something more. The dreams … the things my father taught me, they were all for nothing. Because here I am … getting what’s best for me.