The Grace Year

by Kim Liggett

  “I’ve always wanted a pet,” Molly chimes in, stroking the bird’s smooth, drab head. “I’ll help.”

  “Me, too,” Lucy says.

  Soon Helen is surrounded by girls offering to pitch in.

  “Fine,” Kiersten says, setting down the axe. “Anything to get you to shut up, but I hate birds.”

  “You better get used to them,” someone mutters from the crowd.

  Kiersten whips around. “Who said that?”

  We all stand there, desperately trying not to laugh. It’s common knowledge that her husband-to-be has an affinity for torturing majestic birds. I think Martha may have said it, but I can’t be sure. Maybe we’re just exhausted, but in this moment, it’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. But the levity quickly dies when we realize how little they gave us in the way of supplies.

  Taking inventory and setting up the larder is a tense undertaking. We end up having to count everything aloud, in unison, just like we did in our first year of arithmetic at the schoolhouse, only this time we’re not counting beads, we’re counting the things that will keep us alive over the next year. It’s going to be tight, but as Kiersten seems more than happy to point out, not all of us will make it to the end. You’d think that would somehow bring us closer together, bind us in a common cause, but it feels tenuous at best, like there’s only a single silk thread connecting us—one false move, one false accusation, and everything will unravel.

  After gathering stray limbs from the perimeter, any kindling that seems dry enough to catch, I try to teach them how to build a proper fire, the same way my father taught me, but there’s little interest. A few pay attention—mostly girls who will be assigned this type of work upon their return, Helen, Martha, Lucy—but Kiersten and the rest of her followers seem annoyed that I’m even bothering them with something so mundane.

  It’s only when Gertrude offers to take the first meal shift that they suddenly take an interest.

  “She can’t make our food … it’ll be dirty,” Tamara says.

  Heated whispers erupt on the subject of Gertie, but she just goes about her business of filling the kettle with water, pretending not to notice. Maybe she’s so used to it now that it doesn’t even bother her. But it bothers me.

  “Gertrude and I will take the first shift. If you don’t like it, you can make your own,” I say, which seems to quiet them down.

  No matter what she did, there’s no reason for her punishment to continue here. Veiled or not, depraved or saints, we’re all equals in death.

  As the conversation shifts to what they think their magic will be, Gertie and I work on putting supper together. It’s meager, just some beans with a few rashers of thick-cut bacon thrown in for flavor, but all we can really taste is the well water—it has a pungent, earthy aftertaste that seems to cling to the roof of your mouth. Looking around at this landlocked parcel, I guess we should be grateful we have drinking water at all.

  As we eat supper, the nervous chatter fades away to make room for the new world around us. Beyond the crackling fire, the sound of spoons scraping against the bottom of tin bowls, we find ourselves listening to the forest pressing in on us—the breeze rustling the last of the autumn leaves, the strange skittering sounds of unknown creatures, the lake water lapping against the pebbled shore. But it’s not the water or the wind or the woods that has us on edge—it’s the absence of the call of the poachers. Are they even out there? Or maybe that’s exactly what they want us to think … how they’ll lure us out. Not by cunning sweetness or threatening words … but by silence.

  I can’t stop thinking about the poacher I came face-to-face with on the trail. The look in his eyes—I try rubbing the chill from my arms, but it’s no use. He could’ve killed me right then and there. I was fair game. I’m not sure what stopped him. But then again, I’m not even sure if he was real. Out here, the veil between our world and the unknown feels so thin that you could punch a hole right through it.

  The wind moves through the camp, making the firelight dance.

  “I wonder if it’s them?” Nanette says, staring into the woods.

  “Who?” Dena asks.

  “The ghosts,” Jenna replies.

  Katie pulls her cloak tighter. “I heard it’s the souls of all the grace year girls who died here.”

  “Katie should know,” Helen whispers to me, the bird cooing in her lap. “All three of her sisters were poached.”

  “But they’re not all benevolent spirits,” Jenna adds.

  “What do you mean?” Meg asks.

  “The unclaimed girls, the ones who vanished, they still cling to their magic, even in death.”

  Though we’re forbidden from speaking of the grace year back home, it seems we’ve all heard bits and pieces. Maybe truth, maybe lies, probably something in between. I can’t help thinking that if we put all the pieces together we could somehow solve this elaborate puzzle, but it feels too slippery. Elusive. Like trying to catch smoke.

  “There was a veiled girl in my sister’s year who went into the woods,” Nanette says. “It was near the end of her grace year. There was something haunting her every move. She would wake up to find her braid was different, the end of her ribbon hog-tied to her ankle. There were whispers in the dark. And when she finally went into the forest to confront her tormentor, she never came back. Her body was unaccounted for.”

  “Olga Vetrone?” Jessica whispers.

  Nanette nods.

  A chill breaks out over my flesh. That was the girl Hans joined the guard for. I’ll never forget his face when he came into the square that day, and then watching her little sister being banished to the outskirts.

  A deep thud comes from the gate. A few girls scream, gasp for breath, but every single one of us stands at attention. There’s something in here with us.

  With trembling hands, Jenna holds up a lantern, illuminating the outline of a large lump on the ground in front of the gate.

  “What is it?” someone whispers. “A body?”

  “Maybe it’s a poacher…”

  Taking cautious steps, we move in one huddled mass to investigate.

  When Jenna gets close enough, she nudges the mysterious mound with her boot. It rolls over. “It’s just a county-issued pack.” She laughs.

  “Hey, isn’t that Tierney’s family sigil?” Molly points toward the three swords embroidered in the burlap.

  Helen noses her way in. “Did you do that, Tierney? Did you use your magic to make your bundle come back to you?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I swear, it wasn’t me.”

  “How can that be?” Meg asks. “We all saw what happened to it … when Kiers—”

  “I’m not without mercy,” Kiersten says with a smile.

  Before the last ember dies out, we light a few more lamps and file inside the long, dismal log-hewn structure. No one says it out loud, but I don’t think any of us likes the idea of being trapped inside with one another. We’re not locked in and counted, like we are at the church, but something about it feels even more dangerous. We’re so vulnerable during sleep. Anything can happen here, and no one will tell the tale.

  There are only twenty iron beds set up with mattresses; the rest are piled up in a corner of the room like old bones. Half of those are missing their mattresses. I don’t even want to think about what happened to them. It’s a heavy reminder of how many of us won’t make it home alive.

  Kiersten lies down on one of the good beds to test it out, stretching out her long legs.

  Jenna sits on the next bed over. “I can’t believe we have to sleep here.” She crinkles up her nose as she stares down at the dingy mattress. “I think this one belonged to a bed wetter.”

  “We’re here to rid ourselves of our magic. That’s all.” Kiersten sighs. “Besides, as soon as the first girl with a mattress dies, you can have hers. Double up.”

  I look over at her sharply. I can’t believe how casually that just rolled off her tongue. As if dying is a given—not a question of how,
but when.

  Glancing around the room, I’m wondering if we can somehow change this. Maybe Gertrude’s right—if I can be of use, maybe they’ll start to trust me … listen to me.

  “I saw a lavender bush on the edge of the clearing,” I say as I pretend to inspect the stacked-up bed frames. “If we mix lavender with baking soda, that will spruce them right up. In the morning, I can set up a washing station. We can also build rain barrels to collect drinking water and—”

  “We don’t need any of that.” Kiersten cuts me off.

  Jenna looks at her pleadingly. “But the well water tastes funny.”

  “We’ll drink from the well, like every other grace year girl before us,” Kiersten says.

  “Is that her magic?” one of the girls whispers. “Knowing things … knowing about plants and how to fix things?”

  “It’s not magic,” Kiersten snaps. “It’s just because her father treated her as a son,” she says as she gets to her feet, prowling toward me. “Do you have a willy under there? Maybe you’re not a girl at all.” Kiersten cups her hand between my legs. It takes everything I have to force myself to stand still and take it. “Or maybe you like girls? Is that your secret?” She’s whispering in my ear. “Why you’ve always been so afraid to be around us?”

  “Please stop,” Gertrude says.

  “What’s it to you?” Kiersten’s eyes flash toward her.

  I shudder to think what the punishment for that would be. Back in the county it meant the gallows. Certainly, under Kiersten’s rule, it would be something much worse.

  “I wonder what your magic will be?” Kiersten says, picking at Gertrude. “Something depraved.” She stares down at her scarred knuckles. “A power only a sinner could possess.”

  I know I told Gertrude I’d stand down, take the punishment, but I didn’t say anything about standing by watching her punish someone else.

  “Leave her alone,” I say.

  “There she is.” Kiersten gives me a sly look. “I wondered how long it would take you to come out, Tierney the Terrible.”

  “That’s right. You’re good with nicknames, aren’t you?”

  “Don’t.” Martha tugs at my sleeve. “You saw what happened to Laura … what she can do.”

  “Laura had been collecting stones the entire way, slipping them into the hems of her skirts. She chose to die.”

  Kiersten stiffens as if a metal rod has been inserted in her spine. “Are you calling me a liar? After I took mercy on you and got your supplies back for you? Are you saying my magic isn’t real?”

  “No.” I swallow hard. “I’m not saying that. I just think we should slow down. Examine everything … question everything … no matter how things may appear.”

  “You sound like a usurper,” Kiersten says. “Back in the county, they’d tie you to the iron tree and burn you alive.”

  “But we’re not in the county anymore,” I say, forcing myself to meet her gaze. “If we stick together, if we’re careful, maybe no one else has to die.”

  Kiersten laughs, but when no one joins in, she steps so close that I can feel her breath on my skin. “Deny it all you want, but deep down you feel it. You know what needs to happen here. You know what I can do to you.”

  The room goes completely still, the same hush that precedes a hanging.

  Kiersten’s eyes narrow on me. I’m trying to stay calm, act like I’m not afraid, but my heart is pounding so hard I’m sure she can hear it.

  “That’s what I thought.” Pulling the red ribbon from her hair, she shakes her braid free, sending long tendrils of honeyed waves spilling over her shoulders. The girls seem to take in a collective breath, enamored and fearful of this wanton act. Other than our sisters, we’ve never seen a girl with her hair down before.

  Ravenna starts to pull out her own ribbon, but Kiersten grabs her wrist, squeezing it so tight that I see her fingers blanch. “Only girls who’ve claimed their magic can remove their braid.”

  As she slowly walks back to the other side of the room, the girls watch her with envious eyes. Even I find myself wondering what it would feel like to be free of it.

  “Veiled girls on this side,” Kiersten says as she claims the bed against the far wall, center stage, so she can survey her new kingdom.

  As the veiled girls scramble for the best mattresses, jockeying for position near Kiersten, Gertrude and I stand back with the others. Kiersten is drawing a line in the sand. And this is clearly a test. She wants to see what we’ll do. If we try to join them, she’ll probably just laugh, cast us off with the others. But if we don’t try, she’ll take it as a sign of aggression.

  I’m trying to figure out the right move when Gertrude laces her pinkie through mine. The strange warmth, the firm grip, catches me off guard.

  “Come on, Tierney,” she says as she pulls me back. I’m shocked that she’s taking this stand, but I’m glad.

  It’s wrong of Kiersten and the others to flaunt their veils in this way. It must feel like salt in the wound to some. But on top of being cruel, it’s foolish. The fact remains that there are more unveiled girls than there are of them.

  Untangling the iron frames, the rest of us drag them into position on the other side of the room. The metal scraping against the well-worn oak floors sets my teeth on edge. I can’t help thinking of the girls who slept here before us. Were they just as scared as we are? What happened to them?

  After a few minutes, Jenna whispers something to Kiersten.

  “Fine,” Kiersten says with a heavy sigh. “Except for Tierney and Gertie, whoever wants to come over to our side can, but not too close.”

  Martha and the rest of the unveiled girls look at each other, then at me. I’m expecting them to jump at the chance and start dragging their beds to the other side of the room, but instead, they simply lay their bedding where they stand.

  The familiar heat moves through my limbs, prickling the back of my eyes, but it’s not anger this time. There’s something in this simple act of rebellion that gets to me—gives me a bit of hope.

  As I unpack my belongings, laying the bedding on bare springs, I find a braided leather tassel hidden inside, the same kind they use to adorn the riding crops in the stable. “Hans,” I whisper, running my fingers over the elaborate braid. I know this is his handiwork. It’s possible he slipped this into my pack as a memento when they brought the supplies to the gate, but what if he put it in there right before he threw the pack over the gate so I would know it was him? What if Kiersten’s magic had nothing to do with it?

  The girl leads me through the woods, but something’s different.

  The trees are taller, the birdsong has changed, even the sound of distant water has shifted; instead of the steady rhythmic trickling of the river, there’s a slow swell, followed by something that sounds like lard hitting a hot pan. I remember that sound from when we arrived—it’s the sound of waves hitting a pebbled shore.

  “Where are we?” I ask, tripping over a slippery cluster of rocks. “Is there a gathering?”

  She doesn’t reply; she only presses forward, finally coming to a stop in front of a cluster of trees—only they’re not trees—it’s a fence made up of massive cedar logs.

  Reaching out, she presses her palms against the wood; it begins to crumble.

  I can’t see anything on the other side, but I hear it—heavy breath moving in and out.

  “Don’t!” I pull her back. “There’s poachers out there. They’re waiting for us.”

  Peering over her shoulder, her gray eyes pierce right through me.

  “I know,” she whispers.

  * * *

  I wake with a gasping breath. It takes me a good minute to remember where I am.

  Turning on my side, I find Gertrude staring straight at me. I can’t even begin to decipher the expression on her face. It’s strange that I never really noticed her before. I took her as plain, a scared rabbit among a den of wolves, but she’s so much more than that.

  “You were dreaming,”
she whispers.

  “No, I wasn’t.” I wrap my cloak tighter around me. “I was just talking to myself.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “But…” I look around to see who else has heard.

  “Whatever happens during our grace year will never leave the encampment, you know that.”

  The way she says it, the dark tone in her voice—it makes me wonder if the rule was created by us. A way to avoid prosecution.

  “Do you ever … dream?” I ask, having a hard time even getting the word out.

  “I think I did once,” Helen says, from the bed on the other side of me.

  I turn to see her with her knees pulled to her chest, like my younger sister Penny does during a storm.

  “But my mother put a stop to that,” Helen adds, skimming her fingers over the ruler-sized scars on the top of her feet.

  It makes me think of my own mother. She knew I had the dreams, but she never punished me for them. I never really thought about that before now.

  “What do you dream of?” Gertrude asks.

  I think about telling them that I dream of ponies and a dashing husband, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I don’t think I realized until this moment how I’ve been aching to share my secret … to feel connected to someone of my own sex … friends. Maybe they’ll believe me. Maybe they won’t. But I have to take that chance. “I dream of a girl.” I glance up at them, trying to gauge their expressions.

  “Oh,” Helen says, a flush creeping into her cheeks.

  “No. Not like that.” And suddenly, I’m the one embarrassed by the suggestion.

  “Go on,” Gertrude whispers.

  “She has eyes like mine, but her hair is dark and shorn close to her scalp. She has a small strawberry mark under her right eye. At first, I thought she must be a half sister from the outskirts—”

  “That’s why you stopped to look at them like that,” Gertrude says.

  “Yes,” I whisper, surprised by how observant she was. “But she wasn’t there.”