The Grace Year

by Kim Liggett

  A guard rushes forward with a rolled sheet of parchment, handing it to Mr. Welk.

  He breaks the seal and studies the register; there’s a dark glint in his eye. “I believe this falls upon you, Michael. Your first official duty as head of the council.”

  As he hands it over, I can tell this is something bad. A way to get back at him for choosing me.

  Michael grits his jaw, taking in a deep breath through his nostrils, before calling out, “It’s come to my attention that Laura Clayton’s body is unaccounted for.”

  Laura. The haunted look on her face before she keeled over the side of the canoe.

  As the county turns their attention to the Clayton family, Mrs. Clayton stands there seemingly unaffected, but then I see her fingers blanch around her youngest daughter’s shoulder.

  “Don’t,” I whisper to Michael. “Please don’t do this.”

  “I’ve used up all of my goodwill on you,” he replies through his teeth. “Priscilla Clayton…” Michael raises his chin. “Step forward.”

  Mr. Clayton pries the girl away from her mother’s grasp and gives her a nudge in our direction.

  As the girl walks to the center of the square, nearly tripping on her errant shoelace, she pulls her plait over her shoulder, nervously fidgeting with the white ribbon. I recognize her from Clara’s year. She’s only seven years old.

  “Are you ready to accept your sister’s punishment?” Michael asks.

  Tears spring to her eyes, but she doesn’t make a sound.

  “On behalf of God and the chosen men,” Michael says, the slightest waver in his voice, “I hereby banish you to the outskirts for the rest of your days.”

  The sound of the massive gate creaking open makes me flinch.

  As she takes her first wobbly step toward the outskirts, Michael stops her.

  I let out a shaky breath thinking he’s had a change of heart, that he won’t go through with this, but all he does is reach down, pulling the white ribbon from her hair, letting it fall to the ground.

  I look up at him in disgust. How could he do this? But he’s one of them now.

  Kneeling down to tie her boot lace, I whisper, “Laura wanted me to tell you that she’s sorry.” I double-knot it. “Find Ryker’s mother. She’ll watch over you.” I look up, expecting a soft smile, a teary thank-you, but I’m met with a cold flash of anger. And why shouldn’t she feel angry? We all should.

  As the labor houses are assigned, the black ribbons administered, I follow the white strand of abandoned silk as it twists in the breeze, drags in the dirt, all the way beyond the gate, across the great lake, back to the woods where I left part of my heart, and I wonder if Ryker’s still out there, if he can see me. What he must think of me.

  As the ceremony ends and the crowd disperses, I watch the guards carry unmarked crates from the gate to the apothecary. I’m looking around wondering if anyone else can see what I see, but the women give away nothing, their eyes a million miles away. In wonderment. In horror.

  The things we do to girls. Whether we put them on pedestals only to tear them down, or use them for parts and holes, we’re all complicit in this. But everything touches everything else, and I have to believe that some good will come out of all this destruction.

  The men will never end the grace year.

  But maybe we can.

  In strained silence, Michael escorts me to our new home, a tidy row house filled with gardenias. I’m almost choking on the heavy perfume, on his good intentions.

  As soon as the door closes, I say, “Michael, you need to know … I wasn’t taken … against my will.”

  The look on his face is so gutting I almost wish they’d just burned me alive. “Don’t…,” he says, taking the gardenia from his lapel, crushing it in his fist.

  “I didn’t ask for any of this. I didn’t ask you to lie for me.”

  A maid clears her throat as she comes in from the parlor.

  “Take her,” Michael says, handing me off like an unruly child, before stepping outside.

  “Where would you like her, sir?” she asks.

  He turns, and his anger, the pure rage burning behind his eyes, sends a chill through me. It’s the first time I’ve felt afraid of him.

  “She can wait for me in our bedroom,” he says as he slams the door behind him.

  Walking up the plush carpeted stairs, I skim my fingers over the wallpaper, rich swirls of dark burgundy. “Padded shackles, but shackles just the same,” I whisper.

  “What’d you say, ma’am?” the maid asks.

  Ma’am. How did this happen to me? How did I get here?

  At the top of the stairs, there are four closed doors. The gas lamps flicker beneath etched glass. There’s a painting on the wall. A child. A little girl lying in the grass. I wonder what she sees? Maybe it reminds him of me, the way we used to lie in the meadow. But I can’t help wondering if she’s dead. If they left her there to die.

  “Mr. Welk would like you to wait in here, ma’am.”

  Mr. Welk. That’s his name now. It’s not Michael anymore.

  She opens the second door on the right. I step inside. I notice she never turns her back on me. I wonder if that’s a holdover from her grace year … if she thinks of me as her enemy.

  Normally, we come back twitching and seething, wailing from our dying violence. But maybe I’m even more unnerving this way.

  Backing out of the room, she closes the door and locks it behind her.

  I pace the room, counting my steps. There’s a carved mahogany four-poster bed. A small rolltop desk with paper, ink, and quill. There’s a Bible next to the bed. Thick black leather, silky pages with gold edging. The inscription on the first page makes me want to set it on fire. To my son. My most prized possession. And I remember how much Michael hated that. Feeling pressured to follow in his father’s footsteps. Feeling trapped by all of this.

  But that was Michael. Mr. Welk seems more than comfortable with all this now.

  I’m crouching to look under the bed when something slips under my skin, like an old memory, or maybe it’s déjà vu—something my heart has already leapt into before my mind has had a chance to catch up. It’s the sound of an axe biting into hard wood. Peeking through the lace curtain, I see a man below, chopping timber. Viciously, he swings the blade, over and over and over. His body is a tight wire, the strain showing in his neck. There’s no finesse, no sense of preservation behind his cutting. He’s doing this to let out his rage … or to gather it.

  And when he stops and looks up at my window, I realize it’s Michael. Mr. Welk.

  I duck back, hoping he didn’t see me, but when I peek out again, he’s gone … and so is the axe.

  Hearing the front door slam open, heavy boots inside the foyer, I’m darting around the room looking for anything I can defend myself with, but what would be the point? Here, I am his property. He can do what he likes to me. No questions asked. And besides, everyone would know I had this coming.

  Unlocking the door, he shoves it open. He’s standing there, covered in sweat, the axe by his side.

  “Sit,” he says, pointing to the bed.

  I do as I’m told. I have no idea what he expects of me, what more I can endure, but I try to think back on my instructions. Legs spread, arms limp, eyes to God.

  Setting his axe down on the bedside table, he stands before me, the smell of rage spoiling on his skin. I grit my jaw, expecting the worst, but he does something so unexpected that I lose my words, I lose my breath.

  Kneeling before me, he unlaces my filthy boots.

  As he pries them off of my battered feet, he says, “I didn’t lie. I dreamt that I was with you every single night.”

  With tears streaming down my face, he places the key on the bedside table, picks up the axe, and leaves the room.

  A few moments later, there’s a light knock on the door. I bolt up expecting him to come back to me, so we can talk, work this out, but it’s only the maid.

  I’m surprised by how disa
ppointed I feel.

  Drawing a bath, she helps me out of my clothes. She looks away when she sees my swollen belly, and I wonder what she must think of me. What they all must think of me.

  I recognize her from the year before Ivy’s grace year. Her name is Bridget. She seems nervous, fidgety, but she doesn’t ask any questions. Instead, she talks nonstop about the goings-on of the county. Not much of it sinks in, but I’m happy for the noise, a sense of normalcy.

  Using a fine boar-bristle brush, she scrubs my body clean with a soap made from honey that she buys at the market. She washes my hair with lavender and comfrey. The hot water feels so good that I don’t want to get out, but the lure of broth and tea awaiting me in the other room is a powerful motivator. Helping me into a stiff white cotton nightgown, she sits me down at the dressing table, encouraging me to eat while she brushes out my hair. She doesn’t have the gentlest touch, so most of the broth spills out of the spoon before it reaches my mouth. Eventually, I just pick up the bowl and drink it. It’s warm and salty and rich. She tells me that if I keep it down, I can move on to solids tomorrow, which is lucky for me, because it’s pot roast night. As she braids the black silk ribbon into my hair, she goes on and on about the menu, the wash schedule, the music at church, and when she finally tucks me into bed, I pretend to fall fast asleep, just to get her to leave.

  Finally, alone, I lie there in utter silence, but it’s not silent at all.

  There’s the low woozy hiss of the gas lamps in the hall, the steady tick of the grandfather clock at the bottom of the stairs. Staring up at the pale blue ceiling, the crisp white trim, I wonder how I got here. How this came to pass. Three days ago, I lost Ryker and was certain I’d be marching to my own death, and now, I’m here, in this strange clean box, married to a man that’s both home and a stranger to me. Hearing his footstep on the stairs, I grab the key to lock the door, but hesitate to turn the latch. Instead, I stand there, waiting, listening, watching his shadow beneath the door. He pauses, and I wonder if he has his hand on the knob, if he’s one heartbeat away from coming in here, but he passes by, walking to the end of the hall, where he opens another door and closes it behind him.

  For weeks, this goes on.

  I know I could ease his suffering with a single word, but instead I hold my breath.

  What could we possibly say to each other that would make this okay?

  But with each passing day, I begin to unthaw.

  I find myself singing a tune in the bath. I even laugh out loud remembering a time when Michael and I fell from an oak, scaring the pants off of Gill and Stacy in the meadow one night. Slowly, I return to the world. To some form of myself.

  Sometimes I try to visualize Ryker, conjure his smell, his touch, but all I see is here. All I feel is now. It’s only when I look in the mirror at my swollen belly that I realize I’ll get to see Ryker every day. Not in my dreams, but in my arms. Michael has given me this gift. And despite everything, I’m grateful.

  Soon, I begin to dress in the fine gowns laid out for me. I braid my hair, securing it with the black strand of silk. I sit at the window watching life go by through the sun-filled curtains. And when the clock strikes midnight, I venture downstairs to sit in front of the roaring fire in the parlor. I’m not afraid to stare into the flames anymore. What I wouldn’t give for a bit of magic right now. Real or imagined.

  Night after night, I can feel Michael standing in the doorway behind me, watching, waiting for a kind word, a simple gesture, but I can’t seem to bring myself to do it.

  Sometimes, I find myself wondering what would’ve happened if he’d told me how he felt sooner. Would we have kissed under a starlit sky, before the grace year ever fell upon us?

  But we can’t go back. He’s the head of the council now. In charge of the apothecary, the very place that deals in the body parts of dead grace year girls. No matter what we once were to each other, I need to remember that the Michael I knew is gone. This is Mr. Welk.

  When a month has passed, a respectable amount of time for a returning grace year girl to recover from the brink of madness, I’m encouraged to go out. Encouraged is a mild way of saying they force me out the door and lock it behind me. It’s what’s expected of me. But more importantly, I need to show them that I belong here. Establish my new position. There’s no more hiding my belly, even if I wanted to.

  It’s odd moving through the narrow lanes now. I find the men avert their eyes. It’s disconcerting at first, but then I realize how freeing it is. The women, on the other hand, meet my gaze head-on, eyes wide open. It’s the slightest shift, and something the men would never detect, but I feel it.

  The women aren’t allowed to congregate outside of sanctioned holidays, but I crave their company. Before my grace year, I avoided the market like the plague, but now I find myself making excuses to go there. Every exchange, every look has a deeper meaning. Removing a glove to reveal a missing fingertip. Tilting the chin to display a mangled earlobe. We all carry our wounds, some more visible than others. It’s a language all its own, one that I have yet to master. But I’m learning.

  With the exception of the greenhouse, I visit the honey stand the most. People must think I have the most outrageous sweet tooth or that I take more baths than a Grecian goddess, but it’s mainly to see Gertie. Only the usual pleasantries are exchanged, but it’s amazing how many subtleties you can put into a simple “good morning.” I smooth my hands over my skirts to show her how much I’ve grown, and in exchange, she smiles toward a girl working alongside her; the girl smiles back—flushed cheeks, bright eyes, a hint of a smile curling her lips—and I wonder if Gertie’s found happiness. Bliss. Something better than the lithograph.

  I’ve only seen Kiersten a few times, always escorted by her maids, pretty as ever, but when she looks at me and smiles, it’s like she’s looking right through me. Lost in a dream. Maybe it’s better that way. For all of us.

  There’s always a bit of gossip you can gather from the market—not from the women, they know better, but from the men. Maybe their tongues are loose from whisky, or maybe they want us to hear about another man’s misfortune, but as I pass the chestnut stand, I learn there was a small fire at the apothecary. I can’t believe Michael didn’t mention it to me, but why would he? This is men’s business. I don’t like the way they’re speaking about him, as if he’s bitten off more than he can chew, but when I think about the apothecary, what they sell from secret shelves, I can’t deny there’s a small part of me that wishes it had burned to the ground.

  Every afternoon, I walk to the west, past my old house, hoping for a glimpse of my mother, and today I’m finally rewarded.

  I desperately want her to meet my eyes, just once, but her gaze seems to skim right over me.

  I’m about to move along when I notice the dark pink petunia she’s twirling between her fingers. This flower can signify resentment, but in the old language it was an urgent message. Your presence is needed.

  I know it’s dangerous to linger like this, but I’m convinced the message is for me.

  As she walks due west, on the lane that cuts through the forest, I follow.

  I shadowed my father a million times before, watching him sneak off to the outskirts, but it never occurred to me to follow my mother—that she would have a life of her own.

  As she cuts off to the north, I quicken my pace. I want to make sure I keep a safe distance, but if I lose her trail, I’m afraid I’ll never be able to find her.

  Reaching the tree where she veered off, I search for her, to no avail. I can almost hear her voice in my head. Your eyes are wide open, but you see nothing.

  Breathing in the woods, I hear something, nothing more than a whisper, probably just the wind moving through the dying leaves, but it’s enough to lull me forward. Letting my senses guide me, I walk beyond a grove of evergreens, through a veil of leafy vines, to a small barren clearing.

  In the center there are traces of a fire, the smell of moss, cypress, and black ash lingering in
the air.

  To the north, I hear voices—women’s voices, boisterous, untethered—and I realize I must be near the border of the outskirts. It could be a campsite used by the trappers, but around the fire there are traces of Queen Anne’s lace and valerian root. I remember hearing about the gatherings from Ryker. This is clearly a place for women’s work.

  “We meet here on full moons,” my mother says. “You’ll receive a flower as an invitation, but not until the baby is born.”

  I turn my head, searching for her, but she’s hidden among the trees. As I take a closer look around, it dawns on me. This is the place from my dreams. The trees are shorter, the light is different, and the forest floor isn’t blanketed with the mysterious red blooms, but this is definitely it.

  “I’ve dreamt of this place,” I say.

  “That’s because you were here once, when you were small,” she says.

  “Was I?” I ask, trying to seek her out.

  “You must’ve followed me here, because you got lost,” she says; her voice seems to swirl all around me. “Mrs. Fallow found you. Brought you home. We were so worried you would talk about what you’d seen here, but you were always good at keeping secrets.”

  I’m scraping my memory for a hint of what I’d seen. Flames, dancing, women joining hands. “For the longest time, I thought the dreams were real,” I say, searching for her behind the cascading vines. “I thought it was my magic creeping in, but it was me all along, talking to myself, showing me what my unconscious mind couldn’t bear to name,” I say.

  It’s only when she steps out from behind a balsam that I see her.

  “Mother,” I whisper. I start running toward her, but she holds up her hand to stop me.

  She’s right. I can’t get carried away. I’ve forgotten what it’s like here. How dangerous this is.

  Stepping next to a fir, we speak to each other from different sides of the forest path. Each of us concealed in shadow.