The Grace Year(3)

Innocence. Blood. Death.

“Perfect,” my mother says as she puts the final touches on the bow.

Even though I can’t see the red strand, I feel the weight of it, and everything it implies, like an anchor holding me to this world.

“Can I go now?” I ask as I pull away from her fidgeting hands.

“Without an escort?”

“I don’t need an escort,” I say as I cram my sturdy feet into the fine black leather slippers. “I can handle myself.”

“And what of the fur trappers from the territory, can you handle them as well?”

“That was one girl and it was ages ago.” I let out a sigh.

“I remember it like it was yesterday. Anna Berglund,” my mother says, her eyes glazing over. “It was our veiling day. She was walking through town and he just snatched her up, flung her over his horse, and took off into the wilderness, never to be heard from again.”

It’s odd, what I remember most about that story is that even though she was seen screaming and crying all through town, the men declared she didn’t fight hard enough and punished her younger sister in her stead by casting her to the outskirts, for a life of prostitution. That’s the part of the story no one ever speaks of.

“Let her go. It’s her last day,” my father pleads, pretending to give my mother the final say. “She’s accustomed to being on her own. Besides, I’d like to spend the day with my beautiful wife. Just the two of us.”

For all intents and purposes, they appear to be in love. The past few years, my father has spent more and more time in the outskirts, but it’s given me a fair amount of freedom, and for that, I should be grateful.

My mother smiles up at him. “I suppose it’ll be all right … as long as Tierney’s not planning on skulking off into the woods to meet Michael Welk.”

I try to play it off, but my throat goes bone dry. I had no idea she knew about that.

She tugs down on the bodice of my dress, trying to get it to sit right. “Tomorrow, when he lifts Kiersten Jenkins’s veil, you’re going to realize how foolish you’ve been.”

“That’s not wha … that’s not why … we’re just friends,” I sputter.

A hint of a smile slips into the corner of her mouth. “Well, since you’re so eager to be out and about, you can fetch some berries for the gathering tonight.”

She knows I hate going to the market, especially on veiling day when all of Garner County will be out on full display, but I think that’s the whole point. She’s going to make the most out of this.

As she takes off her thimble to fetch a coin from her deerskin pouch, I catch a glimpse of the missing tip of her thumb. She’s never said as much, but I know it’s a memento from her grace year. She catches my gaze and shoves the thimble back on.

“Forgive me,” I say as I look down at the worn wood grain beneath my feet. “I’ll get the berries.” I’d agree to anything to get out of this room.

As if sensing my desperation, Father gives a slight nod toward the door, and I take off like a shot.

“Don’t stray from town,” my mother calls after me.

Dodging stacks of books, stockings drying on the banister, my father’s medicine bag, and a basket full of unfinished knitting, I rush down the three flights of stairs, past the disapproving clucks of the maids, bursting out of our row house into the open air, but the sharp autumn breeze feels alien against my bare skin—my neck, my collarbone, my chest, my calves, the bottom half of my knees. It’s just a little skin, I tell myself. Nothing they haven’t seen before. But I feel exposed … vulnerable.

A girl from my year, Gertrude Fenton, passes with her mother. I can’t help but look at her hands; they’re covered in dainty white lace gloves. It almost makes me forget about what happened to her. Almost. Despite her misfortune, even Gertie seems to still be hoping for a veil, to run a house of her own, to be blessed with sons.

I wish I wanted those things. I wish it were that simple.

“Happy Veiling Day.” Mrs. Barton regards me as she clings to her husband’s arm a little tighter.

“Who’s that?” Mr. Barton asks.

“The James girl,” she replies through gritted teeth. “The middle one.”

His gaze rakes over my skin. “I see her magic has finally come in.”

“Or she’s been hiding it.” Her eyes narrow on me with the focus of a vulture pecking away at a carcass.

All I want to do is cover up, but I’m not going back inside that house.

I have to remind myself: the dresses, the red ribbons, the veils, the ceremonies—they’re all just distractions to keep our minds off the real issue at hand. The grace year.

My chin begins to quiver when I think of the year ahead, the unknown, but I plaster on a vacant smile, as if I’m happy to play my part, so I might return and marry and breed and die.

But not all of us will make it home … not in one piece.





Trying to get hold of my nerves, I walk the square where all the girls of my year will be lined up tomorrow. It doesn’t take magic or even a keen eye to see that during the grace year, something profound happens. We’d see them when they left for the encampment each year. Though some were veiled, their hands told me everything I needed to know—cuticles picked raw with worry, nervous impulses flickering through cold fingertips—but they were full of promise … alive. And when they returned, the ones who returned, they were emaciated, weary … broken.