The Grace Year(101)

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.