The Grace Year(102)

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 ever greens, 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.

“Are my sisters involved?” I ask.

“June, yes, she’s a great help to me, but Ivy isn’t cut out for such things.”

“How do I know who’s safe? Who’s one of us?”

“You won’t,” she replies. “Start with those closest to you. Little confidences to test the waters, but nothing that carries a punishment more than a whipping. You don’t want to draw attention to yourself.”

“I should’ve known it was you, behind everything,” I say, my eyes misting over.

“I didn’t do it alone. Your father is a good man. But all good men need a helping hand sometimes. Like Michael, with the fire at the apothecary.”

“What about it?”

She smiles. “Curious how only one cabinet was affected by the flames.”

I stare at the charred remnants of the campfire, trying to grasp her meaning, and when I look back to tell her I had nothing to do with that, my mother is gone. I turn just in time to catch the tail end of her black silk ribbon disappearing down the lane.





I want to run, call out Michael’s name in the square, but my mother’s right, I can’t draw attention to myself. Using every ounce of restraint that I have in me, I shorten my gait, slow my pace, until it looks as if I’m out for nothing more than a bit of fresh air.

I stop at the apothecary first, but he’s already locked up for the night, the CLOSED sign dangling from a thin silver chain.

As I peek into the windows, the memory of catching my father buying one of the vials from Mr. Welk quickly rises to the surface, but now there’s only a charred shadow where the cabinet used to be.

“It’s true,” I whisper. Michael did this for me and he didn’t even tell me about it. Then again, I never gave him a chance.

For the past few months, all I’ve done is push him away, and for what? He saved my life, accepted another man’s child as his own, asking for nothing in return. I think I did it because I feel guilty for being so horrible to him when he lifted my veil. I feel guilty for betraying him by falling in love with someone else, and I feel guilty for not trusting him to be exactly what I’ve always known him to be—a good man.