The Grace Year(103)
Choking back my emotions, I make my way home, with slow, measured steps, but as soon as the front door closes behind me, I tear off my wool cape and run through the house, smacking right into Bridget at the top of the stairs. “Where is he?” I ask. “Where’s Mr. We— where’s Michael?”
“Council meeting,” she says, in a fluster. “He won’t be home till late. Is something wrong with the b—”
“No … no … nothing like that,” I say, smoothing down my skirts. “It’s nothing.”
She looks me over. “Why don’t you sit and rest,” she says, ushering me into the bedroom. “And I’ll bring up supper in a few.”
As I sit on the edge of the bed, she bends down, silently digging cockleburs from the hems of my skirts. Just like the ones I used to find on June.
I glance up at her, trying to figure out if she suspects anything, if I’ve somehow given myself away, but as she leaves, I notice the tiniest change. She doesn’t back out of the room anymore.
When Bridget comes up with dinner, I pick at it, pretend nothing’s happened, but everything’s different now. I’m different. It’s not just the news of the fire in the apothecary that has me feeling this way, although the gesture means more to me than he could ever imagine; this is about growing up, accepting responsibility, accepting kindness, accepting love.
As I step into the bath, Bridget fills the silence, bab bling on and on about the flowers at church. I find myself leaning over the side of the tub to pluck a soft pink rose petal from the small arrangement on the tray. My mother told me to test the water with people who are closest to me. Who’s closer to me than Bridget? She was once a grace year girl, just like me. With deliberate intent, I drop the petal into the bath, watching it swirl around my ankles lasciviously.
Bridget stops talking. Her breath halts in her chest. I look up at her, waiting for her to snatch it out of the water, run and tell the head of the house of my transgression, but instead, I see the faintest rise in the corner of her mouth. And I know this is a new beginning. For all of us.
* * *
Tonight, as the clock strikes twelve, I descend the stairs, my silk robes swishing against the thick rugs, and curl up on the settee and wait. Michael hardly makes a sound when he comes in, but I know he’s there; I can smell his amber cologne. Matching my breath to his own, I will him to enter, but when he turns to leave, I whisper, “Please. Join me.”
He clears his throat before stepping into the room as if he’s making sure that I was speaking to him.
He sits beside me, being careful not to get so close as to make me skittish. We stay like this for a long time, staring at the flames, and I remember Ryker telling me that Michael sounded like a decent man. I think he said that, or maybe that’s what I need to tell myself to make peace with this. Taking in a deep breath I say, “I owe you an explan—”
“You owe me nothing,” he whispers. “I love you. I have always loved you. I will always love you. I only hope that in time you will grow to love me, too.”
My eyes begin to well up. “The fire at the apothecary … I know it was you. I know you did that for me.”
He lets out a burst of pent-up air. “For someone who’s right about so many things, when you’re wrong, you’re spectacularly wrong.”
I look up at him, trying to understand.
“I did it for me,” he says, his brow knotting up. “All those years we spent together as kids, running around the county, trying to figure out clues about the grace year, it meant something to me. The girl from your dreams … she meant something to me, too. I always believed, in you, in her, in change, you just didn’t believe in me.”
Tears are searing down my cheeks now.
Tentatively, he places his hand next to mine on the settee, the heat of his flesh drawing me in. I stretch out my fingers to take his hand in mine. At first, I flinch at the full weight of his palm, the weight of this moment, but it feels good. It feels real. Not a betrayal of Ryker, but that my heart is big enough to love two people at the same time, in two different ways.
And this is how it starts, how we grow our friendship into something more.
More than I ever expected.
Through the winter, Michael and I ease into our expected roles, until it doesn’t feel like a role anymore. We eat together, stroll through the market, attend church, go to social functions, arm in arm. On occasion, I’m allowed to help him in the apothecary, which has given me purpose, something to do, but also given me insight into the women of the county. It’s a delicate negotiation, trying to suss out who is amenable to change and who would sooner cut my tongue out if given the chance. But all of this will take time. Something I’ve finally come to accept that I have plenty of.
In the meantime, we enjoy each other’s company. I no longer flinch when he touches me; instead, I lean into him, for comfort and warmth. At night, we speak of everything under the sun, but never the grace year. That is the one vow I will never break. It doesn’t belong to him.
As the full moon of my ninth month draws near, I feel it in my body, the duality of wanting to hang on but needing to let go.
I used to dread the full moon. I saw it as a dark, wild place where madness dwells. But I think the full moon shows us who we really are … what we’re meant to be.