The Grace Year(12)
I think about giving her a polite rehearsed answer, but her husband’s on the council, and now that Michael and I are on the outs, maybe she can be of use. “The fields,” I reply, bracing myself for the cluck of disapproval, but she’s already moved on to her next victim. She didn’t really want an answer; she just wanted to infect me with fear and doubt.
“Tierney! Tierney James.” Mrs. Pearson, Tommy’s mother, beckons me over with a single wizened claw. She came back from her grace year missing the other four fingers on her right hand. Frostbite, I presume. “Let me look at you, girl,” she says as she juts out her bottom lip to survey me. “Good teeth. Decent hips. You seem healthy enough,” she says as she gives my braid a hard tug.
“Pardon,” June says, coming to my rescue. “I need to borrow my sister for a moment.”
As we’re walking away, Mrs. Pearson says, “I know you. You’re the oldest James girl. The one who can’t get pregnant … the one with no bairn.”
“I don’t care if she only has six fingers,” I say as I clench my fists and start to head back, but June pulls me away.
“Breathe, Tierney,” she whispers as she leads me to the other side of the room. “You’re going to have to learn to control that temper of yours. You don’t want to make en emies going into your grace year. It’s going to be hard enough for you as it is, but everything can change with a seed of kindness,” she says as she pats my arm before letting go to join Ivy. I follow her with my eyes, wondering what she meant by that.
Ivy’s stroking her prized belly, bragging about how she can tell it’s a boy. I swear, she got all of my mother’s vanity, but none of the tact. June stands by her side, smiling, but I can see the strain in the corners of her mouth. Even June must have a breaking point.
“Look at Mrs. Hanes,” someone says behind me, which sets off a string of agitated whispers.
“I wonder if she let another man see her with her hair down?”
“I bet he caught her out in the meadow again, looking at the stars.”
“Did anyone see her ankles? Maybe she’s the usurper they’ve been searching for.”
“Don’t be daft, if that were the case, she’d be dead by now,” another woman snaps.
As Mrs. Hanes walks down the center aisle, toward the altar, the women stand back, giving her a wide berth, their eyes affixed to the blunt end of her lopped-off braid, splayed out in anger … in violence. We’re forbidden from cutting our own hair, but if a husband sees fit, he can punish his wife by cutting off her braid.
A few of the women pull their plaits over their shoulders for comfort, but most avert their eyes, as if her shame might rub off on them. It’s not until she’s safely tucked away in the front pew that they resume their vapid conversations.
The whiff of rose oil perfumes the air as Kiersten slips by with Jessica and Jenna trailing behind her. You’d think they might be triplets, the way they move in perfect synchronicity, but Kiersten seems to have that effect on whomever she chooses to shine her light upon. With or without magic, it’s a powerful gift. They quickly zero in on Gertrude Fenton, who’s standing in the corner, doing her best to blend into the cherry-paneled wall, but her fine dress won’t let her.
“Don’t you look fetching in that blush-colored lace,” Kiersten says, toying with the edging on Gertrude’s sleeve. “The gloves are a nice touch.”
Jenna snickers. “She thinks if she covers her knuckles, she’ll get a veil.”
Jessica whispers something in Gertrude’s ear; her cheeks turn crimson.
I don’t need to hear it to know what she said. What she called her.
Up until last year, Kiersten and Gertrude were inseparable, but all of that changed when Gertrude was charged with depravity. Since she still possessed a white ribbon, the details of her offense were kept hidden, but I think that made it all the worse. Our imaginations ran wild with what it could be. And when they dragged her into the square, whipping her knuckles clear to the bone, that’s when I first heard the name, whispered from girl to girl.
Dirty Gertie.
From that moment on, any chance of receiving a veil was obliterated.
And still, they pick at her. It reminds me of my mother and the other hyenas, always ready to cast the first stone.
A part of me wants to throw myself on the pyre, give Gertrude a chance to escape, but that goes against my plan. I promised myself I was going to get through my grace year with as little fuss as possible and that means steering clear of Kiersten and the like. As much as I hate watching them dismantle such an easy target, maybe it’s time Gertrude learns to toughen up a bit. The year ahead will be full of terrors much worse than Kiersten.
I’ve heard as long as we stay within the encampment, no harm will come to us. It’s considered hallowed ground. Not even the poachers would dare cross the barrier for fear of being cursed. So what made the girls leave the safety of the encampment in the first place? Did their magic consume them … make them do foolish things? No matter the cause, some of us will only be returning to Garner County in pretty little bottles, but at least that’s an honorable death. The worst fate, by far, is not returning at all. Some say vengeful ghosts are to blame, some say it’s the wilderness, madness that makes them take their own lives, but if our bodies go unaccounted for, if we disappear, vanish into thin air, our sisters will bear the brunt of our shame and be banished to the outskirts. I look at Penny and Clara, playing behind the altar, and I know, no matter what, dead or alive, I need to make it back to the county, for their sakes.