The Grace Year(15)
As I’m staring down at the floor, I see a drop of blood run down the inside of my mother’s leg, staining her cream-colored stocking. Catching my gaze, she tucks her leg back to hide it.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. And I mean it. Another month without a son. I wonder if her season is coming to an end, which puts her at risk. I can’t imagine my father replacing her, like Mr. Fallow did, but I can’t imagine a lot of things lately.
“Your father and I were lucky, but respect … common goals can grow into something more.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “You’ve always been your father’s favorite. His wild girl. You know, he would never give you to someone he thought … immature.”
Immature? I don’t understand. That’s Tommy by definition.
“Your father only wants the best for you,” my mother adds.
I know I should keep my mouth shut, but I don’t care anymore. Let them cast me out, let them whip me until I can’t stand. Anything will be better than silence. “You don’t know Father the way I do … what he’s capable of,” I say. “I’ve seen things. I know things. Like last night, the guards came to see him and he—”
“As I said…” She stands to leave. “Your imagination will be the death of you.”
“What about my dreams?”
My mother stops. Her spine seems to stiffen. “Remember what happened to Eve.”
“But I don’t dream of murdering the council. I dream of a girl … she wears a red flower above her heart.”
“Don’t,” she whispers. “Don’t do this to—”
“She speaks to me. Tells me things … about how it could be. She has gray eyes, like mine, like Father’s. What if she’s one of his … a daughter from the outskirts? I’ve seen him leave the gates more times than I can count—”
“Watch yourself, Tierney,” she snaps with an intensity that makes me flinch. “Your eyes are wide open, but you see nothing.”
As I sink back on the bed, my eyes fill with tears.
My mother lets out a deep sigh as she sits next to me. Her skin is clammy, a sheen of cold sweat dotting her brow. “Your dreams…,” she says as she gently takes my face in her hands, “it’s the one place that belongs only to you. A place where no one can touch you. Hang on to that as long as you can. Because soon, your dreams will turn to nightmares.” She leans in to kiss me on the cheek. “Trust no one,” she whispers. “Not even yourself.”
I catch a strong whiff of iron, the metallic smell gripping my senses. As she pulls away, I notice a chalky red substance clinging to the corners of her mouth. A sliver of ice moves through me. Her lips aren’t berry stained.
They’re blood stained.
The bottles from the apothecary. Pieces of poached girls adrift in a sea of blood and moonshine. I always thought my father was buying it for himself, but what if he was buying it for her—all for a taste of youth? Was she so desperate to stay young that she felt the need to consume her own kind? Is that what the grace year does to us? Turns us into cannibals?
As she slips out the door, I rush for the window, open ing it, gulping down the fresh air. Anything to drown out the scent of blood.
Aside from the faint crowing of drunken boys, and the muffled weeping of girls who didn’t receive a veil, it’s eerily quiet.
Staring out at the dim lanterns shining from the woods, the outskirts, I wonder if the poachers are watching me now … if they see an easy kill.
Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and hold out my arms like an eagle, letting the bitter wind unfurl around me. I sway to the rhythm of the night until it feels as if I’m soaring high above Garner County. Michael and I used to do this when we were little, when the world felt as if it might swallow us whole. A part of me wants to step off the ledge, see if my magic will kick in, letting me fly away from here, but that would be too easy.
And none of this is going to be easy.
When I wake, I’m alone, nestled beneath soft cotton and goose down. My eyes narrow on the thin strip of hazy yellow light nipping at the edges of the heavy curtains. It could be early morning or late afternoon. For a moment, I think maybe they forgot to wake me, or I dreamt the entire thing, but when I look around the room, at the veil innocently draped over the edge of the dressing table like slow-oozing poison, I know it’s only a matter of time before they come for me. I can hide under the covers, luxuriate in my childhood bed, my childish notions, or I can face this head-on. My father always told me that a person is made up of all the little choices they make in life. The choices no one ever sees. I may not be in control of much, like who I marry, the children I’ll bear, but I have control over this moment. And I’m not going to waste it.
My body shivers in revolt as I rip off the covers. The cold wood floor groans under my weight, as if it senses how heavy my heart is today.
Just as I’m about to peek out the curtains, my sisters come barging into the room.
“Are you mad?” Ivy says as Penny and Clara crash into me, pushing me back. “Someone could see you.”
We’re not allowed to be seen by the opposite sex without our veils on until the ceremony. We’re no longer children … not yet wives. But we’ve been marked as property.