The Grace Year(16)

As soon as I’m safely out of view, Ivy flings open the curtains; I shield my eyes.

“Consider yourself lucky,” she says as she pulls down the lace valance. “My year we were drenched rats before we even reached the county line.”

“Knock, knock,” June says as she comes in with my traveling cloak. It’s the only personal item we’re allowed to have. The rest of our supplies are county issued, probably already packed in gunnysacks and loaded on the wagons by now.

“I lined it four times, one for each season,” she says, draping it over my chair. “Cream wool with gray fur trim. To match your eyes.”

“Cream wool? That’s dumb.” Ivy runs her greedy fingers over the cloak. “Come spring, it will be filthy.”

“It’s lovely.” I nod at June. “Thank you.”

She looks down, an embarrassed flush blooming in her cheeks. Most of the girls, including Ivy, came back from their grace year even more spiteful than when they left, but not her. June returned with the same placid smile as when she left. It made me wonder if that was her magic—having no magic at all. They say my mother came back much the same, but it’s hard to imagine her ever being at ease or pleasant about anything.

“Make way,” my mother says as she comes in with a tray full of enough food to feed an army, but when my little sisters reach for a biscuit, she slaps their hands away. “Don’t you dare. This is for Tierney.”

Without a veil, I’d be downstairs, eating porridge alongside my father in flinty silence, but my mother seems more than pleased to wait on me hand and foot, now that I’ll be coming home to a husband.

Mrs. Tommy Pearson. The thought makes my stomach churn.

I sneak one of the biscuits into my napkin and slide it over to the edge; my little sisters seize it like urchins, crawling under my bed to eat it. I can hear them giggling and making fun of Mother, but she turns a deaf ear. She was so strict with June and Ivy, but I think I wore her down.

“Eat,” my mother urges.

I’m not even hungry, but I cram as much sausage, eggs, stewed apples, milk, and biscuits into my belly as I can. Not out of duty or to please my mother. I do it because I’m not an idiot. The guards who escort the girls to the encampment are gone for four days. So I figure it’s a two-day journey each way. The wagons are for the supplies, which means we’ll be on foot. And I’m not about to faint out there with the poachers watching our every move, looking for an easy mark. I’ll need my strength.

Penny crawls out from under the bed and grabs the veil off the table, putting it on, checking herself out in the mirror. “Look at me … I’m the first wife chosen.” She bats her eyelashes and fans herself.

I know she’s just teasing, but seeing her like that sets something off inside of me. “Don’t!” I yell as I snatch the veil off her head. She looks up at me in shock, as if I’d just given her a fresh slap. She probably thinks I’m being selfish, that I don’t want her touching my precious veil, but it’s the exact opposite. She can be so much more than this. I want to tell her as much, but I bite my tongue. I can’t give her the same false hope my father gave to me. It makes it so much harder in the end.

But in that same breath, if anything close to the girl in my dreams is real … maybe there’s hope for her yet. For all of us.

I lean down to tell her I’m sorry, but she kicks me in the shin. It brings a smile to my face. There’s still fight in her. And maybe there’s still fight in me.

My mother braids my hair with the red ribbon and then helps me dress. A high-neck cotton chemise with a linen traveling smock, followed by my cloak. It’s heavier than I imagined, but that’s because it’s well made. June would make for a wonderful mother. I catch her eyeing Ivy’s swollen belly, and it pains me. Life can be cruel. No one is immune to that, no matter how good you are.

Before my thick wool stockings go on, my brown leather boots laced up tight, I need to be printed. It’s tradition. Clara and Penny are laughing, fighting over which one gets to do what, but my older sisters, my mother, stand stock-still. They know the gravity of this moment. What it means. Clara rolls the gloppy red ink on the sole of my right foot; Penny holds the stiff sheet of parchment in place. I stand, putting my full weight into it. As they peel it off, a shiver runs through me, but not from the cold ink alone. This is my mark, the brand of my father’s sigil that I received at birth, a stretched rectangle with three slashes inside, signifying three swords. Should I be taken by a poacher, only to come home in tiny bottles, this is how they’ll identify my body.

The bell echoes over the square, snaking its way through the narrow streets and narrow minds, until it reaches my house, reaching straight into my chest, squeezing tight.

Hurriedly, my sisters help me finish dressing.

As my mother places the veil on my head, I glimpse my ghostly reflection in the looking glass and take in a shallow breath. “Can I have a moment?”

She nods in silent understanding.

“Girls, out you go,” my mother says as she herds them out of the room, gently closing the door behind her.

Raising the veil, I practice a demure, flaccid smile, over and over and over again until I’ve mastered something that can pass for pleasant. But no matter how hard I try I can’t dim the fire burning in my eyes. Again, I wonder if it’s my magic kicking in. With any luck, flames will start shooting out of my eyes, burning them all to a crisp on the spot. I think about keeping my eyes downcast, but maybe it’s not such a bad thing, the discord between my mouth and my eyes. Tommy will lift my veil expecting an eagle, and I will give him a dove.