The Grace Year(17)

But I won’t be a broken bird.

Not for anyone.





I never thought I’d be grateful for a veil, but the delicate netting makes the walk to the square almost dreamlike. Leers turn to glances. Sharp words are muffled. The falling aspen leaves look more like a celebration than the death of summer.

Snips of obscenities needle their way into my senses as I pass—

“How did she…”

“Who did she…”

“She must have…”

Normally, I’d focus in on every word, searching for clues, but the words have never been about me before.

Burying my trembling hands in the pocket of my cloak, I find a river clam pearl inside. The odd shape, the bluish pink luster. It’s the same one I slipped into the hem of June’s dress for safekeeping. She must’ve placed it here for me as a memento. I roll it between my fingertips, feeling a certain kinship. Like this pearl, I’m the tiny bit of irritant that worked its way into the soft tissue of the county. If I can survive the year, burn through my magic, maybe I’ll come back just as resilient.

The buffalo horn bellows from the outskirts, signaling the approach of the returning girls and the start of a new hunting season.

“Vaer sa snill, tilgi meg,” my father whispers in the language of his ancestors, please forgive me, as he hands me the flower my suitor chose for me. A gardenia. The sign of purity, secret love. It’s an old-fashioned flower, one that’s long gone out of favor. The only thing I can think is that Tommy’s mother must’ve picked this out for him, because it’s much too romantic for his brutish nature. Or perhaps he’s twisted enough to find delight in the pure, knowing he’s the one who ultimately gets to take it away.

While my family gathers around to say their good-byes, a final prayer, I have to clench my jaw to keep from crying. They say the poachers can smell our magic a mile away. That you can hear the girls screaming for days as they skin them alive. The more pain, the more potent the flesh.

As we take our place in line, with the onlookers crowded behind us, I notice Kiersten standing next to me. She’s dying for me to notice her—the camellia precariously balanced between her delicate fingertips. A red camellia, the symbol of untethered passion, a flame within your heart. A bold choice for Michael, but again, I didn’t know this side of him. I’d be happy for him if I still didn’t want to strangle him.

As the boys start their march from the chapel to the square, the drums begin to beat. Everything wells up inside of me at once—shame, fear, anger. I close my eyes, trying to match my heartbeat to the drum, their heavy footsteps, but my body won’t allow it. Even in this simple act, there’s a part of me that refuses to give in. Surrender.

Boom.

Boom.

Boom.

I steal a glance and immediately wish I hadn’t. Mr. Fallow is first in line, wetting his paper-thin lips in anticipation. I can’t stop picturing his wife’s body, gently swaying behind him as they announced he would be taking on a new wife.

A new wife.

And just like that, it feels like I’ve been hit square in the chest with an anvil. My breath grows short, my knees weak, my thoughts are racing—the way he looked at me yesterday morning in the square, the way he tipped his hat and wished me a happy veiling day, the way he stared at my red ribbon trailing down my backside. The old-fashioned flower. The saccharine sentiment. I wouldn’t be surprised if he gave the same bloom to his last three wives. And my mother telling me that Father would never give me to someone he thought … immature. That’s what she was trying to tell me. Geezer Fallow is my husband-to-be. The thought is so repulsive I have to choke back the bile nipping at the back of my throat. I want to pretend it’s my imagination, dread getting the best of me, but when I look over again, he’s staring right at me. The truth feels all at once shocking and like something I’ve always known. Maybe this is God’s way of punishing me for wanting something more. The dreams … the things my father taught me, they were all for nothing. Because here I am … getting what’s best for me.

Boom.

Boom.

Boom.

As he comes toward me, I’m trying to keep it together, not give myself away, but my veil is trembling under a dead calm sky. Lowering my eyes, I wait for it, wait for the moment he claims me, but his footsteps pass me by, settling in front of a girl to my left who’s holding a pink nasturtium. The flower of sacrifice. I watch him lift her veil, and my heart sinks a little when Gertrude Fenton’s face is revealed. He leans forward to whisper in her ear; she doesn’t smile or blush or even cringe. She doesn’t do anything at all but run her thumb over her scarred knuckles.

I should be relieved it’s not me. The thought of his old wrinkly skin pressing up against mine makes me sick to my stomach, but no one deserves Geezer Fallow. Not even Gertrude Fenton.

Boom.

Boom.

Boom.

I steal another glance to see Tommy and Michael smiling at one another, until all I can see is red. Clenching my eyes shut, I try to simmer down, but I can’t stop picturing Tommy’s ruddy face grunting over me. I thought I’d prepared myself for this moment, rehearsed my part to perfection, but the closer he gets, the hotter the fire burns. I want to run … set myself on fire … disintegrate into a pile of ash.

Boom.

Boom.