The Grace Year(18)
Boom.
Kiersten’s veil flutters next to me. A gasp as her red camellia falls to the ground. No doubt so she can embrace Michael dramatically. She always knew how to put on a show.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
A pair of freshly shined boots settle before me. The heavy breath of anticipation. The susurration of the crowd behind me. This is it. His fingers graze the edge of my veil, lingering in a hesitant, unexpected way. Slowly, he lifts the netting, every movement weighted with intention.
“Tierney James,” he whispers, but his voice is all wrong.
I raise my eyes to meet him, and I feel like a bluegill that’s been tossed on the riverbank, mouthing for air.
“Michael?” I manage to get out. “What are you doing?”
In confusion, I glance over at Kiersten to find Tommy Pearson pawing all over her, the heel of his boot crushing her red bloom into the soil.
“This … this is a mistake,” I sputter.
“No mistake.”
“Why?” Feeling light-headed, I rock back on my heels. “Why would you do this?”
“You didn’t think I’d let you be assigned to the field house.”
“But that’s what I wanted,” I blurt, then quickly lower my voice. “How could you sacrifice your happiness for me?”
“I did no such thing.” He looks up to the sky for a moment, an anguished smile playing across his lips. “Tierney, you must know.” He takes my hands. “I’ve been trying to tell you for so long. I love y—”
“Stop,” I say a little too loud, attracting unwanted attention. “Stop,” I whisper.
I feel hundreds of eyes on me, their judgment prickling the back of my neck.
“I tried to tell you yesterday,” he says as he takes a step closer.
“But I saw you … with Kiersten … in the meadow.”
“And I’m sure you saw her with many others, but you were too kind to tell me.”
“I’m not kind.” I look down at the ground, the tips of our boots almost touching. “I will never be the wife you need.”
He places his warm fingers beneath my chin. “I want more than that,” he says as he closes the gap between us. “You don’t have to change for me.”
Tears burn my eyelids. Not out of happiness, or relief. This feels like the ultimate betrayal. I thought he understood.
“It’s time,” Mr. Welk calls out, staring daggers into me. He must’ve been one of the other protestors my father spoke of at the choosing ceremony. I’m far from the daughter-in-law he imagined.
Michael leans in to kiss my cheek. “You can keep your dreams,” he whispers. “But I dream only of you.”
I don’t have a chance to react, to even take in a breath, before the gates open, signaling the arrival of the returning grace year girls. Instantly, the atmosphere shifts. This is no longer about veils … and promises … and hurt feelings … and dreams—this is about life and death.
As the bell begins to toll, we all stop to count. Twenty-six. Which means nine of the girls have met the poachers’ blade. That’s two more than last year.
There are no elaborate good-byes. No public displays of affection. Everything has been said. Nothing has been said.
As we’re led out of the square, I notice a long line of men waiting their turn at the guard station, men I don’t recognize from the county, but I quickly lose interest as we pass the returning girls, bone weary, emaciated, reeking of wood smoke, rot, and disease.
The girl in front of me slows to stare at one of the returning girls. “Lisbeth?” she whispers. “Sister, is that you?”
The girl raises her head, exposing a blood-crusted scab where her ear used to be. She blinks hard, as if trying to wake herself from a never-ending nightmare.
“Move it.” The girl behind her pushes her along, the tattered remains of her soiled red ribbon hanging limply from her severed braid.
And to think—these are the lucky ones.
Frantically, I search their faces for a hint of what happened to them out there … what’s in store for us. Beneath the dirt and grime, their gaunt expressions, there’s a glimmer of seething hatred in their eyes. I can’t shake the feeling that their ill will isn’t for the men who did this to them but for us, the pure, unbroken girls who now possess the magic they’ve lost.
“You’re dead,” Kiersten says as she passes, jabbing me hard in the ribs. I’m doubled over, trying to catch my breath, when the other girls from my year walk by hissing insults.
“Slut.”
“Traitor.”
“Whore.”
Michael may think he saved me from a life in the fields, but all he’s done is put a target on my back.
I think of my mother, blood clinging to the corners of her mouth, telling me to trust no one.
As I look back on the closing gate, at the sisters, daughters, mothers, and grandmothers gathered around to watch the broken birds, it hits me. Maybe the reason no one speaks of the grace year is because of us. How could the men live among us, lie with us, let us care for their children, knowing the horrors we inflict upon one another … alone … in the wilderness … in the dark?
There’s no specific marker in the road, no proclamation of our arrival, but I can tell we’re nearing the outskirts.