The Grace Year(19)

It goes beyond the guards tightening their formation around us, beyond the glimpses of thatched stone cottages dotting the woods, and flashes of red darting through the dwindling foliage—it’s the smell that gives it away: a thick gamey scent of fertile soil, freshly tanned hides, green ash soot, flowering herbs … and blood.

I can’t decide if it’s pleasant or repugnant, maybe somewhere in between, but it’s absolutely dripping with life.

Though the women of the outskirts are unprotected by the gates, the church, the council, they seem to survive. I’ve heard the wives who are banished here never last long. If no one wanted them in the county, they certainly wouldn’t want them here, but if they’re young, lucky enough to be taken in, they can be of use serving the men of the county in exchange for coin. Their bastard sons are raised to be poachers, and their daughters age into the family trade. I used to wonder why they didn’t just leave—there’s nothing stopping them … no gates, no rules. It’s easy to tell myself I can’t leave because my younger sisters would be punished in my stead, but deep down I know it’s more than that. I’ve never heard of a soul who’s lived to tell the tale of what lies beyond our world. The men say Garner County is a utopia. Heaven on earth. Even if it’s a lie, there’s no denying our tradition, our way of life, has kept us alive for generations now. And if it’s the truth, I shudder to think what lies beyond the woods, beyond the mountains and plains. Maybe it’s the fear of the unknown that binds us here. Maybe we have that much in common.

As the women from the outskirts emerge from the woods, gathering alongside the trail, Kiersten raises her chin, higher than I even thought possible. The other girls follow suit, but I can see their fear—veins protruding from rigid necks, like winter geese stretching out on the chopping block, instinctively striving for a clean death.

Not me.

I’ve been waiting to see this my whole life.

I know I said I’d leave the dreams behind, but I know my father has been sneaking off to the outskirts for years. What if the girl is here … waiting for me? A long-lost half sister I never knew. Maybe she’s been dreaming of me, too. I feel dizzy with the prospect. All I need is a fleeting moment of recognition … just to know she’s real.

As I search the crowd, I notice the young girls are all wearing natural linen frocks, while the women wear clothes of beet-dyed linen. It reminds me of our red ribbons. Maybe it’s a symbol that they’ve bled … that they’re open for business.

With hair loose and wild, threaded with withered flower petals, the women press in as we pass—so close I can feel the warmth from their unbound bosoms. A low hissing sound swells through the crowd, making my skin prickle. No, it’s not mere curiosity that brings them here. There’s an undercurrent of seething jealousy. I can almost taste the bitterness on the tip of my tongue.

With their heads held low, they glare up at us through heavy strands, zeroing in on the girls with veils. For a moment, I forget that I’m one of them. I try to tuck away the gauzy netting in my cloak, but it’s too late.

To them, we must represent everything they’ll never have, everything they think they want.

Legitimacy. Stability. Love. Protection.

If they only knew.

As uncomfortable as it is, I meet each and every face, Young. Old. Everything in between. There are certain features that remind me of her—a dark widow’s peak, the slight cleft chin—but no one bears the small strawberry mark under the right eye.

I’m feeling stupid for giving in to this, for even entertaining the idea to begin with, when I spot a tiny red petal threaded into a strand of hair of one of the women lining the path. It’s not the girl, but I’d know that flower anywhere. It has to mean something. I’m gravitating toward her when I’m shoved from behind.

Falling to my knees, I feel a burst of red warmth bloom through my wool stocking, seeping through my chemise and traveling smock. And by the time I get to my feet, the woman is gone. Or maybe she was never there to begin with.

“You should watch your step.” Kiersten smiles back at me.

Something inside me snaps. Maybe it’s the magic rising in me, or maybe I’ve just had it, but as I start to go after her, I feel someone grip my elbow. I turn, ready to lay into one of the guards for touching me, but it’s Gertrude Fenton.

“It’ll only make things worse,” she says.

“Let go.” I try to pull away but she clamps on even tighter.

“You need to lay low.”

“Is that right?” I’m finally able to jerk my arm away, but she’s stronger than she looks. “And how has that helped you?”

A deep flush creeps up her neck, and I immediately feel bad.

“Look,” I try to explain. “If I don’t stand up for myself, she’ll treat me—”

“Like me,” she cuts me off. “You think I’m weak.”

“No,” I whisper, but we both know it’s a lie.

“You’ve always thought you were better than us. You think you’re so good at hiding, at pretending, but you’re not. Everything shows on your face—always has,” she says as she continues walking.

I want to let it go, sink back into my solitude, but I feel bad for never coming to her aid before. I wanted to, plenty of times, but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, and here she is, going out on a limb for me. That’s far from weak.