The Grace Year(22)

A hint of a smile pulls at the corners of Kiersten’s perfect rosebud lips.

I know that smile.





Huddled up on the damp ground, I can’t sleep. I don’t know how anyone could. Not with all that screaming. I’ve heard the rumors, how the poachers keep us alive as long as possible as they skin us, how pain brings the most potent magic to the surface, but even the guards seem a little unnerved by this one. It’s as if the poachers want us to hear every cry, every cut; they want us to know what’s in store for us.

But as the sun rises, heavy, bloated, on the eastern ridge, the color of a late-summer yolk, the screaming dies down to the occasional whimper, until it finally stops all together. I’ve never been more horrified and relieved at the same time. Her suffering is finally over.

Silently, we pack up for the rest of the journey to the encampment. They take Betsy’s bundle out of the wagon and leave it behind, like it’s nothing. Like she was nothing.

The heavy fluttering of wings pulls me from my reeling thoughts. I look up at the sparse bony branches to find a wren staring down at me. Plain and plump, wanting to be seen.

“Fly far far away,” I whisper.

After we’re lined up and counted, we walk the path. I’m conscious of the woods around me in a way I never thought of before. Last night was proof that we’re being studied. Stalked. And I’ve hunted enough with my father to know they’re probably looking for a weak link.

Taking a cue from Gertrude, I lower my veil. I know it dehumanizes me, the same way we put a sack over a hog’s eyes before slitting its throat, but I don’t want to let them in. I don’t want them to memorize my face. Dream of me. I won’t give them the thrill of seeing my fear.

A girl stops abruptly in front of me to pick up a heavy stone from the side of the path, tucking it inside the pocket of her cloak. It’s Laura Clayton, a quiet, spindly girl who will probably be sent to work in the mill upon her return. “Sorry,” she murmurs as she presses on, but she won’t meet my eyes. I wonder if she’s looking for a weapon. The way she’s walking, I can tell this isn’t the first heavy object she’s picked up along the way. I’m looking for my own heavy rock when Gertrude slows her pace so she can walk next to me.

“See?” she says as she stares straight ahead up the path.

I look up to find Kiersten whispering to a set of girls. She glances back at me before moving on to the next cluster of eager ears.

“What about it?”

“She’s setting the stage as we speak.”

“I’m not afraid of her.”

“You should be. You saw what she can do … her magic—”

“I didn’t see anything other than a hurt girl running off to cry.”

Gertrude looks at me sharply, but I can see it in her eyes: I’m not the only one with doubts.

“Magic or not … there are other ways she can hurt you.”

I remember watching Kiersten do the same thing to Gertrude last year. Spreading that vile name like a plague. But that was done in the confines of the county, with the men watching over us, making sure we stayed in line. This is something new.

A part of me wonders if I had this coming. The way I turned a blind eye watching Kiersten bully whomever she saw fit. I could’ve stopped her then, but now … anything goes.

“I have to ask…,” I say, stealing a nervous glance in her direction. “Did you take the blame for her … for the lithograph? Is that what happened to you?”

Gertrude looks at me, her eyes glassy … haunted.

“Are you talking about Betsy?” A girl sidles beside me, startling us both. It’s Helen Barrow.

Feeling flustered by the intrusion, Gertrude ducks her chin and rushes ahead.

“Gertrude, wait,” I call after her, but she’s gone.

“I know I don’t have a veil,” Helen says. “But you’ve always seemed like a nice girl … nice family. Your father did my mother a great kindness once—”

“Yes. He’s a great man,” I murmur without inflection, wondering where she’s going with this.

“There’s talk,” she says, glancing up in Kiersten’s direction. “You should steer clear of Gertie. You don’t want people to think you’re dirty, too.”

“I really don’t care what they think,” I say with a deep sigh. “And neither should you.”

She looks at me, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean any offense.”

“Just because you didn’t get a veil doesn’t mean you’re anything less. We’re all the same here.”

Her eyes well up; her bottom lip puckers out.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I’m afraid. Afraid of what’s going to happen when we—” Helen stumbles over her own feet, careening off the path.

Grabbing the edge of her cloak, I yank her back just as a slender blade whizzes past her cheek, embedding into a nearby pine.

“Did you see that?” she gasps, fresh tears making her eyes look even bigger.

Slowly, we turn to look behind us, but there’s nothing there. Only the woods. But I swear I can feel them out there … their eyes on my skin.

“Is Kiersten looking at me?” Helen whispers in horror, keeping her eyes trained on the ground in front of her. “Did she make me trip?”