The Grace Year(32)

As I slip out the door, I take in a deep breath of fresh air, but there’s nothing fresh about it.

Every comfort, everything we’ve grown accustomed to in the county has been taken away from us. They even stripped us of our common language. There are no greenhouses here, no curated flowers, just weeds. Without it, I wonder how we’ll communicate. I want to believe it’s with words, but looking at the punishment tree, I can see it’s with violence.

After all, it’s what we know, how we’ve been raised, but I can’t help thinking that maybe we can be different.

Walking around the clearing, I take note of everything we’ll need to get through the year. At the very least, we’ll need a covered area for cooking and eating, a washing station … enough firewood to get through the winter.

Stepping to the edge of the forest, I study the ragged, hacked-off stumps marking the perimeter. It doesn’t appear the girls have ever ventured further than this. I wonder how deep it is, where it goes, how many creatures call this place home, but whatever lurks beyond the clearing, mad animals or vengeful ghosts, we’re trapped in here together by a fence taller than giants. The wind filtering through the branches makes the last of the fall leaves shiver. There’s something about it that makes me shiver, too.

I may not know much about the encampment, what happens to us here, but I do know land. This island doesn’t care that we’re grace year girls—that we’ve been put here by God and the chosen men to rid ourselves of our power—winter will descend upon us just the same. And I can tell by the chill in the air that there will be no mercy.

The sound of a stake being driven into the earth grabs my attention. Behind the punishment tree, toward the eastern fence, Kiersten appears to be erecting a series of tall sticks. I thought I was the first one up, but from the looks of it, she must’ve been up for hours collecting fallen branches, sharpening the ends. I’m thinking she must be building something for the camp—maybe it’s the start of a washing shed or even maypoles for dancing—but when she drives the last stake into the dirt and stands back to survey her work, I understand what this is. A calendar. One post to signify each full moon. This year, there are thirteen. A bad omen. I want to believe it’s simply a way to keep track of our time out here, but the placement is no coincidence. Back home, full moons are punishment days. Totems to our sin.

As if Kiersten can sense my presence, she turns and stares over her shoulder. My skin prickles beneath her gaze. There are twenty-six days until the next full moon. Twenty-six days to figure out how to turn this around. Because if I don’t, I’m certain I’ll be on the top of her list.

“Get back, veiled girls first,” I hear someone holler.

Peeking around the larder, I find Jenna and Jessica pushing their way to the front of the well, grabbing the bucket from Becca.

I want to sink back, disappear into the grainy wood, but those days are over. And I certainly didn’t help matters by getting in Kiersten’s way last night. I thought I’d be a lone wolf out here, but even after this short amount of time I feel a certain responsibility for Gertie and the others. The others. That sounds terrible, but that’s how we’re raised to think of it—the unveiled, the unwanted, the undesirable—what I should’ve been. But if I start thinking about that right now, about Michael, I’ll get so mad I won’t be able to see straight.

Taking in a deep breath, I walk toward the well. “Is there a problem?”

The girls at the front lower their veils and glare at me before traipsing off to join Kiersten.

We’re all standing there, staring at one another, wondering if anyone has changed in their sleep, but we all seem to be the same. Just as scared … just as confused. Last night, emotions were running high, lines had been drawn, but after a good night’s rest, all of that could change. I wouldn’t blame them. Kiersten clearly has it in for me. And Gertrude … well, Gertrude is a whole other story. I know they’re still a little wary being around her, but I don’t think she did anything wrong. I wonder how long it will take for Gertie to confide in us about what really happened.

“Do we have to drink this?” Molly asks, sniffing the water in the bucket.

“Didn’t Tierney say something about a rain barrel?” Martha asks.

Gertie nudges me forward.

I clear my throat. “I thought we could use the well water for bathing and washing, and then rain water for drinking and cooking.”

“You heard what Kiersten said.” Tamara barges forward, fumbling to get her arm out from under her veil so she can scoop her pewter cup into the bucket. “We drink from the well.”

As soon as she’s out of earshot, Martha says, “How long do you think it would take to make one?”

“Couple of days,” I reply. “If we had the right tools.”

“Well, there goes that idea,” Martha says, dipping her cup into the bucket, drinking it down. She gags a little. “Only the best for the grace year girls.”

I don’t know if she trips or just loses her footing, but Martha seems to wobble on her feet, accidentally pushing the bucket over the edge. She grabs the rope, nearly going down with it. “I’m fine,” she calls out. With her skirts raised high in the air, we have to hold on to her legs to pull her back, and it hits me—literally hits me in the head.

“The hoops. We can use the boning from our skirts to bind the wood for the barrels.”